Read Online The Book of Murdock by Loren D. Estleman - Free Book Online

what you told yourself, but let us say
you’re right, and for whatever reason you’ve chosen to live without God. That’s not the same as saying that God has had no influence upon you. The steps you’ve taken to avoid Him have altered your journey.”
    I drank tea. I was beginning to aquire a taste for it, or at least for the way she brewed it. I’d had camp coffee that was less strong. “I can see why your husband doesn’t encourage these discussions.”
    â€œMy mother superior shared the aversion. I was naïve. A convent is no place for a lively exchange of ideas. I believe now that if I had not made the mistake of confiding my inner feelings to her, she would have found some other way to dispose of me.”
    â€œThen you have no regrets?”
    She curled both hands around her cup and looked at her reflection on the surface. “I regret daily that I didn’t hold my tongue and let nature find another course, one that did not destroy Eldred’s life.”
    â€œDoes he look at it that way?”
    She picked up her ears, motioning for silence. The residents of that house seemed superhumanly attuned to the sound of their names. The stairs creaked and in a moment Griffin entered the kitchen. When he saw me he stopped, although of course he had to have known I was there. The place was small and voices traveled, even if words didn’t.
    â€œDid you return his money?” he asked his wife.
    â€œI did not. We’ve spent some, and it would be weeks before we could save enough to return it. And you agreed to provide the instruction Mr. Murdock requested.”
    â€œI changed my mind.”

    I started my speech of apology, but she interrupted me. “You made a bargain; but we’ll overlook that. A partial education in the ways of the Lord is worse than none at all. He might take what he’s learned and not knowing the rest twist it to suit selfish purposes. I’ve heard you say that a hundred times about these traveling opportunists.”
    â€œHe thinks I’m one of them.”
    â€œHe’s spent most of his visit telling me he doesn’t. If you hadn’t fled into your burrow when he knocked at the door, he’d have told you.”
    â€œThere’s been entirely too much telling going on. You’ve been doing most of the talking.”
    â€œOur story is known, but it’s been poorly told. Should our enemies’ version be the only one anyone hears?”
    I scraped my chair back and stood. “I should leave.”
    â€œYou should come upstairs,” Griffin said. “A kitchen is for filling your belly, not your head.”

SEVEN
    The programme accelerated from that hour. Griffin seemed suddenly conscious of the time constraint and sped through the less illuminating biblical passages, questioning me sharply on certain points without warning, a bushwhacking maneuver that caught me unprepared the first time, but not again. His Church was founded on the New Testament, and lest the apostles be slighted for the sake of catching a train, we studied them between First and Second Kings. Infrequently he elaborated on the text, providing extraneous but revealing detail on the structure of the Roman legions and farming methods under the pharaohs of Egypt. His ragtag library was as heavy on history as it was light on theology; his massive Bible was the only religious authority in the room apart from himself. Arguments in print appeared to put him off as much as dissent from his wife, whom experience had taught him to defer to early and avoid a long and pointless discussion with the same result. He would not defer to rival philosophers.

    One morning, near enough to date of departure to spoil my concentration with thoughts of linen and train changes, he marked his place in Deuteronomy with his bit of strop and shut the book with a thump. “How much experience have you had with speaking in public?”
    â€œI’ve given