The interruption was welcome, and Wheeler turned from his computer to his open office door where the hand had tentatively knocked.  His latest sermon had been something of a flop, he feared, and his efforts to punch up next Sunday's service were stymied by his indecision.  His was an older congregation, dwindling in size every year as the elderly passed away with none to replace them.  Wheeler wanted to open his sermons up to the children and grandchildren of his parishioners, make his Sunday services and thrice-weekly classes more modern, more relevant to today's youth.  Unfortunately he was caught in a catch-22, as younger members wouldn't fill the pews until his sermons actually resonated with them, and yet his updated lessons couldn't reach them<span style="font-style: italic">in absentia</span>.<br/><br/>"Kyle, how are you?" he asked as he rose from his office chair to greet the man.  Kyle Millerick was the son of two of Wheeler's aged congregation, a man in his early forties like Wheeler himself.  Although he only came to church on Easter and Christmas Eve, Kyle was active in the community and so their paths crossed often at various functions and events, religious and secular.  The Millerick family - husband, wife and three children - were exactly the transfusion of new blood that Wheeler needed to reinvigorate his ailing congregation, and so he'd practically courted the man over the years.  An entirely one-sided courtship it must be said.<br/><br/>"Fine thanks, Pastor Wheeler," he said as the two shook hands at the doorway, before Wheeler turned back into the office, beckoning Kyle inside.  "Please, come in.  How can I help you?"<br/><br/>"I..." he began, rubbing his hands together absently as he looked anywhere in the office but at Wheeler.  "You heard the news?  The train?"  Wheeler nodded.  A sad, perplexing affair, that.  Wheeler prayed that the victims were unharmed or barring that, at least their passage from this world had been made quickly and without suffering.  Although he knew that man was capable of acts of barbarity and extremism all on his own, and that not every madman was led by the Devil's treacherous whispers, something about the event troubled his mind.<br/><br/>"I did, yes.  I hope no one you know...?" he asked, guessing at the reason Kyle might come to visit him.  The poor man nodded, gulped back a quick breath that threatened to turn into a sob, and Wheeler could see that those eyes that avoided looking directly at him were wet and red-rimmed.<br/><br/>"M-my brother.  Marcus.  He was on the way to work.  Now he's..."<br/><br/>Wheeler didn't know Kyle well enough for a hug but he clutched the man's shoulder as he extended his condolences.  "I'm so sorry, Kyle.  Please, sit down," he led the mourning man to his computer chair before unfolding a small metal seat propped against a bookcase for himself.  Not for the first time Wheeler felt the shame of his meager office that his small congregation afforded him.  The bookcases lined two of the walls, his computer desk the third, and the open door and a small bin took up much of the fourth.  When seated at his desk he only had to swivel his chair and lean forward to grab nearly any book to hand.<br/><br/>Still, despite his small flock to tend he felt the Holy Spirit's presence every day, working around him and he hoped through him - a feeling which he'd never felt with any of his other churches.  Perhaps the paucity and humble lifestyle he was forced to lead were what kept him attuned to the Holy Spirit, free from the distractions that greater wealth and importance would provide.  That was some mighty cold comfort if that were the case.<br/><br/>"I'm sorry.  My parents asked me to come here.  They wanted you to come by their house if you were able.  I know they want some comfort after... this..." Another deep breath that threatened to wrack his shoulders with small juddering sobs before he controlled himself.  Wheeler liked Kyle Millerick, respected him a whole lot, and just wished that the feelings were mutual enough where Kyle was open to Wheeler's comfort himself, not just for his parents.  He tried not to think selfishly, but the dark thought bubbled up unbidden, that perhaps this was just the event to bring the Millericks into his fold for him.  Shocked at the horrible thought, he chastised himself as he stood.  "Of course I can.  I can be there at six."<br/><br/>That left time to administer to the grieving parents and be back home before sundown.  The calculation wasn't even conscious any longer - long years since from a childhood experience had subconsciously ingrained in him not to be out after dark.  If you asked him why Wheeler couldn't tell you himself, and probably didn't even think on it at all, but he was almost never without his house after dark even into adulthood, unless his responsibilities to his parish required it or if he felt the presence of the Holy Spirit within him.<br/><br/>*****<br/><br/>The Millerick household - for Chuck and Beth, the elder Millericks - was situated in a poorer exurb of London, not far from Wheeler's Pentecostal church, Living Word Christian Centre, as though it was more convenience of location than strength of faith that had motivated them in choosing their house of worship.  That was fine by Wheeler, for whatever their original reasoning the elder Millericks now too felt the presence of the Holy Spirit guide and comfort them through Wheeler's sermons.  Too bad that they had little interest in any attempt of his to reach a younger crowd with a fresher message, for he was afraid that in courting the latter he'd spurn the former.<br/><br/>He greeted them with somber words, conveyed his sorrow as they told him what little they'd been able to learn from both the news and the police, both of which had had more questions than answers of course.  Wheeler gave comfort as he was able, stressing that they mustn't give up hope the Marcus and the other passengers would still be found, alive and well.  He also led them in prayers for their son's safe return, but didn't tell them that he felt only a cold emptiness instead of the warm, soothing presence of the Holy Spirit.  He didn't always know when a prayer had been heard or answered, no one could, but Wheeler did know that sometimes he felt attuned to the Holy Spirit and other times, like now, he wondered if his beseechments fell on deaf ears.<br/><br/>Kyle, Christina and their three children soon after came by for dinner, Kyle carrying groceries to make supper for his parents.  Wheeler was offered a seat at the table as a simple spaghetti and salad was prepared, and accepted along with a glass of claret.  He spoke to the three children, the twin lads aged nine and Becca, thirteen.  It was quickly sorted that she was to call him Pastor Dan; he was to call her Rebecca.  He knew from Kyle that she played football after school; he wondered if he might be able to get her and her teammates involved at the Living Word - maybe offer them to stage their practices at the small rec yard behind the building, surely a safer alternative than the public pitches they used.<br/><br/>Dinner was soon placed before them and Wheeler led the table in another prayer for Marcus, he holding Chuck and Beth's hands as his link in the circle that went around the table.  Afterward they began to eat, and Wheeler kept glancing at his watch.  He had a duty to perform here with the Millericks, and he also wanted to see if he could bring the conversation back to Rebecca and her football practices, and yet he felt a growing unease that he couldn't identify or explain as the time drew nearer to 7:00, and as the sun's rays grew longer and dimmer through the curtain blinds as night slowly approached.<br/><br/>Wheeler reached for his glass and a sudden tremble through his fingers caused him to knock it over, spilling the claret across their nice tablecloth to seep into the fabric like fresh blood in deep snow.  "Oh, sorry!" he exclaimed, standing to his feet and uprighting the glass, using his napkin against the spill.  He looked up and gasped in horror at the Millericks seated around him.<br/><br/>Blood ran from their every pore from their faces, their hands and arms, anywhere unprotected by their clothes.  Chuck and Beth, the two grandparents, had slumped against the table, their blood racing along fabric as though seeking to join his spilled claret.  Kyle, Christina and the two boys were all slumped in their chairs, blood pooling to the floor from the rivulets dripping from their slack, unmoving fingers.  Rebecca, head to toe drenched in blackened blood save for her pale blue eyes, moved from her chair and slunk toward Wheeler, who stood transfixed as she placed her hand on his chest.  "You won't find him, Servant.  You won't find peace."  Her voice had the hoarse, crowing laughter of an old crone, not the clear, mild tones with which she spoke at dinner.  The dining room was black - night had fallen completely as with the biblical sackcloth across the sun, and he wondered if the moon had turned concordantly red with blood.<br/><br/>"I'm... what...?" he asked, shuddering at the deep-set cold leeching into his very bones, emanating from her small hand.<br/><br/>"I said are you okay, Pastor Dan?"  Her voice normal once more, Becca looked up at him with worried eyes as she gripped his arm as though to steady him despite his size.  Aside from his claret which had spilled across his place setting the room was as it had been - the Millericks were unharmed and unbloodied, and the sun although fading still cast its rays into the room.  Only the powerful cold of the grave in his chest reminded him of the vision he'd seen.<br/><br/>"Forgive me," he said feebly.  "I, I need to go."  There was maybe a half of an hour left until sundown, and before Wheeler got safely home there was something he suddenly needed to do.