Dialogue and thoughts are in #3333FF
"Eight-thirty tonight? That'll do just fine," the bearded man drawled. "I trust they'll be in the best condition." He lifted the slat of the blinds with a finger and peered through it as he half-listened to the man on the other end ramble his assurances. Of course they'd be in perfect condition, for what you paid only the best, what do you take me for, et cetera et cetera. Hooey. They wouldn't be. Not by his standards. The best condition for those girls would be not being there at all. The best condition for those girls would be safe at home with their families. That simple.
"Good, good," he said absentmindedly into the phone. "Until next time, then." And the line went dead. The bearded man kept his gaze on the gap in the window slats, looking out in silence.
The view from this new room wasn't nearly as nice as the view from his old apartment. From there he had a perfect view of the apartment across the street and the church steeple above it. Whenever he was angry, he looked out that window, and saw the cross high above everything, and he remembered who had the power in the end. In ev'ry age, O God, you have been our refuge, you have been our hope.
Instead he was here, in a fake home for a fake man, for Edward Shaw the mysterious gentleman caller. According to the history he had memorized (and helped create), he had made his fortune in business consultation, improving several businesses' inner workings through sociological analysis. It was simple, believable thanks to the crash course in sociology, and utterly false. Hopefully he would not need it for long: his accent was starting to irritate himself, and he had only been speaking in it for a few days of warming up so far. The beard, too, itched, reminding him why he hadn't grown one since Savannah.
He glanced at the clock. Eight AM. About time to head to Holy Spirit. He took a piece of paper from the desk and scrawled on it:
If you're reading this, I've gone for a walk. I should be back by 9:30. Don't worry, but don't do anything stupid. -E
And done. He took the black knotted cane from its resting place by the door and left, locking the door behind him.
Walking out in public as Edward Shaw felt weird, he realized. He felt like his limp was overdone, didn't look realistic. He wondered if the shillelagh was too obvious. He didn't want Shaw to be too ostentatious: after all, if Shaw were to be shot, Lije McCloud would be the one really shot. Fat lot of good the facade would do him then.
He arrived at the church a few minutes before half-past. He silenced his cell phone, then took a seat midway to the back, knelt, and prayed. Lord, he muttered, "I'm going to be walking in the shadow of perdition for the next few weeks. Maybe longer." He paused, sighed. "I just want to help them. That's what You'd do, right?"
The bell rang, and the ten others in the church stood. The bearded man stood with them. Was it Lije McCloud who was going to Mass, or Edward Shaw? He didn't want to think about it.