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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

Hamed was gone.  Two nurses were in the room within seconds and together made a final, desperate effort to resuscitate him, until finally giving up and checking his pulse one last time.  One of the two women turned and glanced between the imam and Mona, standing back against the wall, while the other gently reached down and closed Hamed’s eyes.

A stunned Mona watched in eerie silence as though she were disconnected from the scene in front of her, while the imam dutifully stepped forward and began reciting a prayer from his open Quran.

***

Immediately following the prayers, and without a word, Mona was led out of the room and down the small hospital’s hallway until the imam found an unoccupied room.

He pulled her inside and closed the door behind them.  “His Tawbah is complete.”

Mona was still reeling.  “What?”

“He travels beyond now… unburdened.”

“But he didn’t finish.”

The imam seemed not to hear her.  “His burden has been passed to you.”

“I don’t–”

The leader finally stared at her and replied, “You will carry this forward.”

“Carry what forward?  He didn’t finish.  He didn’t tell me anything.”

The imam reached into his tunic and pulled something out—a large leather binder, aged and tattered.

“What is that?”

“It is for you,” the imam said, placing it in her hands.  “His instructions.”

“Wait, wait,” Mona said, stepping back and blinking several times.  “What is happening?  What is this?”

“Here,” he said of the binder, “are your answers.”

“I can’t.  I was just–”

“You must take it forward now.”

“Take what forward?”

The imam reached out and simply placed his hand on the binder.  “This.”

6

6

Joe Rickards sat solemnly and silently in his car, his hands resting on each side of the steering wheel as he waited behind a long line of cars at the intersection of East Colfax and Colorado Boulevard.  It was a testament to Denver’s rapidly growing population, now making daytime traffic through the city almost unbearable.

At the moment, it went largely unnoticed by Rickards.

Instead, he remained motionless, lost in thought over what Angela had said to him, coupled with the memory of a recent conversation he’d had with a priest in Bolivia.

It had been a discussion about suffering and loss and the often-inescapable trap of misery.  Of true regret.  A trap from which no amount of time or grief could free a person.  No amount of reflection or therapy.  Not even alcohol.

For there were some parts of the human heart that simply would not let go.

Ever.

Unaffected by reckoning or penance, there were places where some wounds never healed, and the only hope was in everlasting diversion.

In all the years the priest had consoled people through pain and loss, the one thing he’d told Rickards that would help–the only thing–was purpose.

Purpose alone.