3 - Buffalo Mountain: Ike Schwartz Mystery 3 Read Online Free PDF

you said it was north.”
    “It is. The gospel side is north.”
    For Colonel Bob, that was all he would say. He mentioned to Blake the problems he saw with these young people who were turning up in droves and who did not know anything about church. He hoped he would straighten them out—pronto. He envisioned an ecclesiastical boot camp for these young folks.
    “Do them good,” he barked and turned on his heel and left.
    Boot camp? Blake liked Colonel Bob. He was a relic of two wars and another age. Actually, it might have been three wars. Blake had the impression that the Colonel had served as a raw Second Lieutenant in the Second World War, at its very end, and then Korea, Viet Nam, and skirmishes in Granada and Lebanon.
    He didn’t talk very much about his time in the army. Blake found that those who survived combat rarely did. The support troops, the stateside wonders, and those who commanded LMDs—large mahogany desks—talked endlessly about their army days. But old soldiers knew better than to pretend that war was anything more than pain, fear, blood, and death.
    Colonel Bob met with his old Armored unit every two years and kept in contact with a dozen or so throughout the year as well. But he confessed to Blake he did not know how much longer he could go on. The number of his old comrades in arms dwindled yearly as age and illness took them one by one. Except for failing eyesight, Colonel Bob soldiered on, back ramrod straight, head erect, as if he were on the parade ground and his hero, General George S. Patton, was reviewing the troops. He even knew what the S stood for. “Smith,” he would bark. “Any fool knows that.” There were other military types in the congregation, of course, but Colonel Bob stood out as one of a kind.
    Blake crossed his arms and shivered. Cold air rolled in the door and caused the furnace to kick on. The grass on the lawn seemed to crackle from the hard frost still on the blades. He could smell snow and wondered if it would be a big one.
    He watched Colonel Bob maneuver his battered Buick around the parking lot. He narrowly missed a minivan, clipped a yew bush, and rolled uncertainly out onto Main Street. Blake flinched as he weaved across the yellow line, corrected course, and disappeared, moving at a brisk fifteen miles an hour.
    ***
    By ten twenty-seven, Blake was back at the narthex door greeting the few last minute arrivals. Rose Garroway, her sister Minnie, and a young man with eyes set wide and a thatch of unruly blond hair puffed up the gentle wheelchair ramp to the church.
    “This is my nephew T.J.,” Rose announced. The young man smiled uncertainly and stuck out his hand.
    “T.J., nice to meet you. What does T.J. stand for?”
    “Thomas Harkins,” the young man replied, brow furrowed in concentration.
    Rose, seeing Blake’s confusion, added, “Tommy is named after his father. He’s a junior—Thomas Junior—T.J.”
    The young man nodded his head vigorously. “T.J.” he repeated, as he stared hard at Blake and shoved his hands deep in his pockets.
    “Good to have you here, T.J.”
    “Yes,” T.J. said, and bent forward to peer around the doorframe and into the church. Blake caught Rose’s eye. She smiled sadly and glanced at the back of her nephew’s head. T.J. was one of God’s gentle gifts—a young man of limited intelligence, and a reminder that shortcomings can be overcome, that what we wish for is not always God’s plan for us, and in his eyes, a cheerful spirit is valued more highly than worldly accomplishments.
    “He will be staying with us for a while,” Rose said. “He’s going to run errands and drive the car—he’s a very good driver—and just help out two old women.”
    “I can drive real good,” T.J. added, eyes bright, still nodding.
    Blake watched the trio move down the aisle and slip into a pew. He turned in time to see Samantha Ryder sprint up the steps.
    “Good Morning, Sam. Karl not with you this weekend?”
    “No, not today,