The New Magic - The Revelation of Jonah McAllister - Landon Wark (bill gates best books TXT) 📗

His hands gripped the wheel until they were first red, then white and then some colour that he couldn’t identify. His eyes refused to blink and his foot pushed down on the accelerator, he shook himself to the realization that the engine was suspiciously silent. And as his hand groped along the steering column he realized that the key was not in the ignition.

Jenny was standing at the door, looking out at him. She turned around to talk to the large woman whose name he had forgotten along with his own. After a moment or two she walked down the steps and across the gravel to the car. Bill fumbled with the keys, dropping them through the crack by the armrest; he struggled to fish them out even as Jenny tapped on the window.

“Bill. Bill? Roll down the window.”

He ceased fishing for the keys and was still. For a moment the silence was back, larger than ever. It was sitting on his chest, crushing the air out and he found that he couldn’t breathe. Jenny grasped the door handle and pulled it open with him grasping for the lock the whole way.

“Bill?”

The Devil is fucking real and you never got him baptized.

“That wasn’t real.”

She stared at him, holding the door open. “Come back inside Bill. She wants to talk to you some more.”

He shook his head furiously. “Some kind of trick. Mirrors.”

“There weren’t—aren’t any mirrors.”

He tried to pull the door shut, but she clung fast to it.

“It’s okay, she says this is a normal response. It happened to her like this too. It’s only natural to want to get away from something you’re mind can’t handle. Remember when—”

“We're going home,” he interrupted. “Get in the car.”

“I want to stay, and I think you should, too.”

He shook his head again. “Get in the car, Jenny.”

She sighed. “Fine, Bill, I’ll get in the car. But first I’m going to say goodbye.”

Jenny Wilson walked up to the front door where Sandy waited, her girth blocking out most of the light from the interior. She made a few gestures, a lot of apologies and a few more gestures and then walked solemnly back to where Bill had finally got the car started. He looked about ready to take off without her. With the grace of someone who was just kicked out of a fancy hotel Jenny eased herself into the passenger side, took one more look at the house and then closed the door.

Sandy Jenkins stared after the car as it sped off recklessly down the gravel road.

Three days later, when she was able to sneak off on her own and call a friend for a ride, Jennifer Wilson returned. Bill Wilson did not.

The congregation was shuffling out of the large front door as Paul Kwon began gathering up the three collection plates that had been passed around during the service. There was less in all three than what had been in one when he had first come to this church. He could easily understand the reason. More than half of the congregation had been laid off in the past year and those who had been giving were now the ones who were receiving. He frowned deeply as he looked up to where Reverend Newman was doffing his black jacket and microphone. Behind him the choir was filing into the back to do the same. Behind them all the massive backdrop of glass and steel that made up this monstrosity of a church loomed ominously. Within the framework were traced angels and demons and the battle of good and evil played out in its stained glass.

The church was not quite a mega-church, but not for want of trying. It was maybe a median-church. An imitation of those grifters, but not quite good enough to become one. Or maybe, not quite bad enough, Paul could never decide.

Although it set his teeth on edge Paul counted himself lucky to have his position. His grandparents had been Moonies, bringing their son to the region in the mid eighties. His father had rebelled and transitioned into mainstream Baptist, coming into his own at the height of anti-Clinton anti-Satanism. And, for some reason known only to God himself, Paul had put on the family frock toward the end of post 9/11 patriot-spiritualism. None of his ancestors had to deal with streaming sermons and bitcoin collection. Most congregations had decided to cut their overhead in favour of the more alienating online, social media faith. Places like this, that gave shelter to the elderly and their pensions were the last places that would hire younger novices who weren't family.

It's a good thing you like people, he thought to himself.

Newman’s face still glowed red from pounding the pulpit and his large figure shook as he shrugged into a more golf-friendly windbreaker, never taking his eyes off his watch as he completed the awkward manoeuver. It was difficult to imagine that only five minutes prior he was bellowing to the back rows about the evils of the modern world and the modern government. Now a smile snuck across the reverend’s face as he rushed toward the rectory to retrieve his clubs.

Newman was a Christian the same way he was a golfer. He took both much too seriously but only for an afternoon at a time.

Paul dumped all three trays into a large bucket, spilling a few nickels in the process.

What would the givers think if they saw Reverend Newman out at the country club on a Sunday afternoon, jimmying his weight out of an imported car? What would the receivers think?

If you want self-sacrifice you have to go Catholic. And that's a bit of a trek.

As he reached down to retrieve his fallen charges a commotion in the direction of the rectory attracted his attention. Someone had shouldered past the departing crowd and ambushed Reverend