Prologue

Friday, December, Year -2

He was old, dying. He hoped he had enough time left to finish his mission. Standing on the street outside the Holy Oaks Unity Church in Springfield, he could hear the music and laughter of a Christmas party. The parking lot was more than half full with cars, and everyone looked to be inside enjoying themselves. He didn’t know what car she drove, but hoped if she was in attendance that his actions stayed unconnected. He opened the mail slot on the postal receptacle and deposited two letters. He smiled grimly.

Family taken care of. Sorry about crashing.

He wore a well-made, lined overcoat and matching fedora, of a style not seen in decades, against the biting wind. Watching his steps carefully, a fall on unseen ice would likely break something, he made for the well-lit main door. Even at his age, his eyesight remained sharp; he could see the doorstop keeping it cracked so no one would be locked out. He struggled up the steps on feet suddenly leaden. When his hand fell on the door handle, pain shot down his arm.

No! Not yet! Just a few minutes more!

Pushing himself mercilessly, he heaved the door open and slipped through. His shuffling feet kicked the stop aside, and the door clanged shut behind him. No matter, he was committed now and feared his departure wasn’t fated to be vertical. A young woman, barely into her teens with straw-colored hair and sapphire eyes stuck a head out of a female-marked bathroom doorway. An questioning scowl decorated her beautiful face. She opened a mouth to say something when he tripped and stumbled to his knees.

She rushed out, long-limbed and slender. Even in his final moments he noticed her sexy form and sensual movements. Her dress fell to just above her knees and her boots clattered as she ran to his side.

“Help! Somebody, help us!” She called.

A teen boy, shapeless in collared shirt and slacks ran up behind her.

“What happened? What ... what’s going on?” He stammered.

The girl glanced over her shoulder, shouting, “Go get my dad, or yours. He doesn’t look healthy. Hurry. Please!”

The boy held her gaze for a moment, then he nodded and ran back towards the sounds of revelry.

“Help me. Up.” He gurgled.

She grasped his arm, helped him move to a chair across the entryway. He pushed himself upright, seated. His fingers fumbled, but he dared not remove his gloves. It took long seconds to extract the first coin from his pocket. He pressed it to her palm.

“For your help.” He rasped.

She held it up, gray and brown dust staining her skin as she rubbed to see what kind of coin it was. He’d intentionally used worn, nearly unintelligible, odd-sized ones. Curiosity would do his work for him. He hoped.

“What is this? I don’t recognize it.” She asked.

He shook his head silently, pointed. “Water? Please?”

Even blinking took effort. He willed himself to stay conscious and aware.

“I don’t have a cup. You don’t look good; I don’t want to leave you sir. You came in and the door slammed and I don’t know your name and ... and ... Sir?” She babbled.

His laugh immediately turned to a coughing fit. He tried to wave her away, but she seemed not to notice.

“Chest. Pain. Barely. Breathe.” He forced out between gut wrenching hacks.

He just made out the sounds of many feet running. Heels tapping on tile, it sounded like mostly men approaching. He had less time left than he’d figured. With effort, he jammed both hands into the coat pockets again. His left came free first, and he squinted to be sure the card was between his fingers. It was. His right pulled the inside back out with it as his fist came out clutching the remaining three coins. He looked from face to face, hoping to see the right sort. Curious. Inquisitive.

The group entered his view, two men and two teens. One was the boy from earlier, the other a little older. A priest, he could tell by the clerical collar, followed with another whose resemblance to the first boy was unmistakeable. The teens were in front, and he arrested their flight by tossing the coins at them, underhanded.

They boys dodged, attempting to catch them in the air. They missed, but circled, snatching them from the floor. The final coin came to rest under the priest’s stomping foot. Quizzically, he stooped to pinch it between thumb and forefinger. The other adult ignored the distraction, maintaining his attention on their visitor. They traded nods and he proffered the card in his left hand, subtly.

“Porsche, step back please.” The last man instructed, and the visitor realized this had to be the girl’s father.

A glance told the visitor all the coins were recovered.

The die is cast. May your efforts be better than mine.

“Good. Luck.” He muttered, slumping into unconsciousness.

John Wolfe put a phone to his ear as the boys laid the man out on the floor.

“Porsche, go get a blanket and pillow.” He ordered his daughter.

“Yes daddy! He said his chest hurt and he couldn’t breathe.”

“Heart attack. Thanks! Go.”

She scampered off.

A bored voice. “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

“This is John Wolfe, I’m at the Holy Oaks Church. We have a man in distress. Just went unconscious, complained of chest pain and shortness of breath.”

Chapter 1 »