BooksBarbecue
Back The Desert of Glass Save as PDF
Chapters (84)
  1. BY MICHAEL C. GRUMLEY
  2. Prologue
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. 43
  46. 44
  47. 45
  48. 46
  49. 47
  50. 48
  51. 49
  52. 50
  53. 51
  54. 52
  55. 53
  56. 54
  57. 55
  58. 56
  59. 57
  60. 58
  61. 59
  62. 60
  63. 61
  64. 62
  65. 63
  66. 64
  67. 65
  68. 66
  69. 67
  70. 68
  71. 69
  72. 70
  73. 71
  74. 72
  75. 73
  76. 74
  77. 75
  78. 76
  79. 77
  80. 78
  81. EPILOGUE
  82. II
  83. III
  84. IV

Across the table, Angela could read the expression in his eyes, momentarily sparkling blue beneath the sun’s dying rays.

“Are you okay?”

Rickards nodded.

“Thinking about your family?”

He looked at her, this time without nodding.

“They’re here with you, Joe.  You know that.”

He turned back to the water, pondering, unable to keep from thinking of all the days they would miss—that everyone would miss once their time was up.  Thousands, millions of beautiful days like this.  Somewhere in the world.

Unexpectedly, he thought of his parents, both passed on.  His mother loved the rain.  And the snow.  How many days had she missed?  How many beautiful snowfalls?

Sometimes he was just unable to accept the full magnitude of the loss and the painful reality that the world simply moved on without them.  And it always would.

Which returned him to a question he still asked himself every day.

Why in the hell was he still here?

12

12

It was magical.

The rolling waves upon the rock-strewn shore with bubbling sounds as though from a gentle brook.  Beautiful, but louder.

Still on Denver time, Angela was up before 6:00 a.m. and decided to take a walk in the cool, early dawn air.  It had been years since she’d been to Hawaii and she’d forgotten one of her favorite things about it—the air.  The Hawaiian air, with its sweet and unmistakably dewy scent.  There was simply nothing else like it.

Few cars and even fewer people were out this early, allowing her a comfortable walk in the street without a sidewalk, where she noticed a brief clearing of reddish dirt and foliage between houses and a small concrete bench.

She sat down and quietly peered out over the water, calm and shimmering under the rising sun behind her.  In the distance, dozens of small boats rocked on their moors, their masts swaying back and forth like wobbling tops that refused to fall.

Angela inhaled deeply, allowing the dew-filled air to flow through her nose and into her lungs and then back out again.  Unlike Rickards, she was feeling more at peace every day, content with what had happened and stronger from having experienced it.

In truth, she and Joe were searching for the same thing, just from different directions.

Meaning.

She knew about his conversation with the priest in South America and about his explanation to Joe, that purpose and meaning relied on one common denominator.

Responsibility.

And it was true.

Responsibility led to purpose, and purpose led to meaning.  It was as easy as that—almost silly in its simplicity, though harder in execution.

But she was trying.  Trying to dedicate herself to something meaningful.  Something important.  Maybe bigger.

What they’d found in Bolivia was astonishing enough, but the magnitude of it all was almost mind-boggling.  Impossible.  And yet, from what Mike Morton had sent them, maybe not impossible at all.

A second location with perhaps the same incredible properties.