He navigated through city traffic and turned down the tree-lined drive that led to Bishop Psychiatric Facility. Traffic noise and city bustle faded into the distance, and the resulting stillness allowed James to calm his nerves. Anxiety shouldn’t even be a factor. Travis was innocent. The boy had always been innocent, and him growing into a man, didn’t change that. James steeled his conviction. He didn’t have to fear what Travis would say.

He’d never been to the BPF before, and as he rounded the property and tucked into a parking space, he hoped he’d never have to come again. The stone building stood formidable against a blue sky. Barred windows and a center tower made it look more like a formidable castle keep than a hospital. All it lacked was a moat to keep out intruders—or to keep the inmates confined—appropriate James supposed, since many of the patients were the criminally insane. Travis…in this place, with people who would never understand the innocence of his heart and mind.

James killed the car engine and pulled the keys from the ignition. For a moment he just sat, calming the nerves that rattled his mind. Once again, he told himself that he had nothing to fear. Travis was innocent.

But if that were true…Don’t go there, James.

He got out of the truck and shoved the keys into his left pocket. With a deep, fortifying breath filling his lungs, he put one foot in front of the other.

Once inside, an orderly led him down a narrow hallway. Rooms on either side were secured with stereotypical grey steel doors that featured small, square panes of safety glass. A disconcerting feeling settled over him, but he told himself it was psychosomatic. In all his years as a pastor, he’d never seen the inside of a mental institution and, unbidden, horror stories both real and imagined traipsed through his head. He willed away the eerie feelings and told himself he was being ridiculous. No one was strapped to a gurney getting an unwarranted lobotomy—but he didn’t try to see inside the rooms. Avoidance? Or fear?

Strange how one’s mind went in odd directions. He took a mental note to ponder that later. He couldn’t remember being so out of sorts at any time during his pastorate, or before—when he was regularly engaged in conversations with Jesus. Was there a correlation?

James gritted his teeth. If there was a correlation, he was irritated. It was Jesus, after all Who’d quit talking to James, not the other way around.

Almost to the end of the corridor, the orderly unlatched a door and motioned for James to enter the room. He hesitated a moment and took a fleeting glance down to the end of the hall to note that it opened into a spacious area where a few staff and several obvious patients roamed. For a microsecond he wondered if Travis was allowed to be out in the open or if they kept him caged.

He shuddered at the thought and then entered the waiting room. Without speaking a word, the orderly closed the door and disappeared. The door’s closure made a sudden claustrophobia rear up, but James tamped it down. He wouldn’t be left here in this building. He was just a visitor.