Flee From Evil (20 page)

Cassandra looked at her son, whose fingers were pulsing in and out of his ears now. She shook her head. “Oh, no. He’s not trying to stop the noise. He’s making it more interesting.”

Lew grimaced. “But I thought autistic kids—” He cursed. “I mean,
kids with autism
,”—he stressed the phrase Kat had told him to use—“hate loud noises.”

Cassandra’s grin took over her face.

“What?”

She lifted a shoulder. “It’s just funny seeing you be so PC. Didn’t know you had it in you, Lew.”

He grumbled. That’s what he got for trying.

“You’re right. Most kids with autism are very sensitive to loud noises. Tibo is like that with a few things. Sometimes it’s the acoustics of certain buildings—particularly ones that echo. But with most things, he’s a sensory
seeker
, not a sensory
avoider
. That’s why he loves the engines, and tries to make the noise have more impact by moving his fingers in and out.”

Louder roaring sounded from the track. Tibo palmed his ears this time, his smile uncontained.

Lew nodded. “Sorry ’bout the word.”

Her brows drew together. “You mean labeling him
autistic
rather than saying he
has autism?
” She smirked. “Or are you talking about the colorful word in between?”

“Well, I guess”—he glanced at the boy who often repeated the last word of a sentence—“both.”

She turned her body to look right at him. “Lew, lots of people use all the right politically correct language, and never once try to engage my son. They give me all kinds of recommendations they’ve learned from their friends and family members about what to do for kids with autism, and never try to enter our world.” A weight seemed to bare down on the woman’s expression, but she gave him a small half-grin. “You’ve done both.” She faced forward, swallowed hard, and touched the corner of her eye. “Your actions have more meaning than those words ever will. You treat him as what those
correct
phrases are meant to convey.”

He straightened his back, but for some reason couldn’t look at the lady next to him. Maybe it had something to do with how hot his face felt right now.

She took a long draw of her soda then pointed the straw his way. “I never realized you were such a great driver.”

He chuckled. He liked this prissy woman. But did the guys really have to tell her all the old stories?

“That one racer, Jeremy Holt, said you were his idol when he was a kid. He wanted to drive just like you.”

Lew kicked at a beer bottle cap on the board below his feet. “Yeah, well …” He didn’t know what else to say. He missed those days, and wished somehow he could do them over, but not mess them up so much.

Bouncing, Tibo’s gaze followed the cars taking pre-race laps.

“Why’d you stop?”

Did he have to relive that part too? “Started losing.” He ground his bottom lip between his teeth, wishing he had some chewing tobacco. But he quit that stuff long time ago—it was bad for him.

Cassandra shifted her gaze below as the green flag waved, and the race began. Tibo squealed with excitement, setting Lew’s heart to pound a happy gong. He never knew he could enjoy watching a kid bounce up and down on a seat. Poor boy’s back-side would likely kill him by the end of the day.

Cassandra laughed and nodded to her son. “He’s like a fun-button in our house.”

“A fun-button?”

“Yeah, he turns the most mundane activities into a lot of fun.” She mussed the kid’s hair.

“Are you calling racing mundane?” Lew tried the offended look.

She shook her head. “Of course not. You know what I mean.”

He turned to the kid.
Bounce, bounce, bounce.
“I think I do.”

They sat in silence, and watched the vehicles hurtle around the track. Lew didn’t even know which car was leading. He’d kept his eyes on Tibo throughout the race, his heart swelling with the kid’s joy. He might just have to do this again.

Cars crashed. They rolled. Some sped out of the track and into trees that lined the raceway. Round and round they went. Long moments later, the checkered flag waved, and Tibo clapped.

Lew shook his head and grinned. Something warm settled over him and into his chest—weird.

Cassandra grabbed his hand and jumped from the seat. “That’s Jeremy’s car! Jeremy won!” She turned to Lew. “Your protege.”

~*~

When Lew yanked his fingers from Cassandra’s, she knew she’d said something that bothered him. She didn’t mean to, but sometimes people took her the wrong way. Maybe because she was the kind of girl who wore expensive, white shorts to a dirt track race. Little did they know she didn’t have the money to buy
cheap
shorts right now, especially with her children’s growing clothing needs. So she had to settle for the things her husband had purchased when he was alive, with the allowance his parents had given him for the family’s “proper attire.”

Cassandra tried to communicate an apology with her eyes, since she didn’t have words for an offense she didn’t understand.

“It was the drinking.”

She read his lips more than heard him. Was he even speaking to her?

Tibo squealed as more cars drove onto the track.

Cassandra didn’t watch this time. She lowered herself to the bench next to Lew and waited, expecting him to elaborate, but as the silence stretched, unsure he would.

Lew turned toward her. He shrugged. “Couldn’t stop.”

Cassandra placed a hand over his.

“Same reason you wouldn’t let the boy drive with me here.”

She pulled her hand away, and shook her head. What could she say?

“I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t trust me with him either.”

She shifted her body to face him on the bench. “Lew, it’s not just you. I don’t trust him alone with anybody. Especially since he can’t tell me things.”

Lew seemed to consider the grains of wood in the stands before swiveling to meet her gaze. “I bet you’d trust the church folk.” There was a challenge in those dark eyes.

Oh, if he only knew … “Not unless I know them really really
really
well.”

“
Really
well?” Was he mocking her?

“Yes,
really
well.”

“Not your religious friends?”

“Not alone with my son—no.” She hesitated wondering if she should disclose the reason for her fears.

“Why not? Do you suspect they aren’t as good as they pretend to be?” There was that challenge again.

She’d meet it. “Only the ones pretending to be good.” Cassandra drew in a breath as the roaring of another race began in earnest. “Lew, just because a person goes to church, doesn’t mean they are a Christian. And even if they are, they’re still sinners.”

His brows crunched.

“People go to church for lots of reasons—some to follow Jesus, and some to look like they do.”

“Why would a person waste an hour on Sunday only to
look
like they follow Jesus?”

Cassandra couldn’t keep the darkness from her laugh. “Satan loves to use the church for his purposes whenever there is an opening. And unfortunately there are too many in the pews who are open.”

“Satan?” Lew’s eyelids lowered. “ You mean the guy with the pointy tail and pitchfork?”

“No. He’s more clever than to appear a
cartoon
of evil.”

“I thought you were educated.” His sardonic tone told her what he thought of her education.

Cassandra hated when people treated her beliefs like a silly myth. “The more I live, and the more I see people explaining away bad things as if they weren’t really bad, and the more I see authority figures abusing power for their own gain, the more I believe there is evil in the world. It’s not a great stretch to imagine some
being
is behind it. Someone tempting us to do what we know is wrong, and someone setting out to destroy us, while making us believe we are doing something good.”

She waited for Lew to laugh. But he didn’t.

A yellow flag waved over the track, and the cars slowed. Tibo’s bouncing settled.

“Satan loves to use the church. He accomplishes more than one goal in doing so. First, he tempts the abuser. Next, he traumatizes the victim. And lastly, he covers the church with deceit, leaving non-believers to think we are all hypocrites.”

“Abuser?”

She had to use that word, didn’t she? “Yes.”

He just looked at her—waiting for her to elaborate.

“I had a friend when I was a teenager who had been sexually assaulted by one of the youth leaders.”

Lew pointed at her. “I knew it. Dirty secrets.”

“It was only a secret until the girl finally told her parents. As soon as the elders were informed, the leader was dismissed from ministry, and charges were filed.”

“See? Church folk
are
a bunch of hypocrites.”

Cassandra tensed. “That’s not fair, Lew. You’re letting Satan win.”

“Pfffft.”

Heat fumed into her cheeks. “Just because a person claims to be a Christian and doesn’t act on that faith, doesn’t mean the rest of us are hypocrites.”

He opened his mouth …

She raised her voice. “And just because some of us have a bad day, and give in to weakness on occasion, doesn’t mean we’re hypocrites.” Her hands became tense fists.

“But—”

“And just because we have sin in our pasts, and want to live a better life now that we know better, doesn’t mean we’re hypocrites.”

Lew held up his finger, and glanced around at the spectators who’d quieted and turned their way.

She sucked in a breath. “And …”

He arched a brow.

“I’m … I’m done.”

He grimaced. “Is bitterness your particular weakness?

She smirked and Lew joined her in a laugh. “Maybe a little.”

Cassandra loved the way his chuckle seemed to reach inside him right now. She’d never heard that from him before.

“Anyway …
that’s
why I’m super-protective of my son.”

Chapter Nineteen

Cassandra had flipped through an innumerable amount of catalogs displaying the supplies needed for a special needs classroom to teach children about Jesus as their Savior: videos, books, music. She’d have to ask Vince—Pastor Vince, she needed to call him—if they had anything in the budget to purchase things that could help calm a restless child with sensory issues, like weighted vests, balance balls, or textured mats.

She’d considered faxing or emailing the list, but knew it was time to face the man as her boss, be professional, and leave the dwindling animosity at the door.

Was
it dwindling?

Her heart pounded as she crossed the threshold to the church offices, Yolanda sitting sentry at the front desk. “Cassandra, right?” Was that a question, confirmation, or accusation? Of course it was only the second time they’d met in the weeks since she’d interviewed for the position.

“Yes. I’ve come to drop off a list of supplies the special needs classroom will need.” She glanced around. “Is Vin—Pastor Vince, here?”

Yolanda’s eyebrows jumped at Cassandra’s slip. “He stepped out.”

Cassandra held up the pages in her hand. “Can I drop this on his desk?”

“Be my guest.” Yolanda jabbed a thumb to the open door.

Cassandra hesitated, peering around at the burgundy walls and shelves filled with books: theology, apologetics, Bible studies, devotions, a concordance, a couple of Dickens novels, and … George MacDonald? She’d told him long ago how much she’d loved the author’s writings. Had he remembered, or were they the recommendation of a divinity professor?

The scent of him saturated the space like a warning not to enter. She wanted to drink it in, fill her mind with the strength of the young man who’d held her in his arms, and the smiles that seemed to single her out from every other woman in the world. But she knew that drink was poison and shook her mind from the lies.

Wanting him to see the list immediately, she dropped it on the blotter in front of his computer keyboard. She needed to write a note to ask about the sensory items. Finding a message pad, she ripped off a pink page, and searched for a pen. His desk held piles of documents here and there, a docking station for electronics, file holders, and a paper clip tray seemingly made by a Sunday school student, but no pens. She peered around the shelves—nothing.

Cassandra opened the flat drawer of his desk and smiled at the fun-sized Heath bars littered throughout. She’d forgotten about his obsession for chocolate-covered toffee. Some things never changed. In fact, that’s what she feared the most. Or did she fear they had. With her mind playing through all of what she’d learned about him over the past several weeks, she no longer knew what she felt regarding Vince at all.