CHAPTER 8
Jonothan Chance sat parked in his faded blue 1999 Honda Civic outside of St. Dismas, waiting for Father Cassaday to arrive.
Here we go again, he thought.
Chance continued to gather up the extensive clutter of various fast-food wrapper, small empty plastic bottles of vodka, assorted empty other drink cans, and empty foil aspirin packets all littering the front seat and passenger-side floor. He hadn’t had a rider in quite a while, and as such it showed.
Very clearly.
He’d spent a significant amount of time in this: gathering the miscellaneous refuse, tossing it on the floor of the backseat. After a few more minutes of “cleaning,” Cassaday finally tapped on the passenger-side window, motioning for Jonothan to unlock the back doors.
“Jono,” Cassady said. “I need to put this in the back.”
It was long, and relatively thin, the black bag slung over his shoulder; and distinctive looking-enough that it caught Jonothan’s eye: Pool cue? Rifle? After securing Jonothan’s backpack on the floor, Cassaday situated the duffel in the back seat and settled in across from his chauffeur.
“Sorry for the delay,” the priest said. “But I had to say my goodbyes.”
“Goodbyes?” Jonothan asked.
“Of course,” Cassaday’s eyes twinkled, aflame. “There’s no telling how long this might take; this is no small errand we are embarking on. In my experience tasks like this can sometimes take…years.
“Plus, it was about time to move on from St. Dismas anyway.”
Cassaday could tell that Jonothan hadn’t quite grasped the exact nature of the pursuit -- or its enormity -- that lay before him. The two sat in the car for more than a couple of uncomfortable minutes before the priest gently questioned their inactivity.
“Did you have something else you needed to do?”