“That must be a very special shirt.”
“It is. Scotty told me he said a prayer for me when he helped his mother wrap it.”
“Now that just makes me want to cry,” she whispered.
Dev prayed she didn’t do that. But her voice sounded shaky. “I’m glad your shirt is so blessed.” Then she wiggled closer and drifted off to sleep, the rattle and hum of the fast-moving train seeming to soothe her frazzled nerves.
Dev closed his eyes, too, then he kissed the top of her head while he held her there in his arms, against his blessed shirt.
Lydia woke with a start, trying to remember where she was. When she looked up to find Pastor Dev staring down at her, and looked down to find herself settled nicely into the crook of his strong arm, she gasped and sat straight up. “What—”
“The train’s stopping. End of the line. We get off here,” Pastor Dev explained. A little old lady across the aisle smiled over at them.
And as usual Lydia said, “Oh, okay.” Until she remembered everything that had happened—dead body, bad guys, strange gadgets, a memory of a gentle kiss on her hair—she’d have to get back to that one. “Where are we?”
“Somewhere north of Atlanta,” he replied as he tugged her to her feet. “Near Roswell, I believe.” But he wasn’t looking at her. Instead, he glanced all around, his dark eyes on full alert mode. But he was kind enough to let that little old blue-haired lady pass first. He checked the front of the passenger car, and the back, again and again. He gave other passengers a hard, daring stare which seemed to make all of them quake in their boots. Except the grandma. She simply smiled her sweet, wrinkled smile and held on to her sensible black purse as she slowly ambled her way toward the train doors.
Pastor Dev did one more search. “I think we’re safe. Let’s go.”
So they got off MARTA along with a few other people—probably night workers coming home from the city. It was very late, actually early morning, the wee hours, as Lydia’s mama would say. She’d never stayed out this late in her life, even in all her sorority days at UGA. But then, she reminded herself, things on this night were not at all what they seemed.
And neither was the man pulling her away from the cluster of passengers heading to their parked cars or waiting rides. She worried about the old woman. Did she have a ride home? Was she all alone in the world?
But Pastor Dev didn’t give Lydia time to visit with the old woman. Lydia watched as the spry woman shuffled off in another direction.
“What now?” she asked, breathless from being tugged at a fast-footed pace across the cracked commuter parking lot.
Pastor Dev stopped underneath a large oak tree. As if right on cue, his fancy phone beeped. “Yes?” he said into the phone. Then he said something really odd. “Have we put out a search for any lost sheep?”
She had to blink at that one. But she’d figured out not to ask questions, not when he was in that instruction mode, anyway. So she just listened. That’s how she’d learned so much in school. She was a good listener.
“Copy,” he said into the phone. Then “Where is the way to the dwelling of light?”
If Lydia hadn’t known better, she would have thought he was quoting scripture. Job, if she remembered correctly. She had always been good at memorizing Bible passages back in Sunday school.
But then he said, “Yes, I understand.” And that was that.
“We have to go,” he told her after he put the tiny phone away. “I have to get you to a safe place.”
She looked around. The train was gone. The carpoolers and night shift workers were gone. They were all alone at a train station somewhere in North Georgia. She glanced around, seeing the lights of the city miles away. “How are we going to get out of here?”
“We walk,” he said, as if this was the most normal thing in the world. Then he kept right on talking in that calm, normal voice. “It’s not seemly—you and I running off together. I have to consider your reputation. I need to get you to a safe house where there are highly trained chaperones who can help me watch over you. Before I leave.”
That got her dander up. “What did you say?” she asked, stopping and digging her heels into the asphalt. It still felt warm from the spring day. Or maybe that heat was coming from the steam rising inside of her.
He turned, let out a sigh. “Lydia, you shouldn’t be here. I would never forgive myself if something happened to you.”
And because that kind of sounded as if he cared about her just a tiny bit, she cut him some slack. But she still needed answers. “Nothing will happen to me if you’ll just tell me the truth.”
He stood there, his eyes touching on her face before he glanced off into the darkness. “We need to find a vehicle.”
“No, you need to tell me the truth.” She skipped two beats, giving him ample time to chime right in, then she let him have it good and proper. “Look, Pastor Dev, I’ve known you for close to three years now and…well, never in those three years have you ever so much as raised your voice at me. But tonight, tonight, something changed. I mean, besides the dead man in your bathtub and that big, scary gun, and those goons chasing us. You changed right in front of my eyes. And I do believe that means you owe me some kind of explanation.” Then she took off, her pumps pounding pavement. “You can talk while we walk.”
He caught up with her right away, reaching for her swinging arm. “Okay, all right. But the less you know, the safer you’ll be.”
“I can’t be safe if I don’t know what I’m fighting.”
He considered that for a minute. “You’re right. And you’re a very smart woman.”
“Well, at least you’ve noticed that about me.”
That comment made him frown in that kind of confused way men do when they don’t understand the underlying meaning. But she let it slide. As much as she’d like to have had a real heart-to-heart with the man, what she needed more was concrete information.
“Go on,” she said, coaxing him like a teacher coaxing a kindergartner.
“You’re right about me. I’m not what I seem.”
“I got that right after you pulled out that big gun,” she snapped back. “Not to mention the dead man.”
He frowned again, a new respect for her in his eyes. “Before I came to Dixon, I was…something besides a preacher.”
“Uh-huh. What?”
He let out a breath. “After I got out of seminary school, I was approached by a very elite organization and asked if I’d like to join their ranks.” He shrugged. “I fit the profile exactly. Athletic, excellent grades, exemplary conduct. Single and young. And very devoted to the Lord.”
“You do fit all those qualifications,” she blurted out. Then she put a hand over her big mouth. “Keep talking.”
He gave her another strange look, but continued.
