Ten Plagues by Mary Nealy Page B

autopsy won’t make it worse. Nothing can make it worse.”
    “Don’t be so sure of that,” Keren warned.

    It was so much worse, Paul didn’t even think of trying to sleep.
    He went into the mission and found the usual crowd drinking coffee. There were several men sleeping in their chairs, dressed in clothes they’d found in the mission store. It was warm out so most of them wouldn’t stay here overnight. They were mostly alcoholics, but too many of them drank to quiet the tormenting voices in their heads. Bipolar, schizophrenic, crazy, whatever the currently popular word was for mental illness. They came in for supper, some would hang around for a while, then they’d go back on the streets. But a few stayed here, and a few had let Paul help them find an apartment. And a few, like LaToya and Juanita, had gotten their lives in order and were on their own.
    Paul tried to reach all of them, get them help, get them off the street, but mostly he just cared for them, made sure they had food and warm clothes. A reasonably clean bed on winter nights. He saw himself as a servant.
    Turning to the small group that sat at a table, talking quietly, Paul saw the kind of thing that kept him going. Made him believe he was doing what God called him to do.
    Murray, Buddy, Louie, five others. These men and a group of women who sat at another table made it all worth it. Rosita was one of them. She waved and gave him a smile.
    Paul said hello to everyone then grabbed a cup of coffee and sat down by the men.
    “How are you, Pastor P?” Buddy was bipolar, near as Paul could tell. He had a beard, weathered face, and gray hair. He had moved into a low-rent apartment just recently, since his meds had started taking effect and he was thinking more clearly. But he still came in for meals and sometimes to help out. He complained about the way the medication made him feel, but he’d been a long way down in the gutter, and at least for now, he seemed to want to stay out of it.
    “I feel like a building fell on me.” These men had all gone through plenty, and they liked hearing Paul had his own struggles. And gossip moved through this community like any other, so they knew what had happened to Juanita, how it connected to the explosion in Carlo’s building, and Paul’s part in it.
    Murray nodded. “Find anything out?”
    All eight men focused on Paul, and he weighed his words. He wasn’t going to talk about the autopsy. That might be enough to send all of them into a tailspin. Telling the truth didn’t mean telling everything he knew.
    “The police want to keep working with me. I’m sorry I was gone the last couple of days. Looks like you got the meals served and everything cleaned up without me. I’m sorry to not be here to help.”
    “We managed.” Murray had a full beard, black salted with gray, that he hadn’t trimmed in a decade. He was wire thin, full of barely controlled energy. He’d found a talent for playing the guitar and helped with church services and had good managerial skills. When Paul was gone, Murray took over, even preaching a sermon now and then. He had just found an apartment away from the mission, though he still came in daily to work.
    “Murray can sing, but his idea of preaching a sermon is to yell at all of us that we’re going to burn if we don’t change our ways.” Louie had just gotten out of prison after a five-year stretch and worked at the mission as part of his community service. The other men laughed softly. Murray was fervent for the Lord, no doubt about it.
    “I’d like a turn preachin’, Pastor,” Louie added. “I’d especially like a turn passing the collection plate.”
    More laughter. There was no collection plate at the Lighthouse Mission. No one had a dime to spare. Louie ran a hand over his thinning dark hair and slouched in his chair. He was able bodied and did his share of the work and a little more, but he showed no interest in finding a job outside the mission. He’d be gone