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- Herausgeber: New Creation Publishing
- Kategorie: Religion und Spiritualität
- Sprache: Englisch
A cop killer hiding out in the church. A girl with a terrifying secret. Unpaid bills. Empty cupboards. A pastor so tired, he might not survive the day.
Is God still listening?
Has Open Door Church run its course?
Or does God have more in store?
When circumstances force Galen to slow down, he hears something new. And he can hardly believe what God has to say.
Yes, God is still listening. Get your Revival today!
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
Ähnliche
Revival
Shelter Book 3
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ROBIN MERRILL
New Creation Publishing
Madison, Maine
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REVIVAL. Copyright © 2020 by Robin Merrill. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
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Scripture quotations taken from the New American Standard Bible®, Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission. (www.Lockman.org)
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This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Epilogue
Books by Robin Merrill
Chapter 1
Galen
When Galen heard the scream, he didn’t even pick up his pace.
Wails of anger, frustration, and occasionally actual fear were commonplace at Open Door Church’s homeless shelter. Years ago, each scream had scared him half to death, but now? Not so much.
As he grew closer, he heard a child crying—still a common sound, but one he wasn’t desensitized to yet—and his worn-out boots did start to move faster.
The sounds grew clearer: a woman whimpering; a deep voice cursing; the child still crying. Galen rounded the last corner and a sharp pain stabbed at his chest. Hardly aware of it, he rubbed the spot with one hand. Chest pains were not a new thing. He chalked it up as just another symptom of getting older.
The doorway stood open and Galen stepped inside to find a short thin man pointing a handgun at a woman cowering on her knees in front of him. She looked at the floor, her hair hanging over her face, and it took Galen a second to recognize her. He stepped between the gun and the child to his right and held both hands out toward the man. “Damien, what’s going on here?” He wondered whether he should look him in the eye. One should try to appear strong and confident when facing a grizzly. One should never look an aggressive dog in the eye. Eye contact showed someone you care. All these tidbits of advice raced through his mind and he finally decided he really had no choice. He had to look the man in the eye.
Damien returned his gaze. Despite the bright sunlight pouring through the window, his pupils were giant black saucers.
Galen swallowed, his mouth as dry as sand.
“I did a bad thing, Pastor.” The words flew out quickly. “I ... I ... I ...” He wanted to say something more, but he couldn’t.
“Well, Damien”—Galen took a small step forward, and Damien sidestepped to avoid Galen’s advance, bumping his shoulder on the top bunk to his left—“you’re certainly doing a bad thing right now. But you can stop this one.”
Damien’s eyes darted to the woman in front of him, then back to Galen, then back the woman again. “I know.” He seemed resigned to Galen’s suggestion, but he didn’t lower his weapon.
“Why don’t you give me the gun, Damien?” Galen turned one of his hands over, palm up. “We’ll let Traci and Justin go, and then we’ll make a plan. I’ll help you, Damien.”
He barely let Galen finish his offer. “No.”
Galen took a long breath. “Why not? Help me understand.”
He didn’t say anything, and the wobbling of his outstretched arm grew worse.
Galen feared he was going to accidentally pull the trigger.
He made a noise: part groan, part whimper.
Galen dropped his arms. He no longer had the strength to keep them in the air. “Why are you pointing a gun at Traci?” He tried to hide his growing impatience. “Whatever she did, it doesn’t deserve this.”
Slowly, in a mouselike voice, Traci said, “I didn’t do anything. He came in through the window—”
“Shut up!”
“Mommy,” Justin whimpered.
Galen knew he wasn’t deescalating the situation. He considered his options. Diplomacy wasn’t working. There was a time when getting physical would’ve been his first choice, but he wasn’t as young or as quick as he used to be—not that he was ever all that quick. He’d been a linebacker, not a running back. He could tackle Damien, easily take him down, but would the gun go off in the process? Probably. And if it did, what were the chances the stray bullet would hit Traci? Pretty good, he feared.
“Does this have anything to do with Traci? Or did she just happen to be here when you came through the window?” He wished he were better at negotiating.
Damien made another crying sound.
“I don’t even know this guy,” Traci said.
“I was trying to hide.”
Good. That was something. “Okay, you can still hide. Just let them go.”
Damien looked at him and snorted. “You’re going to let me hide here?”
“Yes. At least until you explain to me what’s going on.”
A look of sheer terror fell over Damien’s face like a curtain. “I think he might be dead.”
Galen’s stomach rolled. Who might be dead? Had Damien killed someone? Galen was used to operating in arenas he wasn’t quite qualified for, but this might be too much. He swallowed again. “Who, Damien? Who might be dead?”
“The cop.”
A hot wave of nausea washed over Galen, and he held one hand out to steady himself, though there was nothing nearby to grab. Damien had killed a cop? There was a cop killer standing in his church? No, he told himself, he didn’t know that yet. He needed more information. “Why do you think he might be dead?”
Damien looked down at the floor and as he did so, the gun dropped a few inches. He went to wipe his nose with the back of his free hand, and Galen saw his opportunity. He lunged.
Chapter 2
Daniel
Daniel sat on the steel grating of his apartment’s fire escape, his legs dangling over the edge. If he leaned ten inches to the left, he could see the waters of Portland Harbor, but that wasn’t the view he cared about. He was looking down into the alley—at Ember.
She was his classmate, his neighbor, and his friend. But that was all. Though she told him he was the nicest guy she’d ever met, she had no interest in being his girlfriend, a fact that made him heartsick and kept him awake nights. He didn’t know the man she was currently sharing a cigarette with, but he knew he was old. Much older than Daniel, and much too old for Ember. He was out of school, at least, maybe by a lot.
Ember’s giggle drifted up to Daniel’s perch and he grimaced. It wasn’t real. He knew what her real laugh sounded like. He made her laugh all the time.
She leaned in and smashed her pink lips into the man’s face, and Daniel had to look away. Did Ember know that he was up there watching her? He suspected that maybe she did. Sometimes he thought Ember enjoyed his affection, enjoyed getting it without giving anything in return. Part of him wished that one or both of them would see him sitting up there, see him drinking a beer at two in the afternoon. It would make him seem older.
He couldn’t handle the kissing anymore. He pulled his legs up and pushed himself to a stand. He gave them one more glance—still lip-locked—and then he bent to climb back into the apartment he shared with his mother and her snake of a boyfriend. Why did all the women in his life have such horrible taste in men? He tiptoed through the living room to get to his room. He didn’t want to have to talk to either his mother or Martin, so best not to let either of them know he was inside. He slowly shut his bedroom door, and then collapsed on his unmade bed.
“Is that you, Dan?” Martin hollered.
Martin insisted on calling him Dan, which Daniel hated. Nobody called him Dan. That wasn’t his name. He’d been named after the pastor they’d had when he was born. Though the man’s name was technically also Daniel, everybody had called him Pastor Dan. So, as little Daniel grew up in that church, no one called him Dan, because they already had a Dan. Pastor was Dan. Little Daniel was Daniel. Easy for everyone. Until Martin, anyway. This was too complicated for him, apparently.
Thinking about Pastor Dan made Daniel sad. He rolled over and put his headphones on, trying to force the memories out of his head. He hadn’t told anyone in Portland that he’d grown up in a homeless shelter, anyone except Ember, that is. But she hadn’t judged him, hadn’t poked fun or anything. She didn’t talk about hers much, but Ember seemed to know a bit about bad parents.
Daniel didn’t know which was a better example of terrible parenting: that his mother had let him spend the first twelve years of his life in a homeless shelter; or that four years ago, she’d yanked him out of the only home he’d ever known. Daniel bit his lip. It had been four years. It felt like a lot longer. That kid who had lived in a church and healed people with his prayers—that kid was an entirely different person. A naive freak. He barely remembered him. He certainly didn’t recognize him.
Someone pounded on his bedroom door. He knew it was Martin. His mother would’ve just opened the door, which didn’t have a lock. He turned his music up and squeezed his eyes shut. At least, in this apartment, he had a door. They’d moved five times since the shelter. This was only his second door.
Through his eyelids, Daniel could tell there was more light in his room and knew someone had opened the door. If it was Martin, he was furious. But he didn’t open his eyes to see. He hoped whoever it was would think he was asleep.
A large hand grabbed his lower leg to shake him awake. Martin. Daniel yanked his leg away and opened his eyes. “What?”
“Get up!” Martin hollered. “Your mother told you to go to the Laundromat!”
She hadn’t told him any such thing. He pulled his headphones off and swung his legs off the bed. “I’ll need money.”
“It’s in the laundry basket.”
Daniel let out a long breath. He hated carrying his laundry down the street. It was embarrassing, and if he met any kids along the way, they always stared at him as he went by. But this, like everything else, had become his chore. His mother worked long hours as a waitress in a bar, so she thought Daniel should do all the chores. This was partly his fault. He’d established an expectation. When he was younger, he’d wanted to be helpful and had enjoyed making his mother happy. Now? Things had changed.
Chapter 3
Maggie
Maggie had just pulled her ancient car in front of the parsonage and shut her engine off when she heard the sirens. She didn’t know where the emergency vehicles were headed, but as was her habit, she bowed her head and said a silent prayer for whoever was in crisis. When she picked her head up and opened her eyes, she saw the police cars pulling into her church’s parking lot. Oh no.
She hurried of the car and saw there was already a police officer standing beside the church building, with a dog on a leash. Had they tracked someone here? It wouldn’t be the first time.
One of the cruisers pulled up beside her and came to a quick stop. An officer jumped out of the car, and she recognized him immediately: Ray Barlow. She greeted him by name and then waited for some sort of explanation.
“Have you seen Damien Foll?” he barked.
She shook her head. “No, not in weeks. He’s not staying here anymore.” She looked at the dog again. Was Damien back? What had he done?
“Go into your house, Maggie. He’s armed.” Apparently done with her, Barlow walked toward the back of the church. The other officers spread out around the building, and two went through the front door, with guns drawn. She realized that they were all wearing vests. The police came to their church all the time, but she didn’t think they usually wore vests. Of course, these were the State Police, and Open Door Church more often dealt with the county sheriff’s department. She looked around to see if any of the cars were county cruisers, but they weren’t. State Police only. Whatever this was, it was serious.
She stood frozen to her spot, desperate for more information. Then she remembered that Isaiah was helping to paint one of the church’s ceilings today, and she ran for the front door.
An officer stopped her before she got close.
She didn’t know this one. “I have to go in. My son’s in there.” She tried to push past him, but he grabbed her arm. She yanked it away. “Let me go! I’m going in there! My son’s in there!”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. You are not going in there.”
“What are you going to do, arrest me?”
He tipped his head to the side and gave her a condescending look that said, yes, that’s exactly what he would do if she didn’t stop being ridiculous. She didn’t know what to do, and the not knowing filled her eyes with tears. “What’s going on?”
“Do you live here?”
“Yes,” she said quickly. “Well, I live there.” She nodded toward the parsonage. Despite herself, she was offended that he’d assumed she lived in the shelter. This was ridiculous, of course, because she had lived there once. “My husband is the pastor—”
The man’s radio squawked, but Maggie couldn’t understand what was said. “What was that? What is going on?”
“We’re pursuing a suspect. Please go into your house and lock the door.”
“What did he do?”
The officer gave her another patronizing glance.
“My son is in there! You have to tell me something!”
The front door flew open, and people spilled down the steps and into the parking lot. She scanned the faces, desperate to see her husband or her son, and grateful that her other son was at basketball camp. Isaiah saw her before she saw him and came running toward her. He hit her with such force, she had to step back to keep from falling over. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. “Are you okay?”
He pulled away from her and nodded. “Yeah. I’m fine. I don’t even know what’s going on. The police just told us there was a dangerous man in the shelter and for us to get out.”
She looked at the large church in front of her. “Is Dad in there?”
Isaiah turned to look too. “Of course he is.”
Her stomach rolled. “Why didn’t he come out with the rest of you?”
Isaiah didn’t answer her for several seconds. She stared at him, waiting. “I don’t know, Mom,” he finally said. Looking at her son in profile, his jaw tight, his arms folded across his chest, she was amazed at how much he looked like a younger version of his father. Her heart swelled with affection for them both, and part of her ached for that younger version of her husband, the man who had loved her so much back then.
The officer’s radio squawked again, and though Maggie still couldn’t make out most of the words, she did hear a request for an ambulance.
Chapter 4
Galen
Every muscle in Galen’s body cried out in protest when he threw his body at Damien. On his way, he thought he heard sirens, but he wondered if it was his imagination. His mind felt thick and clunky, and he didn’t trust his own thoughts. He slammed into Damien’s small frame, using one arm to push Damien’s gun hand toward the floor.
They crashed into the bunk beds and ricocheted. For a second, Galen worried they would both fall backward and Damien would end up on top of him, but he twisted his body and forced them to fall to his left, as far from Traci as possible.
The gun did not go off, but Damien still had an unworldly grip on the thing. Galen scrambled to his knees and grabbed Damien’s arm. He pointed the gun toward the wall and violently shook his arm until finally, the gun fell loose. Galen extended one slow leg and kicked it away from them, and it skittered across the floor and under the bed. Galen gasped for air. He couldn’t believe how slowly he was moving. It was like trying to swim in a tank of corn syrup.
He was vaguely aware that Traci had gone the rest of the way to the floor, as though she were bowing to the tangle of limbs that Damien and he currently were. Then little Justin got up and ran to his mother, who sat up to wrap her arms around him and pull him close. She spun away from them, keeping her body between the gunman and her son, murmuring comforting words into her son’s hair.
Yes, those were definitely sirens. Thank God. Galen realized he should have prayed back when he had first seen the situation. And he should’ve prayed before making his move. He prayed now, an apology, followed by two requests: that he get Damien pinned and that the police move fast. As an afterthought, he also asked God to lessen the pain in his chest.
He was trying to force Damien onto his stomach, but the man wasn’t making it easy. The twenty-something-year-old was stronger than he looked, or Galen was weaker than he thought. Damien was wiry, and his thrashing movements were illogical and unpredictable. At one point, Galen thought he had him pinned, but then Damien squirted free and almost made it to his feet. Galen grabbed one of his feet and yanked him back down to the floor. Damien cried out in pain, and Galen was glad that he’d hurt him. If Galen was going to be in so much pain, he wanted company.
Finally, Galen got the man onto his stomach and then straddled him. “Stop it,” he said, breathing hard, too hard. “I don’t want to hurt you.” This wasn’t entirely true, but he was trying to sound pastor-like.
Damien did not stop thrashing. He kicked both legs and arched his back like an angry bull in a rodeo. But he did not buck Galen off, nor was he going to. Galen had at least fifty pounds on him. Galen held the man’s wrists with both hands and tried to catch his breath, but he couldn’t. And the pain in his chest had returned. Or had it never left? He wasn’t sure. It had all happened so fast. He was grateful for the miracle of adrenaline, but he wished he had a little more to get him through the next few minutes.
“Do you have a phone?” He could barely push the words out. He sounded like Methuselah.
“Yeah,” Traci answered and got to her feet, not letting go of her son.
“Call 911. My phone’s in my pocket, but I don’t want to let go of him to reach for it.”
Damien’s thrashing increased in response. How was he not exhausted?
“I think the cops are already here,” Galen said, “but you can tell them where in the building we are.”
He heard footsteps in the hallway and hoped, if it wasn’t the police, that it would at least be someone strong, someone who could help without sucking wind. He looked up at the open doorway and almost cried with relief when he saw the man who filled the doorway was clothed in blues. Galen leaned back, but his body leaned further than he’d told it to. The ceiling looked dark, too dark, and then Galen was falling, falling, knowing he should’ve hit the floor by now.
Chapter 5
Maggie
Maggie stood in the parking lot with her son and an assortment of church guests and watched the police bring Damien out in handcuffs. She hardly recognized him, though it had only been a few weeks since she’d seen him. He’d lost weight, and he looked pale.
“Whoa,” Isaiah said, “he’s been using something.”
Maggie slid her arm around her son’s waist and stared at the door, waiting for her husband to come out.
A man from Somalia who had been staying with them for a few weeks said something she didn’t understand.
“Did you see what happened, Keem?” His name was Abdihakim, but someone at the church had started calling him Keem and she’d followed suit so she wouldn’t keep butchering his full name. He said something else she didn’t understand. He did appear to know something about what was going on, at least more than she did, but he wasn’t able to explain it to her.
Galen still hadn’t appeared, but she wasn’t concerned. She figured he was chatting with the cops or working to comfort whatever guests were still inside. She wished she were still standing close enough to an officer to hear something over a walkie talkie, even if she could only make out some of the words.
When the ambulance pulled in with lights and siren, she still didn’t worry about Galen. She assumed a guest had been hurt and looked around the parking lot to try to determine who was missing. Traci and Justin. They weren’t outside yet. Her stomach fell. She watched the EMTs hurry up the church steps and mumbled a prayer for whomever it was they were going to help. She really hoped Justin hadn’t been hurt. He was so little.
She was starting to lose her patience with the whole ordeal when the EMTs reappeared with a stretcher. It took her a few seconds to realize that the person strapped onto that stretcher was her husband. A primal cry erupted out of her, and she let go of Isaiah to run toward the small bed. Part of her knew that her son was right behind her.
The version of her husband that she saw as she drew closer did not comfort her. His skin was pasty, his hair was wet with sweat, and they were piping oxygen into his nose. She reached for his arm, sidestepping as the gurney continued to roll. His eyelids fluttered open. He looked at her, but she wasn’t confident he’d seen her, and his lids fell again. His bare chest was covered with electrodes and wires. Did this mean he was having a heart attack? Or had Damien done something to him? “What happened? What’s wrong with him?” Her voice didn’t sound like hers.
“He’s had a heart attack, ma’am,” Joel said.
She tore her eyes away from Galen’s face to look at the EMT she’d known for years. He knew her name. Why had he called her ma’am? This scared her more than anything else had. She tried to hold back a sob and almost succeeded. Was Galen going to die? She didn’t know if she could survive that. “Is he going to be okay?”
They reached the ambulance.
“Tell me he’s going to be okay.” Sounding more like herself now.
Joel looked at her with soft eyes as his hands kept working. “We’re going to get him to the hospital as fast as we can. Do you want to ride with us?” His expression suggested this was against the rules, but that he was going to allow it anyway. Did he think Galen was going to die on the way to the hospital?
