“Daniel, you are ready for society," Elder Walters smiled welcomingly. Daniel nodded lethargically and clarified, “So what city am I being sent to? You remember what I said about L.A., right?”
"To New York, Daniel. Of course, I remember. Let us renounce the past and move forward," said Elder Walters. "During your year and a half as a missionary, Daniel, you will be relieved from tithing obligations and will receive a monthly stipend from the congregation. You can paint too, don't worry, but the proceeds during this period must go to the community."
"I prefer not to sell them personally; instead, I'd rather donate them to the community and let them handle the disposal as they see fit," Daniel remarked with indifference. Art had never been a source of profit for him. When he first gained attention from the elite of society at his inaugural exhibition and received acclaim from critics, it wasn't a deliberate outcome of his actions. As a result, the money that came with the success served simply as a resource to meet his daily needs, rather than being a goal.
“Suit yourself, Daniel. You leave tomorrow with the other missionaries in the congregation. And don't forget to learn Japanese; all our young missionaries are multilingual, so you'll have to catch up," Elder Walters blessed him with a baptismal blessing and stood up, grunting, from his chair. “May the Lord be with you, Bell, in all your endeavors. Elder Smith will tell you the rest when you arrive in New York.”
“Thank you, Elder Walters," Daniel helped him up, bowed his head politely, and went to get ready, satisfied that he was finally going to get back to his normal life. He had almost gone crazy during those long months of studying the Bible, the Book of Mormon, Mormon Doctrine and covenants, and the Pearl of Great Price; his eyes were jittery from the constant reading, and even when he fell asleep, his mind was filled with dull lines instead of vivid images.
During his time living in the community, Daniel had gained a healthy weight, and the thin surgical scars on his face and body had completely disappeared. The sole reminder on his face was the scar—a faint, barely perceptible line on his sun-kissed skin. However, this vestige would gradually vanish without a trace over the next couple of years. The skin's continuous regeneration process would replace the damaged cells with fresh epidermal layers, ensuring the scar's eventual disappearance. The recollection of the ordeal manifested as a slightly crooked pinky, now regaining sensitivity through wholesome physical labor. Daniel also contended with occasional nightmares, causing him to wake up in terror, haunted by the menacing, rage-filled black eyes of Vincent. The most challenging aspect was the detoxification and withdrawal from antidepressants and tranquilizers; the initial month brought dizziness and shakiness, but Daniel gradually overcame these symptoms as well.
The money he had saved was enough to pay his annual tithe, live as a missionary candidate for six months, and prove his determination to join the LDS Church at the interviews. Strangely enough, when they recruited new members, they did not feel this way, but they were wary of volunteers who wanted to join, assuming a dark past. Daniel's sincerity helped him - he told everything in confidence at the last interview, panting from stress and nervous tension, at which time he was hugged for the first time, patted on his stiff shoulders, and blessed to join and be baptized.
On the way to New York, Daniel slept through the flight, and then, holding back a yawn, rode the bus with Dylan Reilly, his companion and neighbor for the next year and a half. Dylan had never been to such big cities before, so he looked out the window at the skyscrapers and apartment complexes flying by, especially marveling at the huge billboards. Daniel smiled amiably, secretly envying his cheerfulness, hoping that in time he would regain the ability to rejoice. Currently, however, his soul was overshadowed by anhedonia, a gray and dreary state, hindering his full capacity for creativity.
Elder Smith was a bore, giving them a long and ornate lecture, warning them of the dangers that lurked around every corner, of fiery Gehenna if they stumbled. Daniel listened with a polite expression on his face and muttered with a hungry stomach that demanded immediate reinforcement. Finally, his stomach's rumble reached the hard-headed Smith, who stopped short, smiled warmly, and handed them brochures, keys to the apartment where they would live, bank cards for their modest allowance, and simple smartphones with SIM cards.
“Get some rest, young people. I'll send you a list of the addresses you'll have to go to tomorrow via messenger," he replied amiably to Daniel's slight smile: "We're not going to make you work too hard.”
After a hearty lunch at the neighborhood cafe, Daniel and Dylan took his things to the apartment, bought everything he needed for home and for painting, and went home, tired after the flight. Took a shower, unpacked and fell into bed, falling asleep instantly into a sound and healthy sleep without nightmares in a new life.
Life as a Mormon missionary was predictably monotonous- going from of apartment building to apartment building offering smiles and promises of better conditions in this life and beyond, which included community support and the opportunity to meet Jesus Christ after death; patiently listening to jokes, curses, and abuse; a quick lunch at a diner; and apartment buildings again. Only in the evening life blossomed with other colors, though the fading sunlight changed the perception of the color palette, but Daniel did not complain and painted with pleasure, pouring out on the canvas the pain, getting rid of it forever. And on Saturdays he'd get up bright and early to catch the blessed sunlight, so necessary for an artist, and paint feverishly, savoring every stroke, every painted detail, allowing his soul to find respite. Dylan aimlessly roamed the apartment, grappling with boredom and uncertainty about how to occupy his time. At times, he would approach it from behind, observing the chaotic and vibrant abstract display, always featuring menacing black eyes at its core, before eventually retreating to his room for some reading. Come Sunday, Daniel would gaze out the window at the delightful morning with a sense of longing, regretting the missed chance to paint in the natural light. He would then don his church garment for the church service and join the cheerful Dylan on their way to the Mormon church.
When they started running out of space the canvases, Daniel brought all the paintings to Elder Smith. Though he frowned upon them, Elder Smith, upon discovering no sinful elements, agreed to include them for sale at the upcoming fair.
“Should have signed with your full name, Daniel, more money would have been raised for the congregation," Elder Smith said, but Daniel, turning deathly pale, shook his head decisively.
“No, my name in the art world died with the old me. So let the paintings go under a new signature, simply Daniel, Elder Smith. Or I'd rather have the paintings destroyed.”
“It's a sin for you to say that," Elder Smith chided. “All right, let them go under a new signature.”
And Daniel gradually fell into the rhythm of Mormon missionary work, which for a year and a half defined his whole existence: apartment buildings, cursing, diner, painting, Trader Joe's, cooking, cleaning, vacation. His paintings at fairs sold poorly, housewives were frightened by the screaming colors, the suffering on them, preferring pastoral landscapes and still life, allowing not to think about the blackness of life. But one day a painting connoisseur came to the fair and marveled at the paintings, buying them all up and paying generously - that day Elder Smith cheerfully called Daniel and informed him that he was being allotted a Friday to paint, to do more good deeds for the community. Daniel felt, for the first time in a long time, a thrill of joy, pure, bright, untainted by bitterness - another day, a whole day to create! That’s a lot!
It was at one of those fairs that Adrian approached him, an uninvited guest from the past. He grabbed Daniel's elbow firmly and shook his head:
“Quiet, Daniel, quiet. Don't draw attention to yourself, let's go get some coffee.”
"I don’t drink coffee," Daniel emphasized with another jerk of his elbow, conceding to follow him.
“Why not? Still in treatment?” Adrian appeared unpleasantly knowledgeable, and Daniel shook his head evasively, not wanting to admit he was in the Mormon community and not knowing how much he knew.
“Well, Myers didn't report to me fully enough, I didn't expect you to run away from me and my men just when we came to get you out, Daniel. I thought you were on pills, what's gotten into you? What, you'd rather live with the Mormons than be protected by the FBI? Or are you so afraid of your ex-boyfriend?” Adrian sat him down at the table and waved at the waiter, and Daniel exhaled irritably, taking off his mask. Apparently, Adrian had found out he'd joined the Mormon church.
“Hi, I'll have a coffee and your house sandwich, and my companion...” Adrian raised an eyebrow and Daniel replied, taking a quick look at the menu:
“I'll have an orange juice and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, thanks. What do you want, Adrian?”
“Same as before, Daniel -- the same documents you refused to take out of Laurent's safe. No one else can get into his Fort Knox, so you must go back to him.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Daniel laughed hysterically loud. “I ran away for this, memorized the Bible and the Book of Mormon for months, didn't live a good life, just to roll it back? No way, Adrian! Let the FBI handle this without me! What the hell did you do there? I thought assault and shooting in a public place where civilians might get hurt wasn't your thing. You practically acted like 1930’s gangsters.”
“When the stakes are high, dead pawns don't count, Daniel," Adrian grew serious and leaned forward. - You must go back to Laurent. One way or another, he's looking for you everywhere, don't think he's forgotten about you. You've started painting again in your unique style, your paintings have gone all over America, it's only a matter of time before Laurent finds them.”
“I hadn't thought of that," Daniel choked on the orange juice, then coughed, blushing, and exhaled, “No, Adrian, no, I'm not going back to him, I'm going to get lucky, I'm going to sell my paintings abroad, will do anything, like ask to be sent on a mission to another country, but I'm not going back.”
Adrian's expression grew somber, his eyes narrowing with anger. He breathed more rapidly, attempting to manage his irritation. In that moment, Daniel was unexpectedly seized by a wave of terror, causing cold sweat to trickle down his armpits. Adrian no longer emanated the warmth and trust from before; instead, an overwhelming fear enveloped Daniel, making him shiver as he instinctively wrapped his arms around himself for protection.
"Come on, what's going on?" Adrian's expression lightened as he composed himself. "Relax, Daniel, not everyone is as unpredictable as your ex-boyfriend. I was upset, sure, but I didn't intend to frighten you. Grab some juice, take a deep breath, come on!"
Daniel obediently breathed deeply, trying to calm down, drank the freshly squeezed juice, which now had a bile-like bitterness to it, spreading in his parched mouth. When he came to his senses, he put the small bills on the table and stood up.
“No means no, Adrian. Didn't they teach you that when you were a kid? Do it without me, I said!” Quickly exiting the café, he recoiled in shock at Adrian's furious stare. Adrian crumpled the once-innocent sandwich in his hand, and its pieces fell untidily onto the table.
Daniel sprinted toward the subway entrance, stunned by the realization that the post-traumatic shock had so altered his perception of danger that he now saw any alpha as an aggressor if he lost his temper. He inhaled deeply and deliberately, attempting to navigate through the impending panic attack that threatened to overwhelm him with its rapid pulse and overwhelming fear. In this position, he remained for an extended period, weakened by the emotions he had experienced, deep in contemplative thought. It was clear that Adrian was right- sooner or later Vincent would find him and... this time kill him for running away. A pawn, an ordinary pawn in the FBI's gambit. As Adrian said- when the stakes are high, dead pawns don't count. What makes him think Vincent would take him back instead of killing him on the spot? Is the FBI now recruiting idiots?
Daniel dialed Elder Smith and said in a calm voice, “We need to talk, my old life has caught up with me. I can't stay in America any longer. Will you see me tomorrow? All right, thank you.”
