Tessa (From Fear to Faith) Read Online Free PDF Page A

25-mile-per-hour zone and not wearing a seat belt. I’m going to run a check on your license before I write you a ticket.” The officer walked back to his car.
    I sank back in the seat and closed my eyes. Please, don’t find anything wrong, I pleaded silently. The thought of another ride in the back of a police car, followed by another long wait in the booking room under the stern gaze of an officer, was more than I could bear.
    Walter smoked part of a cigarette; then muttering that this was taking too long, he opened the door and got out of the truck. A second officer quickly intercepted him.
    “Get right back in that truck,” she said. It was too dark to see her clearly, but I recognized her voice. It was Pat.
    “Oh yeah? I don’t have to listen to you,” Walter scoffed, and let loose a string of obscenities.
    I drew a sharp breath. What was he doing – tryingto get arrested?
    Walter must have had the same thought, for he stopped in the middle of his rant and got into the truck. He slammed the door and sat revving the engine, muttering unrepeatable things until the other officer returned with his license and ticket.

5
    T he dilapidated two-story farmhouse where Walter had set up shop loomed up against the night sky like a huge dead thing. Overgrown lilacs, taller than a man could reach, choked the boarded-up front windows and the little decaying porch that led to the door. Giant trees stretched their heavy arms above the steeply pitched roof, groaning slightly with the wind. The empty blackness of broken windows stared back at me from the second story.
    I had to force myself to step out of the truck. I was shaking all over. Entering an abandoned property alone, after dark, was enough to frighten anyone. Never mind that what I would be doing was blatantly illegal, or that I could get murdered if one of Walter’s deranged friends showed up.
    Behind me, the pickup idled as Walter waited for me to slam the door and start toward the house. “What’re you waiting for?” he hissed. “You got your keys, don’t you?”
    I did have my keys; but I dug a hand into my pocket anyway, stalling for time. “I don’t know,” I said. “Can’t you just get me started?”
    With a sigh of disgust, Walter slid from the truck. “What’s the matter with you? Scared of the ghosts?” He strode past me onto the porch and undid the heavy padlock.
    I followed reluctantly. Even with the fresh breeze blowing, I could smell ammonia. I made a wide circuit around the rusted-out Volkswagen that sat near the corner of the house. Bees nested in the old car during the summer, something I had learned the hard way. One by one, I climbed the creaky steps, careful to keep to the edges where the wood was not as badly rotted. Walter waited at the top with growing impatience.
    “Hurry up,” he said, and gave me a push through the door. “You know what’s gotta be done. Now get at it!”
    I held my breath as I entered the dark room, but it didn’t help much. The fumes were so strong they stung my eyes. I groped through the darkness until I located the switch on the battery-operated work light on the table. I knew what to do, all right. At least I hoped I did.
    The room I was standing in had once been a kitchen. Decayed pink linoleum, heavily tracked with sawdust and mud, covered the floor. Warped wooden cupboards and a narrow counter topped with the same ancient pink linoleum lined the mustard-colored walls. The counter was cluttered with junk – mason jars full of yellowish liquid, empty medicine boxes, dirty rags, old rubber gloves, pie tins, pop bottles, rubber tubing of all sizes and lengths, and some glass measuring cups Mom was probably looking for.
    A substance that resembled dried cake batter had dribbled down the front of one cupboard and pooled in a crusty mass on the floor. An ancient refrigerator stood near the boarded-up windows, its rusted door held closed with a brick and a bungee. Piled against the refrigerator and extending