A Heartbeat Away - Michael Palmer [126]
Now it was time to learn exactly what she had done here in Wichita, whom she had done it to, and perhaps most important, what, if anything, she had learned.
Seething, Griff followed directions to the Certain Path Mission that Melvin had printed out and left on the front seat of the Taurus. Streetlamps shimmered like disco balls in the night, reflecting off the still water of the Arkansas River. The height of most of the office towers in the sleepy downtown would have been lost in other metropolises, but Griff’s impression of the city, as announced on several signs, was that this was a nice place to live. A nice place to live unless you happened to stumble into the Certain Path Mission looking for help.
He drove past a tall highway billboard offering prayers for the government, and all the victims of the Capitol tragedy.
The Certain Path Mission was a square, two-story stone building, tucked away in a quiet neighborhood on the outskirts of Wichita. A sign on the front lawn, lit by two spots and fenced by a circle of neatly trimmed shrubs bore the ministry’s name. Beside the sign stood a small, stone statue of a Native American woman whose bronze eyes gazed reverently skyward.
It was just after midnight.
Griff worked his way around the building perimeter and tried to peer through the evenly spaced windows. It was hard to imagine the self-proclaimed cleric living anywhere other than in the mission. There were no interior lights on that he could see, so after a moderately calming breath, he shrugged and rang the front doorbell. Above him and to his right, a security camera looked down impassively. He had no qualms whatever about waking the brother. From all he could tell, this was a bad man who had done some very bad things.
After a minute, he rang a second time. The heavy oak door creaked open. Xavier Bartholomew, rubbing sleepily at his eyes, peered out from the blackness. Griff had no doubt that the gesture belied the fact that the man had checked his security screen before opening the door.
“You look worn and weary, my brother,” Bartholomew said, his voice a rich bass. “Have you come to purge yourself of the poison festering in your soul?”
“I have,” Griff said. “Are you Brother Bartholomew?”
“I am he—the beacon to the Certain Path.”
His temper on a knife’s edge, and his patience nearly gone, Griff forced open the door with his knee, and moved quickly past the man, who made an unsuccessful attempt to block his entrance. Brother Bartholomew staggered back a step, his sleepy expression now one of alarm. He was in his early fifties, and had on a heavy, hooded wool cassock cinched at the waist with a tasseled cord, and well-worn Birkenstock sandals. His oily hair was streaked with gray and pulled back into a tight ponytail, which was tucked inside his robe. His eyes were dark and narrow, and he reeked of stale cigarette smoke and cheap cologne. The tawdry furnishings in the foyer and the adjacent living room reflected the man perfectly. Through the dining room Griff could see the chapel—rows of mixed folding and kitchen chairs beneath a chandelier that had probably come from a yard sale.
“You are blessed, my friend, for you have found the Certain Path,” Bartholomew said, quickly regaining his composure. “I will be happy to counsel you, but to begin your journey, a sacrifice is required.”
He pointed to a large wooden bucket, dangling from a frayed rope that was knotted around a ceiling support beam. A whitewashed placard, lettered not that meticulously with a Sharpie, was nailed to the side of the bucket.
Cast your bread upon the water, and your return shall be manyfold.
It’s always about the bread, Griff thought.
“I have come a long way to see you,” he said, solidifying his position with several steps toward the living room. “I have questions that need answering.”
Bartholomew