“That is true Jack” she began, her voice tinged with contempt, “he deliberately concealed his sentiments from you, fearing your inclination to involve the authorities," Her words struck a nerve within him, evoking a sense of deepening mistrust for her and Father Murray.
“If this was truly a friend of Father Murray then why would he want to keep something like this quiet?” He asked.
Her response carried with it a heavy explanation, "Because within the confines of the Church, matters of this nature are not disclosed to the public until every facet has been meticulously scrutinized, and measures are put in place to mitigate any potential fallout," she said, "It may seem perplexing, even disconcerting, but this has been the modus operandi for centuries—a well-oiled machine aimed at preserving the institution's integrity, even in the face of adversity."
As her explanation sank in, he found himself grappling with conflicting emotions—distrust, disillusionment, and a growing sense of outrage at the systemic corruption that prioritized the institutional preservation of religion over the pursuit of truth and justice.
“Listen, Clara, I don't know what is going on, but I am starting to distrust this whole situation, I have been manipulated from the start, and I don't like it.” His hands clenched into fists, knuckles turning white, “I am not going after a possible murder suspect!”
“You won't have anything to do with that, your only job is to oversee the handling and shipment of the boxes back to Father Murray that is all. From there you will be finished, nothing more, nothing less.”
“I feel like you people are setting me up, and that the truth is still being hidden.”
“You are being paranoid now Jack,” she retorted, “there is no setup, only babysitting the boxes. Now stop acting like such a pussy and relax we will be landing within the hour.” Clara said smugly.
His intuition was screaming to run the first chance he got, but curiosity would not allow it just yet. Jack needed to know what was going on, and he was damn sure going to find out the whole story. The wheels hit the tarmac with almost no feeling, this was the best damn landing he had ever experienced.
The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
As the plane taxied towards its final destination, the small hanger loomed before us, a nondescript structure nestled on the outskirts of the airport. As the plane came to a stop, we disembarked from the plane, stepping out into the cool evening air. Waiting for us was a sleek black Hummer, its polished exterior gleaming in the fading light. A driver stood at the ready, his expression inscrutable beneath the brim of his cap.
Clara's instructions cut through the silence like a knife, her voice echoing with authority as she directed the driver toward our next destination. The Saint Bethanie Church, thirty miles north of Salem.
Jack stole glances out of the window, the passing scenery a blur of darkened trees and abandoned fields, drowning out the sound of Clara's voice as she attempted to engage him in conversation.
He couldn't bring himself to respond, couldn't force the words past the lump in his throat. Instead, he retreated into the recesses of his mind. As they approached the church, the scene that greeted them was one of chaos and confusion. Police cars lined the street, their flashing lights painting the night sky in a kaleidoscope of colors.
"What is going on?" She muttered under her breath, her voice barely more than a whisper. Her eyes darted nervously from side to side, searching for answers in the swirling chaos that surrounded us. "I wonder why they were at the church?"
As the Hummer rolled into the parking lot, the scene before us unfolded like a movie of intrigue. Father Joncy stood amidst a cluster of police officers, his figure silhouetted against the flickering lights of their patrol cars. We watched in silence as Father Joncy concluded his conversation with the last officer on site, his expression was grave and somber. There was a weariness etched into the lines of his face, a burden of responsibility that seemed to weigh heavily upon his shoulders.
With a nod of gratitude, the officer bid Father Joncy farewell, retreating to the safety of his cruiser. For a moment, he lingered behind the wheel, his gaze fixed upon us with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. Then, with a resigned sigh, he turned the key in the ignition and disappeared into the night.
As Father Joncy turned towards us, his eyes weary but welcoming, Clara stepped forward with a sense of purpose. "Father Joncy?" she called out, her voice echoing through the quiet stillness of the parking lot. "I am Clara Harris, and this is Jack Porter. Father Murray sent us to help with the boxes."
"Ah, Clara and Jack," he greeted us warmly, his voice warm with gratitude. "Father Murray spoke highly of you both. Welcome to Saint Bethanie Church. We are grateful for your assistance."
As they followed Father Joncy toward the entrance of the church, a sense of anticipation swirled within Jack. As they stepped through the threshold of the church's entrance, a wave of cool air washed over them, carrying with it the faint scent of incense and old wood. The interior of the church was bathed in a soft, golden light, casting long shadows across the old walls.
