The Canadian Beaver Lodge Assassins Association by Jerry Cripe

Author:Jerry Cripe
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Acorn Publishing
Published: 2022-10-30T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 36



The ROMAR, Totum, WA

3:00 p.m. Friday, January 5

With a clean bill of health, Jaxy found his way to Café Matthias at the north quad of the Royal Martyrs Monastery main assembly house. There the husky, camp cook greeted him with hands as knobby as coal on the knuckles, and pink as a newborn hamster on the palms. Deacon Matthias may have put on an innertube working kitchen patrol, but those were the surest arms Jaxy had ever held. Bellied up to a long, community table with bench seats built of quality wood and workmanship, Jaxy dove into a basket of buns and whipped butter. As he devoured a bowl of delicious lentils, through the window he took in the postcard-perfect lie of snow out beyond the woods to a patchwork of tilled land and rocky rills and wished for his camera.

After lunch the monks set him up in a visitor’s trailer parked between pines downhill from the headquarters. The modern mobile came with every amenity a guest could want, and away from the main house activity. The dynamite heater had the place toasty within minutes. Still nauseous and weak, Jaxy dreamt upon snippets from the night before as he tossed and turned mumbling, “Keep staring . . . forget cops . . . A.B.C . . . 1.2.3 . . .

Hours later, he emerged to knock about the gift store. Walled off from the main house at the end of the long, front porch, the quaint space came stocked with jams and jellies, crosses, incense, candles, softbound and hardcovers, sheet and recorded music, and all manner of prayer-ware. The pewter, revetment icons reminded Jaxy of those they hawked at the Antique Mall. He purchased a bar of pine tar soap leaving a little extra in the honor system, cash box. Coming back into the big house gathering room, he crossed paths with the aged monk who had helped him in the bath, tending a blackened kettle on the potbelly stove.

“Your van is in the barn,” The Archimandrite handed over Jaxy’s keys. “You are the Abbot’s guest—not prisoner.”

Flabbergasted Jaxy blinked at the ring. “How?”

“Wasn’t easy. Had to move his golf cart outside. Go. Pick out a tea bag,” the elder shooed Jaxy to the kitchen where he engaged the cook shredding a defenseless lettuce head with massive fingers.

“Excuse me, where do you keep cups?” asked Jaxy.

Deacon Matthias showed him the mug tree. “So, what brings Mister Jaxy thisaway from sunny Southern California in dread winter?”

Jaxy spied the urn, “The coffee.”

Approved the Deacon, “Back in the day an Ethiopian brother saw how the beans jazzed up his goats, so gave one a try. Been keeping monks awake in church since.”

“Forgive me, but the older gentleman in charge . . . ?” Jaxy tilted out a cup of black brew.

“Hieromonk Archimandrite Photios,” Deacon Matthias reverently dragged out, “is not in charge. But don’t tell him that.”

“Oh. Everyone’s in black except him, so I thought.”

The Deacon tugged at his side. “Father can wear any color cassock he wants, but for me it’s black or nothing.

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