The Mission
The next morning after checking out of the motel, Joe drove south on the deserted coast highway taking each curve with caution. The guardrails on his right were tokens, meant to simply announce the drop-off into the crashing waves of the Pacific below. The afternoon sun hovered above a horizon of blues where ocean merged with sky. To his left, gullied slopes of chaparral swept down to the road. It was cold for February on the central California coast. Joe cranked the heater up a couple of notches. Moka sniffed at the open crack of the passenger side window.
As he navigated the curves of the Pacific Highway, Joe felt confident, almost elated, about his mission. Moka had for certain inherited Lady’s ability. That was obvious from the dream he’d had just last night. He’d dreamt he and Moka were in a small cave under a rocky overhang on the side of a hill. He was sitting back on his haunches, next to her. The cold rain pounded outside, a noisy wall, but he could still hear quail scratching in the Manzanita just a few tempting leaps away. Inside, he and Moka, both in fur, hunkered down in radiant body heat and a deep, contented feeling of sanctuary, of safety. Sanctuary. For sure, he needed a place for him and Moka to go to ground.
As if on cue, she stood up on all fours and barked. Joe slowed to a crawl, followed her gaze up ahead and to the left. A white sign, swinging on two chains from a wooden frame, spelled out “St. Benedicts Monastery” in faded paint. Ordinarily a quiet dog, Moka stared at the sign and whined. She looked at Joe, then at the sign again.
“This looks promising,” Joe said. What better place to hide out than a monastery?
He slowed even more to make the turn just as a black-and-white rounded the curve behind him. Christ, a cop. Suddenly damp with sweat, Joe cranked his window down and stuck his arm out to signal a left turn. He checked the rear view mirror. No flashers, no sirens. But could the cops have somehow traced him? Was this one already calling in his license plate?
Joe made the left turn off the highway, doing his best to keep his face neutral. What if the cop followed and pulled him over? What’s the trouble, Officer? Just visiting the monastery, sir. My drivers license? Like a punch in the gut, Joe knew the game was up if he was stopped. Moka would be taken away. He’d face federal charges of trespassing and theft. He’d fail his mission. He felt a panicky urge to floor the gas, but kept his speed down, like a casual tourist, and saw the police car in the rear view mirror accelerate past the turn-off and continue down the coast highway. Hands shaking, he chuffed out a breath of relief.
Joe traveled for several minutes through chapparaled hills in steep, upward curves, reviewing all the precautions he’d taken in disappearing. First, no one would suspect he had Moka. Even if they thought she was stolen, why consider him? Second, he used a fake name and paid cash at the motel. He should be safe, but his stomach still knotted in worry. The Army had the resources to find him if they had any suspicions.
The road leveled out onto a shallow valley in the hills of the coastal range. Wooden buildings—sheds, cottages, and a big A-frame—sat haphazardly among fenced fields. Another worn sign confirmed this was the home of Benedictine monks.
He rolled to a stop at a rope stretched out between two posts. Hanging from a nail on one of the posts was a metal triangle and a striker. He climbed out of the car, picked up the “bell” and gave it a few whacks. He soon had it clanging, and for his efforts, a figure in black baggy pants and a checked shirt came striding across the fields.
The man carried a hoe across his chest like a rifle. He kept eye contact with Joe as he approached, a question on his unsmiling face. Joe wondered at the work clothes. Was this a monk?
“Are you lost?” The possible monk was taller than Joe’s six feet by a few inches, and looked to be in his late twenties.
“Not if this is the Benedictine monastery.”
“Yes, it is, but we don’t sell directly. You can buy our goods up in San Luis Obispo.”
“I’m not here to buy.”
The muscular young man held him with a blue-eyed gaze. He planted the hoe in front of him, leaned some weight on it, and looked prepared to wait as long as it took for Joe to state his business.
Joe looked away. He was not accustomed to being a supplicant. Red-faced, he almost turned to leave, but a whimper from the car reminded him that a mission required sacrifice. Maybe unnecessary pride should be the first to go.
He bowed his head. “I have come seeking sanctuary.”
Another whine, loud and insistent, and the man with the hoe cut his eyes at Joe’s car. Moka poked her muzzle out the window.
“I mean,” Joe said, “we have come seeking sanctuary. Me and my dog.”
The young man frowned, as if considering. “Wait here. I will fetch Brother Thomas.” He shouldered his hoe and clomped away through the fields with a long-legged stride, looking back once, with wide eyes, at Moka.
Joe slumped against the hood of his car. He believed the monks would take him in. His Catholic upbringing had included learning about the Rule of St. Benedict. But for for how long? A meal and a catnap? He needed to hide out longer, maybe a week, and determine what his next move would be.
