Michael Palmer - A Heartbeat Away

“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’s wariness returned.

“I see that life has dealt you some cruel blows,” he said, gesturing toward Griff’s fresh bruises and scabs. “For now, whatever you have in your pocket will suffice to start you on your journey of healing. Later we will determine how much of an additional sacrifice is required for your cure.”

“I am prepared to make a donation to the mission, Brother Bartholomew, but only if the answers to my questions are satisfactory.”

Now, the cleric was on all-out red alert.

“Exactly what sort of questions are you talking about?” he asked.

“Questions about a scientist named Sylvia Chen.”

Bartholomew paled.

“You a cop?”

“Nope.”

“Private dick?”

“Nope.”

“Then get the hell out of here!”

Brother Bartholomew grasped a vase from the top of a small credenza and swung it at Griff’s head.

Griff erupted.

Ignoring the heavy ache in his chest, he blocked the attack, sending the vase to the flagstone floor, where it shattered. Bartholomew turned to run, but Griff snatched ahold of his hood. He had not fought anyone since high school, but he hadn’t felt such fury in at least that long. He twisted Bartholomew’s arm behind his back and lifted it toward his shoulderblade. Then he used his knee to propel the man with force against the stone wall at the rear of the foyer. He had never had any martial arts training, but every anger-driven move seemed natural.

With Bartholomew’s arm still pinned to his back, Griff applied his forearm to the nape of the man’s neck, pressing his face flush against the wall. Then, leaning in close so he could be heard at a whisper, Griff growled into Bartholomew’s ear.

“Is there anybody else here?”

“Yes … yes, there is,” Bartholomew managed.

The self-proclaimed minister was breathless and shaking. With thoughts of Melvin, Griff lifted the man’s arm even higher up his back. Numbed by adrenaline, the pain in his own damaged ribs was barely noticeable.

Bartholomew’s arm was reaching the snapping point.

“No … more,” he cried. “I’m alone! I’m alone! Please, let go of my arm! It’s going to break!”

Griff relaxed his grip slightly. The letup in pressure was enough for Bartholomew, who countered with surprising quickness and unexpected strength. He twisted his body hard to the right, breaking free of Griff’s hold on his wrist. Then he ducked and turned, separating himself from Griff entirely. Without hesitating, he dashed through a set of French doors into the chapel, and headed toward the back of the mission.

Griff, now short of breath, but hardly short of determination, cursed his stupidity and drove on after the man. There was a fire door on the far side of the chapel, and Bartholomew was now just a few feet away from it. But there was no way Griff was going to let him get there. He left his feet and dove at the back of Bartholomew’s legs, buckling the man’s knees and sending him skidding across the hardwood floor, knocking the chairs about like bowling pins.

Air exploded from the brother’s lungs, but in seconds he was on his feet again, charging toward the fire door. On all fours, Griff caught him by the ankles, pulled him to the floor, and wrestled him to his back. Then, straddling his chest, Griff punched him in the face—once, then again. Blood burst from Bartholomew’s nose, and his body went limp.

Painfully, Griff worked himself to his feet, then grabbed a box of tissues off a windowsill and tossed it down to the man.

“Tell me about Sylvia Chen,” he said, breathing heavily.

“I don’t know who that is.”

“Bartholomew, my best friend was just murdered because of her. Mess with me about this, and I swear I’ll punch your teeth in. I’m that angry.”

Griff cocked his arm again, and his adversary flinched.

“Okay … I knew her.”

Bartholomew remained on his back.

“What did she want with you?”

“She … she promised she could help me cure drug addiction. She told me her system would work. And … and she said she’d pay me to cooperate with her.”

“What exactly did you do?” Griff said, as he hoisted Bartholomew off the floor by the shoulders of his robe. “I said, what did you do?”

“We tested something she was working on,” he said. Tears began to stream down his red, swollen face. “I’m not a bad person. I wanted to help. She was a scientist and she said that she had a treatment she wanted to try out on … on some of my tougher clients. She said that together we could save many addicts from their misery.”

The man was weeping piteously now, but Griff would not make the same mistake by lowering his guard.

“Did you supply her with people?”

Griff was shaking with anger.

“I … I did.”

“Where did she conduct these experiments? Tell me, dammit!”

“Let me go,” Bartholomew said in a shaky voice, “and I’ll do better than tell you.”

“How’s that?”

“I’ll show you,” he said.

Griff kept Bartholomew’s arm pinned tightly against his back and followed closely behind him.

“I’m not going to run again,” Bartholomew pleaded. “Promise. I shouldn’t have run in the first place. You … you surprised me is all. Please, you’re really hurting me.”

“And I’m not taking any more chances.”

Bartholomew fell silent and led Griff through a pair of dimly lit corridors and down a small flight of stairs that ended at a heavy oak door. The surrounding walls were concrete bricks, painted gray and in need of cleaning.

“You’ll need to let go of my arm if you want me to take you downstairs.”

“I’ll let go,” Griff said, “but you need to know that you are in even more of a fix than usual.”