End Times (17 page)

In the dim glow of his headlights on the country road, Owen looked as troubled as she felt. She tore her eyes away from his profile only to catch the glow of their faces in the windshield, both pale and haunted, spectral twins in the night. Maybe it was the shared sense of guilt, their implicit roles in the evening’s horrible events, that made her feel drawn to him. It was the only explanation she could accept, the only way to make sense of whatever it was that was buzzing between them in the car: The feeling of being filled to the brim, threatening to spill over, to dislodge something inside of her that had been locked away for most of her life.

He stopped opposite the Peytons’ trailer, his motor humming quietly.

“Thanks for the ride,” she said, unbuckling her seatbelt.

He turned to her, his lips parting to form a question, or maybe just to wish her goodnight. She paused, waiting for him to gather his thoughts. But instead of speaking, he lunged forward, piercing that pocket of stillness and bringing his lips to hers.

The hot print of his hand on her cheek, his mouth on hers, detonated something inside of her, igniting emotions she didn’t even know she had and sending them spiraling through her like the last embers of a firework dying in the sky. Owen’s lips were soft and warm, feathery and enticing, exactly the opposite of how she’d always expected a kiss to be. For a moment she just let it happen. The kiss set her skin aflame and plummeted through her nervous system, sparking along the way until it felt like her entire body was singing. Then reality plunged like an anvil to her stomach.

“Stop,” she gasped, pushing him away.

Owen sat back, breathing heavily. Longing hung like smoke between them, choking the truck’s cab.

Her heart felt like a bird smacking against a windowpane. “This is not okay. Trey just
died
.”

“I’m sorry,” Owen said. “I shouldn’t have.”

“No, you shouldn’t have!” Her voice was sharp. She couldn’t believe she’d come so close to giving herself up, to letting Owen take what she was never willing to give. She’d spent her whole life protecting it, against Jim and the drunks who came stumbling into the 7-Eleven and jerks like Doug—and Owen had just come and practically waltzed away with it, like the piece of herself she’d guarded so fiercely for so long was just a cheap knick-knack you could pick up at the dollar store.

He dropped a hand onto the steering wheel and laughed a soft, ironic laugh. “I’m usually pretty good with girls.”

“I’m not like other girls.” Her voice cut through the haze that had cluttered her head.

“So I’ve noticed.” Owen smiled a slow half smile, making her stomach twist and leap. But she forced her eyes to stay stony.

“No, really,” she said, quiet but firm. “I don’t do this—not now, not ever.”

He looked at her quizzically, eyes glowing softly in the dark. “Isn’t that a little extreme?”

“I have to go,” she said quickly, ignoring the question—and the way his lips looked forming it. Lips that had just been on hers. Kissing her. Making her insides bloom with fire. “I’ll see you around.”

And before he could protest, she was scrambling out of the truck and slamming the door behind her, running across the road so fast that it felt like she’d left a part of herself on the other side.

THE sun beat down on the funeral party like a cruel joke. It was the first truly warm day of the season, the air so clear Daphne could make out the bald-cut top of Elk Mountain from the cemetery behind the church, and rivulets of sweat trickled down her back, trapped in the black polyester dress she’d bought for her trial and hoped she’d never have to wear again.

Pastor Ted stood at the foot of the open grave, his face pink and slick with perspiration. “The other day, our community suffered a serious loss.” His voice cracked with emotion. “Trey Stonehouse, a young man in his prime, was called home to God.”

In the chair next to Daphne’s, Janie sniffled and swiped half-heartedly at her nose, her Kleenex already streaked with melted makeup. Doug reached for her hand, and she squeezed it tightly. He’d been quiet since Trey’s death, almost comatose, but the way his lip kept twitching back into a snarl sent an uneasy prickle up the back of Daphne’s neck. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, boiling with a quiet rage.

Pastor Ted’s voice gained strength. “Trey was quiet and hardworking, always putting friends and family first. He was dedicated and loyal.”

The evening of Trey’s death played miserably in Daphne’s mind, ending with the memory of Owen’s lips on hers. The whole thing sent a wrench of guilt twisting through her stomach.

“Trey was a true child of God, a true citizen of Carbon County,” Pastor Ted continued. “He represented what’s best about this place—what we have to hold on to when things start to change.

“Because change is coming—it’s already here. As the oil flows and our pockets bulge with riches, we may be tempted to forget the values that make us God’s chosen people. Our humility. Our community. And, above all else, our commitment to God. Do you believe?”

“I believe,” the congregation murmured. A sob caught in Janie’s throat, and Doug squeezed her hand tighter, his face darkening.

“Let us remember that this oil is God’s gift to the Children of God—our reward for doing His will and living His message. We can use it as a bargaining chip with the devil, making cheap deals with outside forces for our own personal gain, or we can use it for good, donating it to God and our community like Floyd Peyton has done with his generous gift to our church. We can let Trey’s death be a message and continue living as he would have wanted: as glorious beings in the eyes of the Lord.”

Pastor Ted’s head snapped up, blue eyes bright as the sky. “What will it be, Carbon County? Will we let this boy die in vain, or will we hear God’s message? Will we make deals with the devil, or will we follow God’s plan for us? Do we still believe?”

“We still believe!” the congregation chanted.

“God rewarded us with this oil, but now He’s testing us.” Pastor Ted’s voice sizzled like bacon frying in a pan. “If we fail and fall to sin, you know where we’re going—straight to Hell, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. But even if we pass God’s test this time, there will be more tests to come. I pray that we won’t lose any more of our own, but I also believe in my heart and soul that this is just the beginning and that someday even this pain will pass, and we will receive the greatest reward of all. Do you believe?”

“I believe!” Daphne opened her mouth to say the words, but they still wouldn’t come. Trey was dead because he’d been reckless—because she’d
driven
him to be reckless. It wasn’t because of God. It was because of
her
.

Pastor Ted bent his head. “Now, let us pray.”

Janie’s back heaved as she mouthed the prayer along with Pastor Ted, tears dripping off the tip of her nose and splattering onto the tissue forgotten in her lap.

Doug bent his head too, but his mouth stayed shut. He trembled slightly, his massive frame shaking like an earthquake, his neck an angry red.

“Does anyone have words to share about the departed?” Pastor Ted asked gently, bringing the prayer to an end.

“I got something to say.” Doug jumped to his feet, toppling his chair. His neck cracked as his gaze swept the crowd.

“Trey was a good guy,” he continued. “The best. He was my best friend. And now he’s gone.”

He took a deep, shaky breath. Janie reached up and patted his hand encouragingly, but he yanked it away.

“And it’s his fault!” Doug pointed a quivering finger at the back of the cemetery, to the knot of latecomers standing behind the last row of chairs.

Daphne followed the trajectory of his finger and saw Owen at the edge of the crowd, Luna by his side. Flames of recognition leapt in her chest at the sight of him, licking with a mixture of anger and excitement as she remembered the way he’d lunged at her in the cab of his truck. Both Owen and Luna were clad in black: he in a simple button-down shirt, and she in a diaphanous dress that floated in gauzy layers around her ankles. There were dark circles under Owen’s eyes.

“That devil you were talking about, the one from the outside world—that’s him, right there.” Doug jabbed his finger in the air. “He’s the reason Trey’s dead.”

Owen’s gaze dropped to his shoes. He shifted from one foot to the other, letting the attack wash over him.

“Are you people just going to let him get away with it?” Doug’s face darkened to the color of a bruise. “He should be in jail—or driven out of town! A guy like that doesn’t belong here. He already killed Trey; who knows what else he’ll do?”

He sat down abruptly, shoulders heaving. Next to him, Janie reached out a hand to pat his shoulder, but seemed to think better of it. Her frosted fingernails hovered in midair, then folded back into her lap. She shrank farther away from her boyfriend, the sadness in her eyes tinged with a new uncertainty. She looked afraid.

“Young man.” Pastor Ted’s voice arched over the crowd, landing at Owen’s feet. “Do you have anything to say?”

Owen gazed out at the sea of strangers, wilting and miserable in the relentless sunshine. They had twisted in their chairs to get a better look at him, and their faces were damp with sweat and tears. He had nothing to say, but he could feel their collective need for words to make sense of something as senseless as Trey’s death. He cleared his throat.

“I’m Owen Green,” he began. “I’m new in town, and I appreciate all the hospitality Carbon County has shown me.”

The crowd shifted in their seats, damp and curious. It was suddenly vitally important that they believe him.

“I was racing Trey when he died,” he continued. “I was in front of him when he crashed, and I stopped my bike to try to help him. Unfortunately, I was too late.”

The memory of Trey’s body, twisted and blackened in the flames, blazed in his brain. He remembered approaching the burning pricker bush, reaching out his hand—but he remembered something else, too. In that moment, he’d been sure he’d seen that very image (flesh and metal enmeshed together, twisting smoke and whirling flames) before. Many times before. Since his eighteenth birthday, it had haunted his dreams, and since the terrible night of Trey’s death he’d barely been able to sleep, terrified that it meant his other night visions, the piles of bodies and whirling demons and endless, flickering flames, might someday come true as well.

The congregation’s sweat-slick faces stared up at him, ghostly white in the harsh sunlight. He had to continue. He owed it to them.

“I never really knew Trey, and I’m sorry I didn’t get to know him. I’m sorry for any part I played in his death. To his friends and family: I know you lost someone you care about deeply, and I’m sorry for your loss. I know I can’t bring him back, but if there’s anything I can do to make it better, I promise you I will.”

His eyes dropped back to the ground as the congregation sighed and shifted. He felt their anger dissipating, floating off into the mountains on a warm summer breeze, leaving only a stagnant sadness.

Only Doug still seethed. Owen could see it in the tight way his shoulders hunched and his elbows dug into his knees, in the snarl that never seemed to leave his lips. He imagined Doug would always hate him, and probably would have even if Trey were alive and well. He knew he posed a threat to guys like Doug, guys who wanted to be the best on the track but weren’t willing to put in the time and the elbow grease, to give up parties and friends and girls. There was one at every track, and he’d learned long ago that all he could do was give them a wide berth and try not to rub it in their faces when he inevitably won.

A panting sob broke the silence. In the front row, Trey’s mother rose to her feet, narrow shoulders heaving. Her nose had the same small hook as Trey’s, and tears had streaked the concealer under her eyes, revealing bruise-dark circles.

“I wish you could bring my son back,” she said shakily. Owen nodded, holding her gaze. “But I know you can’t—and I believe that it wasn’t your fault.” Tears leaked from her eyes. “I forgive you,” she whispered, before crumbling in a volley of sobs.

Her husband, gray as a pillar of ashes, rose beside her. Putting a protective arm around her shoulder, he trained his eyes on Owen. His voice was hoarse and raw.

“
We
forgive you,” he amended. “It’s what God would want. What Trey would want.”

He covered his face with one hand and sank quickly into his seat, his wife’s peroxided head disappearing into the crowd next to him.

“Thank you,” Owen said quietly.

Pastor Ted nodded. “Let us finish with Psalm Twenty-Three,” he said. Their voices rose—thin and mournful, muffled by tears and shattered by shock—into the close, sunbaked air.

• • •

AFTER the service, the mourners circled the funeral parlor’s beige reception hall, nibbling on refreshments and offering muted condolences.

Daphne perched on the edge of a stiff floral sofa, picking pieces of celery out of her egg salad. With Doug and Janie comforting Trey’s parents and Karen and Floyd talking to Pastor Ted, she felt alone and exposed. She sensed curious eyes on her, the outsider they believed had brought them trumpets from heaven and oil to save their hometown, but they quickly shifted their gazes whenever they caught her looking.