Exodus 2022 (16 page)

The committee members—especially the women—exchanged knowing smiles. They all knew Ella Tollefson. Most of the St. Anthony’s congregation knew Ella. Ella attended most of Joe’s services, stayed for coffee hour, and helped clean up afterward. The women on the committee were certain Joe and Ella would announce their engagement any day and gossiped about it at length.

“Ella’s a strong woman,” continued Joe. “A very strong woman. She stood by me through this whole miserable ordeal.”

“We were all worried,” said Chuck Walton, a burly, retired commercial fisherman. “But heck, now that Joe’s on the mend…I mean…it’s PR, right? And they say, all PR is good PR. Heck, everybody from here to Issaquah saw Joe’s face on the news. Church will be packed on Sunday.”

“Oh,” said Cindy Dixon, dropping her knitting into her lap. “We’ll need more bulletins. We should print fifty more.”

Joe massaged the bandages on his scalp with his fingertips. He could feel the stitches underneath. “It’s not how I envisioned putting St. Anthony’s on the map,” he said.

“And I’m not sure all PR is good,” said Jenn Nelson, the youngest member of the committee at thirty-three and a woman who spoke her mind. “A lot of people who heard about Joe’s incidents at the motel, and on the ferry, didn’t hear the cause. The news didn’t cover that part.”

“People just think I lost my mind,” said Joe. 

Jenn shrugged. “Or that you were taking drugs.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Rachel Bell.

“Yeah,” said Joe. “It is. I know that. And you guys know. Now that I’ve explained everything. But Jenn’s right. Most people just saw snippets on the news or online—of me acting like a total maniac.” 

He turned to St. Anthony’s office manager, Lindsey Oliver, working at a computer near the window. “Lindsey. How many people have unfriended St. Anthony’s in the last three days?”

Lindsey opened Facebook and answered without turning. “Eighty-four. No, wait. Eighty-five.” She sighed.

“Thanks,” said Joe. He looked at the circle of caring, concerned parishioners around him. “You guys,” he said, “I hate this whole thing. I hate it. You had faith in me. Hired me. Moved me across the country. We’ve all been working our tails off for, what, fourteen months now? Building our membership, building a welcoming, compassionate church that people want to be a part of. And then this happens.” He shook his head. “It has knocked us back. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that.”

“It’s not your fault,” said Zelda Finch. “You were poisoned.”

“I say we address this head-on,” said Jenn Nelson, rolling up her sleeves as she spoke. “Use the Sunday service to lay it all out there. Tell the congregation everything you just told us.”

Joe nodded. “I think you’re right.”

“Guys,” said Lindsey Oliver. “Hey—you may want to take a look at this.”

Joe and the committee members stepped to Lindsey’s desk and stared over her shoulder. “KING 5 Breaking News,” said Lindsey. 

She scrolled down and clicked on a picture of a Wendy’s restaurant.

“Hey,” said Joe. “That’s where we ate. That’s the Wendy’s in Anacortes.”

“What’s the article say?” asked Chuck Walton, stooping and squinting at the screen.

“I can’t see without my glasses,” said Rachel Bell.

Lindsey read the copy below the photo. “One person is dead and four others are in critical condition after an apparent poisoning at a popular Anacortes-area fast-food restaurant.”

“Oh my God,” said Cindy Dixon.

“How awful,” murmured Rachel Bell. “How horrible.”

Lindsey continued. “Police say two of the victims suffered seizures as they were leaving the restaurant just before six o’clock last night.”

“Sounds familiar,” said Chuck Walton.

“‘The Anacortes Wendy’s,” Lindsey read, “may also be the source of an alleged poisoning of a Bremerton-area priest last week, officials say.’”

Joe absorbed the news in silence. In disbelief. His stomach twisted. He found a chair and sat down. Committee members continued reading over Lindsey’s shoulder, and the room went quiet.

“At least they’re telling the whole story,” said Zelda Finch, at last. “Now everyone will know what happened up there.” She touched Joe’s hand. “Everyone will realize now that none of it was your doing.”

Joe nodded but spoke no reply. The whole thing made him sick. One person dead. Others seriously ill.

At the same time, he understood what the story meant for his reputation. If a maniac was poisoning people, then he was merely a victim, like the others. The outbursts in the San Juans would be considered in a new light.

The news represented vindication, but Joe was not cheered or relieved. Something deep inside told him that it didn’t add up. That it didn’t answer all the questions or solve the mystery of the voice. He
wanted
to believe that the news represented an end to the ordeal of the past few days, but in his heart of hearts he knew that it was not the last word.

MILES WE MUST TRAVEL TODAY.
So many miles.

Lorna Gwin’s mother pushed to the front of the crowd, where she set a brisk, even pace.

She had not communicated with Stan-ton in days. But he was out there. Alive. Healthy.

At least for now.

Lorna Gwin’s mother could feel it.

Stan-ton wasn’t aware of her at the moment. Not consciously, anyway. At present, she was only a vague, undefined worry in the back of his brain. Lorna Gwin’s mother knew this. But Stan-ton’s lack of awareness didn’t concern her. The connection had been made. The bond forged. It would not easily be broken.

Lorna Gwin’s mother could feel Stan-ton,
out there
, and she placed him now like an air traffic controller placing a fuzzy, far-off blip on a radar screen. Each passing hour brought them closer together and soon she would send him a message. 

Lorna Gwin’s mother needed Stan-ton. She wished it wasn’t so. She did not want to need anyone. But the fact could not be denied. She needed him. And soon he would feel her summons like a scream in his mind.

“Most people are on the world, not in it-- having no conscious sympathy or relationship to anything about them—undiffused, separate, and rigidly alone, like marbles of polished stone, touching but separate.”

-John Muir

“WE PRAISE YOU
and bless you, holy and gracious God, source of life abundant,” said Joe Stanton, in his best, most resonant vicar’s voice.

Warm morning light streamed through St. Anthony’s massive old windows and the congregation listened attentively. It was the midpoint of the Sunday service on July third.

“From before time you made ready the creation,” Joe recited, steadily, evenly, looking at the congregation between glances at the printed text. “Your spirit moved over the deep and brought all things into being: sun, moon and stars; earth, wind and waters; and every living thing.”

The congregation sat in a big horseshoe shape at St. Anthony’s, with the vicar and lay ministers at the open end. Joe hated podiums and preached from the middle of the floor, turning as he spoke. The flock stood now, as Joe read the Eucharistic Prayer. Only two small bandages remained on his face, above his right eye, and his bruises were fading.

He could feel, as well as see, the congregation around him and was pleased with the vibe. The service was going well and turnout was greater than he’d hoped. Not a Christmas or Easter crowd, but more people than normal, including a few folks he didn’t recognize.

Per the plan he’d discussed with the Bishop’s Committee, he’d taken a few minutes before the homily to give his account of the events in the San Juans. Then he’d acknowledged the victims of the Anacortes restaurant poisoning and led the congregation in prayer. After that, he’d delivered a touching homily about the beauty and fragility of creation.

Now he was reading the words that always came just before communion at St. Anthony’s. An Episcopal service is founded in ritual, and Joe loved this part of the ceremony.

“You made us in your image,” proclaimed Joe, “male and female, and taught us to walk in your ways. But we rebelled against you, and wandered far away. And yet, as a mother cares for her children—”

Like I cared for mine?
asked the voice, clear and bright in Joe’s mind.

Joe’s mouth snapped shut and he glanced around the room. The voice ringing in his skull was so fierce and full that he felt certain everyone had heard it. Judging by the expressions, however, everyone had not.

Half the congregation was already watching him intently. Those praying with heads bowed were now lifting their eyes and turning toward him.

I’m a mother
, said the voice.
And my child is dead.

“I’m sorry,” Joe said softly.

He took in the faces around him—faces of friends and neighbors, people who loved him and cared about him—and time seemed to slow to one one-thousandth of normal speed. Thoughts and emotions lay before him like shining, shimmering objects, and now, in an instant that seemed to last hours, he examined them one by one.

The voice is back.
For some reason, this fact filled Joe with relief, not terror.

The voice is real.

If the voice is real—if the voice belongs to someone alive who really lost a child, it means that I wasn’t poisoned and didn’t suffer a hallucination.

And yet…people have been poisoned and the evidence suggests I was, too.

This made no sense.

Can’t untangle this now
, Joe thought.

Time resumed its normal flow and suddenly Joe was acutely aware of the congregation staring at him, waiting. He had no idea what he’d said or how much time had passed. He took a breath. 

Ella, four rows from the front, caught Joe’s eye. The look on her face told him that she was concerned—but not freaking out. The look said that he still had time to make things right.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, smiling at the assemblage. “Seem to have lost my place.”

The congregation relaxed. He found his place and continued reading. “And yet, as a mother cares for her children, you would not forget us. Time and again you called us to live in the fullness of your love. Glory and honor and praise to you, holy and living God.”

The service proceeded normally and ended as usual, with a brief celebration of the week’s birthdays and anniversaries.

Most everyone stayed for coffee hour, and the mood around the food tables was warm and friendly. 

Joe stood at the door of the church, chatting with parishioners as they departed. The young vicar received an abundance of warm, tearful hugs, and most everyone expressed the same sentiment: tremendous relief that he was back and on the mend.

By noon the only people remaining were Joe and Ella, and the music director, who was arranging hymnals and binders full of sheet music on a shelf across the room.

“What’d you think?” Joe asked Ella as he hung his formal robes in the storage closet.

“Beautiful service,” she said, slipping her arm around his waist and kissing him. “You sounded great. The homily was inspired—everybody thought so.”

“Really?” Joe looked pleased.

They exited the church and walked to the Jetta hand in hand. Ella said, “So how did everything seem to you?”

Joe shrugged. “Let’s get in the car first.”

As Joe drove, the tiny microphone hidden under the fabric of the Jetta’s ceiling recorded every word of their conversation.

JOE WANTED TO TELL ELLA
about the voice, but didn’t know where to start. “Some new faces at the service today,” he said, instead.

“Yeah,” said Ella. “I noticed.”

“What?”

“Did you see those two guys?”

“Which two? Two new guys? There were probably fifteen people I didn’t recognize at all.”

“Yeah,” said Ella, “but these two totally stood out.”

Joe frowned. “Were they sitting together?”

“No. Opposite sides of the room. But they were together.”

“How do you know?”

“They were trading looks. I watched them do it. Trading looks and studying you. It was weird. And their clothes were wrong. Like they wanted to fit into the neighborhood but missed it a little.”

“Was one of ’em kind of big? Blond hair?”

“Yeah. One blond. The other almost bald. Both good-sized. I’d swear they were together.”

“Together—but sitting apart? So—”

“I don’t know,” said Ella. “Reporters, maybe? Investigators for the ferry system. Employees of Sheldon Beck?” She looked at him. “More of Spinell’s crazy sons?”

“Ella—”

She waved dismissively. “Just mentioning the possibilities.”

“Maybe they signed the guest book,” said Joe, as he steered the Jetta into a shopping center parking lot and toward a Starbucks.

Ella laughed. “Yeah, right.” 

They parked in front of a wall displaying a huge poster for upcoming Fourth of July and Seafair festivities. The poster featured a black-and-white photo of a Navy admiral in full dress attire. Big. Tough. Square-jawed. The caption read “Hometown hero and decorated Vietnam veteran, Rear Admiral Wesley H. Houghton, Seafair master of ceremonies. Meet Admiral Houghton aboard the U.S.S. Nimitz on the Seattle waterfront, July 4th.”

Something about the poster caught Joe’s eye. He studied it. Ella was focused on the Starbucks. “We had coffee at church,” she said.

“Yeah. I could use another one, though.”

“Me too.” She started to open her door but Joe stopped her.

“Ella. Did you notice right before communion, when I was reading?”

“Uh-huh. You hesitated for a second.”

“Yeah.”

“Scared me at first,” she said. “But then you went on and it was no big deal.”

“It was a big deal to me.”

“How?”

“I heard the voice again.”

Ella’s shoulders sagged and she searched his face. “Oh, wow.”

“Yeah. Same voice as before. Only louder.”

She took his hand. “Sweetie. Okay.”

“It had a lot to say.” He laughed without any trace of humor. “The voice has an agenda.”