very long.”
They stood for a moment, neither saying anything. Devin looked both directions, scanning for anyone who might be watching them.
“We shouldn’t be talking in the open,” Devin said. “We could be seen.”
Blake nodded. “We’ll talk in San Antonio,” he said with a casual nod.
Devin watched Blake turn around. “Just one thing.”
Blake stopped, looking back. “Yeah?”
“What have you heard about that murdered imam in Ohio?”
“The Muslim guy?” Blake shrugged. “Not much, why?”
“Some people think all Muslims are terrorists. I just wondered what your thoughts were.”
Blake didn’t respond for a moment, studying Devin’s face. “I guess they can’t all be terrorists. But if this one was, then somebody did the world a service.” Blake looked at his watch. “Any other questions?”
Devin shook his head. “That’s all.”
Blake dipped his head and walked away. Devin watched until Blake was gone, then did the same, pretending their conversation had never taken place.
Henry pushed Hannah in a wheelchair out of the front door of the hospital. She had a clean bill of health, a few bumps and bruises, some dehydration, but mostly she was unscathed.
Hannah stared forward, unspeaking, unmoving. They’d said that she would need counseling. Henry believed them. They’d explained that victims of kidnap and abduction frequently had serious changes in personality and demeanor, but she’d always been so quiet it was hard to tell.
Henry squeezed the handles tightly as his blood pressure began to increase. They had abducted his granddaughter—that was heinous. But the thought that they had robbed who she was—that was despicable.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, probing for some sign of her old self.
No reply.
“The doctors said that you were going to be just fine.”
She remained silent.
The glass doors parted in front of them and he stopped, helping her out of the wheelchair.
“Who was he?” she asked.
“Do you mean Mr. Bathurst?”
“Yes. He said he knew you. How?”
Henry offered his granddaughter his arm as they moved down the steps. Blake waited in the car, engine running. “He and I belong to different branches of the same organization.”
“What kind of organization?”
He thought for a moment, trying to skirt any details regarding the Firstborn. “It’s a religious organization. We deal with needs that God brings to us.”
“What kinds of needs?”
“Whatever needs to be done,” he said, “past, present, or future.” She was quiet for a minute. “Are those the people who come to the house for meetings sometimes?”
His heart skipped and his hands felt numb. “You knew about that?”
“I’ve always known,” she said softly. “I just assumed it was business.”
“Well,” he said, trying to be diplomatic, “it might be for the best if you didn’t mention Mr. Bathurst to any of those people.”
“Why?” she asked without a moment’s hesitation. They stopped at the car and held for a moment.
“Sometimes people in this world are different, and when people are different, other people don’t like them very much.”
“Is this because he’s an African American?”
“No,” he said with a smile, “nothing that simple. It’s just a matter of seeing different things.”
He opened the car door for her. “Now let’s take you home.”
Chapter 3
H OLY M AN M URDERED O UTSIDE of Ohio Mosque—Imam Basam Al Nassar Shot to Death in Car.
Clay Goldstein threw the newspaper down with a heavy smack. He stood, seething.
The roomful of people stared back at him. He knew full well that he was being dramatic—a career in the film industry gave him that edge—but this moment deserved it.
“The Prima did this,” he said with a snarl, voice echoing through the office of his sunny Napa Valley mansion. It was way too early for this garbage. He’d only been out of his bathrobe for twenty minutes and had barely had a chance to pull on one of
They stood for a moment, neither saying anything. Devin looked both directions, scanning for anyone who might be watching them.
“We shouldn’t be talking in the open,” Devin said. “We could be seen.”
Blake nodded. “We’ll talk in San Antonio,” he said with a casual nod.
Devin watched Blake turn around. “Just one thing.”
Blake stopped, looking back. “Yeah?”
“What have you heard about that murdered imam in Ohio?”
“The Muslim guy?” Blake shrugged. “Not much, why?”
“Some people think all Muslims are terrorists. I just wondered what your thoughts were.”
Blake didn’t respond for a moment, studying Devin’s face. “I guess they can’t all be terrorists. But if this one was, then somebody did the world a service.” Blake looked at his watch. “Any other questions?”
Devin shook his head. “That’s all.”
Blake dipped his head and walked away. Devin watched until Blake was gone, then did the same, pretending their conversation had never taken place.
Henry pushed Hannah in a wheelchair out of the front door of the hospital. She had a clean bill of health, a few bumps and bruises, some dehydration, but mostly she was unscathed.
Hannah stared forward, unspeaking, unmoving. They’d said that she would need counseling. Henry believed them. They’d explained that victims of kidnap and abduction frequently had serious changes in personality and demeanor, but she’d always been so quiet it was hard to tell.
Henry squeezed the handles tightly as his blood pressure began to increase. They had abducted his granddaughter—that was heinous. But the thought that they had robbed who she was—that was despicable.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, probing for some sign of her old self.
No reply.
“The doctors said that you were going to be just fine.”
She remained silent.
The glass doors parted in front of them and he stopped, helping her out of the wheelchair.
“Who was he?” she asked.
“Do you mean Mr. Bathurst?”
“Yes. He said he knew you. How?”
Henry offered his granddaughter his arm as they moved down the steps. Blake waited in the car, engine running. “He and I belong to different branches of the same organization.”
“What kind of organization?”
He thought for a moment, trying to skirt any details regarding the Firstborn. “It’s a religious organization. We deal with needs that God brings to us.”
“What kinds of needs?”
“Whatever needs to be done,” he said, “past, present, or future.” She was quiet for a minute. “Are those the people who come to the house for meetings sometimes?”
His heart skipped and his hands felt numb. “You knew about that?”
“I’ve always known,” she said softly. “I just assumed it was business.”
“Well,” he said, trying to be diplomatic, “it might be for the best if you didn’t mention Mr. Bathurst to any of those people.”
“Why?” she asked without a moment’s hesitation. They stopped at the car and held for a moment.
“Sometimes people in this world are different, and when people are different, other people don’t like them very much.”
“Is this because he’s an African American?”
“No,” he said with a smile, “nothing that simple. It’s just a matter of seeing different things.”
He opened the car door for her. “Now let’s take you home.”
Chapter 3
H OLY M AN M URDERED O UTSIDE of Ohio Mosque—Imam Basam Al Nassar Shot to Death in Car.
Clay Goldstein threw the newspaper down with a heavy smack. He stood, seething.
The roomful of people stared back at him. He knew full well that he was being dramatic—a career in the film industry gave him that edge—but this moment deserved it.
“The Prima did this,” he said with a snarl, voice echoing through the office of his sunny Napa Valley mansion. It was way too early for this garbage. He’d only been out of his bathrobe for twenty minutes and had barely had a chance to pull on one of
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