Without a word, Khalil moved toward him, stepping aside as they exchanged places.
Now that he had a clear view of the bench, Brother Michael scanned the items on the wooden surface. Added them up. Gripped the edge of the worktable.
Dear God!
How could he have made such a terrible mistake?
Khalil wasn’t here to support their mission.
He was here to—
A shattering pain exploded in the back of his head.
Brother Michael staggered.
Groped for the edge of the bench.
Missed.
Legs crumpling, he slumped to the stone floor.
And in the scant few moments before the darkness swirling around him snuffed out the light, he sent a silent, desperate plea to the Almighty.
Please, God, let someone—somewhere—discover the truth and put a stop to the evil deception that is defiling this holy place.
Six Weeks Later
Brother Michael was dead.
Kristin Dane gripped the edge of the corrugated, travel-worn shipping carton that had logged more than six thousand miles on its journey from Syria to St. Louis, blinked to clear her vision, and forced herself to reread the letter.
Dear Ms. Dane:
I am pleased to send you the 50 pillar candles you ordered from our humble workshop here in the cradle of Christianity. We are grateful for your willingness to support our humanitarian work by selling the labor of our hands in your shop. As you know, every dollar we receive is used to help victims of the terrible violence here, Christians and Muslims alike. We continue to be amazed at the resilience and strength of the remarkable Syrian people, who have suffered so much.
And now I must pass on some sad news. Brother Michael has, quite suddenly, gone home to God. On February 16, he grew ill and took to his bed. The next morning, we found him on the floor in the workshop. We believe he rose during the night and went to the shop for some reason. It appears he tripped, or perhaps grew dizzy, and fell backward, hitting his head on the corner of a workbench.
I know this will be a shock to you, as it was to all of us. Our American brother spoke often of your kindness to him when you met two years ago while he was visiting your city.
Here at the monastery, we are already missing his selfless work and the deep spirituality and trust with which he lived his life. And we grieve the shortness of his days. Forty-four seems far too young to die.
Please pray for the repose of his soul, as we will continue to do here in the land he adopted—and loved.
With gratitude in Christ,
Abbot Jacques Gagnon
“Kristin?”
From a distance, a voice penetrated her shock.
Refolding the single sheet of paper, she lifted her chin. Susan Collier was standing in the doorway between WorldCraft’s stockroom and the retail section of the shop.
“Are you okay?” The woman took a step toward her.
“No. I’m trying to . . . to absorb some bad news.” She relayed the contents of the letter to her part-time clerk.
“I’m so sorry.” Sympathy deepened the lines at the corners of the other woman’s eyes. “From everything you’ve told me, he was a fine man.”
“The best. A saint among us.” Kristin traced a finger over the hand-lettered label on the box. “Meeting him was an amazing experience. He had an incredible ability to draw people in.”
“Some men are very charismatic.”
At the hint of bitterness in her words, Kristin looked at her. “I meant that in a positive, spiritual sense. Brother Michael exuded holiness. Not all men are like your ex.”
“I know.” Susan’s features relaxed a hair. “I keep reminding myself of that. Brother Michael sounded like one of the good guys.” She motioned toward the box. “Do you want me to put those on the display for you? I know you usually like to do it yourself, but you’re already cutting it close for the wedding.”
Shifting gears, Kristin checked her watch.
Her clerk was right.
In less than three hours, the bride would be walking down the aisle. And since she was one of the two people standing up for the groom, she couldn’t be late.
Letting Colin down wasn’t an option.
“Yes, thanks.” Kristin set the letter from the abbot on the desk wedged into one corner of the stockroom. “If you need me for anything later today or Monday while I’m at the small business seminar, call or text.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I know.” She summoned up a smile. “In the year you’ve been with me, I’ve come to rely on you for much more than clerking duties. You’ve been a huge asset to WorldCraft.”
Cheeks pinkening, the mid-fortyish brunette smoothed a renegade strand of hair back into the sleek chignon at her nape. “Thanks. I appreciate you giving me the job. If it hadn’t been for you and Kate Marshall, I don’t know where I’d be.”
Kate Marshall . . . Kate Marshall. Oh, right. The director of New Start, the agency where Susan had gone for career counseling after she had finally walked away from her abusive marriage.
“You would have been fine. With your background in retail, someone would have snapped you up.”
“I don’t think so. My skills were rusty after being on hold for two decades.”
“Not true. Your volunteer work with the handicraft co-op kept them fresh—and dealing with that kind of merchandise was perfect background for the fair trade goods I sell here.” She retrieved her purse from the desk drawer. “Now I’m off to be best woman.”
“You earned that title in my book the day you hired me.”
“Don’t give me so much credit.” She squeezed the woman’s arm. “I just recognized talent when I saw it. Thanks again for working extra hours on Monday to cover for me.”
“No problem. Have fun at the wedding.”
“I’ll give it my best shot.”
But as she left by the rear door and crossed to her Sentra, even the sunny skies on this second day of April couldn’t chase away the pall hanging over her.
Brother Michael was dead.
Not
