Page 1 of Under an Oklahoma Sky

Chapter One

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. Please… please, help me.”

Kneeling at the altar of the small chapel, he stared up at the enormous wooden crucifix and prayed everything had been a nightmare—a horrible, reversible nightmare. Holy water dripped from his hands and trailed back to the baptismal font, where he had tried to cleanse the invisible blood from his skin for the past two hours. However, it was useless—his flesh and soul were stained and would be forevermore.

The silence in the centuries-old stone church was louder than anything he’d ever experienced. It permeated his thoughts. He was drowning in wave after wave of remorse and despair. Of evil and horror.

They were coming for him. He wasn't sure why it hadn’t happened yet, but they would come looking for him soon. Seconds had given way to minutes in his mind. Minutes had become hours.

Why, Father? Why was I there? Why didn’t you stop him? Why didn’t you stop me?

His heavy head hung low as he clasped his hands together, extending them toward the bronze figure suspended on the wooden cross by metal stakes driven into the hands and feet. His knees ached from the cold, hard floor, but he refused to stand. He deserved the pain and so much more for what he’d done.

At thirty-four, he had dedicated almost his entire adult life to serving the Lord. His faith was the one thing he found comfort in, but today, that faith had been tested, and he’d failed miserably. The devil inside him had taken over his mind, body, and yes, his soul. It didn’t matter that the evil was in response to an even greater evil. One that had no remorse. One that harmed an innocent child.

Burning tears blurred his vision and rolled down his cheeks before falling to the floor to mix with the small puddles on the granite tile. “I’m sorry, Father. Please help me. Tell me what I must do.”

His life as he’d known it was over. Part of him wanted to run and hide, but that went against his morals... his code of ethics. Despite everything that had happened earlier in the day, he still had them and would abide by them. He would take whatever punishment and penance he faced—with the courts and the Holy Father. And maybe someday he would receive His forgiveness.

The scraping and clanking of the large wood and iron doors at the rear of the church told him his time was up. They had finally come for him. He fought the urge to flee. Multiple footsteps approached, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw a uniformed officer emerge from the sacristy. The side door to his right, leading to the parking lot, opened, and another officer filled the entryway. They were covering every exit.

Didn’t they know he would go willingly? That he wouldn’t fight what he deserved?

The purposeful footsteps stopped several feet behind him, and he waited, holding on to his last moments of freedom.

“Adam.”

He winced at the sound of his name spoken so softly. He should have known Shane Stewart would come for him. The man was the only person left in the world he considered family. They weren’t blood-related, but they spent their formative teenage years in the same foster home and stayed close as life led them in different directions. And now, they were on opposite sides of the law.

Adam touched his fingers to his forehead, heart, left shoulder, and then his right. Praying for strength and guidance, he slowly stood and turned around. Another plainclothes detective and two uniformed officers accompanied his best friend—six men in total had come for him.

He ignored the others as his gaze met Shane’s. The pain, regret, and sadness he saw there were almost unbearable. “I’m sorry, my friend.”

When Shane didn’t say or do anything, his partner stepped forward and pulled a pair of shiny metal handcuffs from his sports jacket. As the man rounded behind him, Adam placed his hands at his lower back, his brown eyes never leaving his friend’s sad, green ones.

The detective fastened the cuffs around his bare wrists with resounding clicks that echoed throughout the chapel. “Brother Adam Westfield. You are under arrest for the murder of Brother Andre Santiago. You have the right to remain silent...”

Five Years and Four Months Later...

“So, do you have plans on where you’ll go from here, Brother Adam?” Jose Ferrara finished gathering the prayer books left behind by the other prisoners who came to the morning’s spiritual service. The numbers usually varied, but today had been a full house as they’d come to say goodbye to the man who had given them guidance and understanding these past few years.

It was Adam’s release day. A day he’d looked forward to and dreaded for months now. He’d served a little over half his sentence. With time off for good behavior and overcrowding in the prison system, the parole board approved his early release. In less than two hours, he’d be a free man.

A shudder passed through him, and he shook off the combined feelings of anticipation and anxiety.

Taking the bound missals from the convicted car thief, Adam stacked them on the closet shelf and shut the door. “Not really. Think I’m just going to travel a bit. Enjoy the things I’ve missed in here.”

“Like what? I mean, I know what I’ve missed, but everyone has their own list.”

He exited the prison library, heading back to Cell Block C with Jose on his heels. Guards buzzed them through several heavy, locked doors, and some wished him good luck along the way. He’d been a model prisoner during his time there and had earned the respect of guards and inmates alike.

When he had first arrived at Sing-Sing Correctional Facility in Ossining, NY, several things prevented him from being a target for the thugs who loved to assault newcomers as a sick version of a welcoming committee. One—word had quickly spread that he was a Franciscan Brother, and some drew the line at assaulting a man of God. Two—the man he’d killed was a child molester, the scum of the earth according to most inmates, therefore making Adam some sort of hero in their mindset. Three—the one man who had tried to take him on a few days after his arrival learned the hard way that Adam held a black belt in Krav Maga, a martial arts that had originated in the Israel Defense Forces.

From the time they were fourteen until adulthood, Adam and Shane’s foster father had been a police officer. Harry Brooks had enrolled them in classes to give them an outlet for their teenage energy and angst and to instill the discipline they had both lacked up to that point. He’d even taught them boxing, wrestling, and how to defend themselves against dirty street fighting. The training kept them out of the trouble most kids their age got into and ultimately pointed them in the direction their lives would take. Although Harry would probably roll over in his grave if he knew where Adam had ended up.

“Things like the sunrise and sunset over the ocean or a mountain. The smell of fresh-cut grass. A child’s laughter.” He let out a small chuckle. “A poached egg.”

“Ha! I’d take any egg that wasn’t powdered. But, man, I just want to see my woman again and be able to... well, you know, any time we want.”