The Distant Factory

Chapter 20

Byron took me by the hand and the two of us checked out of the hotel room. Down in the streets below life went on as usual. People walked passed us with big smiles on their faces and went about their business without a worry in the world. The same couldn't be said for Byron and I. He was about to walk into his father's congregation after five years of seemingly having evaporated off the face of the earth. I was about to blow my cover and go to prison for the rest of my days. I took a deep breath and followed Byron's lead.

"I haven't been here in an eternity," he spoke as he racked his brain, "I might have to ask for directions."

"Damian Welker has a hideout somewhere around here apparently," I spoke as I looked around the buildings myself, "it seems like both our lives begin and end here."

"We can worry about him later, for now if I don't find my folks in the very near future I might as well back out."

"It's a little too late for that Byron. It's me who's by your side now, don't forget that."

Byron flashed me a smile as he squeezed my hand. After about half an hour of walking or so, Byron spotted the church. It was just a little brown building like any other in the decor of the street. It wasn't some fancy street with stained glass windows and statues of Jesus on the cross made out of pure gold. It was just across the street from where we were yet it seemed to be a world away. Nothing had registered in my mind by that point. I was about to turn myself in yet my mind still felt like it was running away.

"I don't have a clue how I'm going to explain any of this to my folks," Byron's voice was cracking up, "talking to the police is one thing but telling your mom and your dad that you killed somebody is something else."

The cars honked angrily as Byron and I ran across the street pretty much in the middle of the place but as I did so I felt like a burden was lifted off my shoulders. There was a certain aspect of comfort involved in reaching the end of the road.

"I never thought I'd see this day!" Byron exclaimed with a mixture of joy and longing.

"I never thought that this would be my life," I whispered to myself in response.

The two of us barged into the building about an hour before the service was about to begin. A man in his sixties immediately rushed over to us and happily greeted us. The look on Byron's face indicated that his entire world was falling apart. That man was not his father. The pastor had no idea who either one of us were. It wasn't him. I felt like I was about to faint because I was so sure that everything was going to end the moment we walked into that church. But both our suffering was prolonged. Byron looked like he was about to cry. He had been so sure and so ready to see his parents again but he had been disappointed. The man presented himself as Esteban Ravenshaw and invited us to have a seat in the very small church and talk for a while before he was to hold the regular Sunday morning meeting.

"I'm looking for a man named Andrew Davis-Harris," Byron did his best to prevent his voice from cracking as he spoke, "he used to be the leader of this church."

"Sorry son," Esteban replied in a neutral tone, "Andrew hasn't worked here in some four plus years. I can give him a call for you and leave your number with him to call you back however."

"I was hoping to speak to him in person, but that's fine, I'll catch up with him another time."

"Since he lost his oldest son the man has been having some hard time coping but there is no doubt in my mind that he'll be happy to reconnect with you if he used to be your spiritual leader."

The three of us sat down in the chairs arranged in a circle in the small room while Esteban spoke about how he found the Lord some thirty years ago. The room smelled like old mold but it was probably just the dirty carpeting. Crosses and decorations and picture frames with Bible verses adorned the dark paneling walls everywhere. I couldn't sit still so I went and took a look around the place hoping to find a distraction. In the pastor's office there was a picture on the wall of a young Byron with his parents and younger siblings. Weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning was written underneath the frame. It was such a shame that Byron's father hadn't been there because he would have definitely rejoiced at seeing his son again, especially if he had thought that his son was dead for five years.