He Goes Out Weeping

By David Fiensy

John Book wants to become a theology professor. He is working as a translator on a major project at Graf University Divinity School when a newly-discovered, ancient manuscript threatens to shake traditional Christian theology to its foundation. Book's fluency in Syriac should be helpful in determining the fragment's authenticity. But why is he so tormented by shadows from his past? And who is stalking him with murderous intent? Although most of us have lives very different from the central character of this story, the underlying struggles that he deals with are ones we all confront on some level.

• Language: English
• Publisher: New Harbor Press
• Release date: May 19, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201673321

Book preview

He_Goes_Out_Weeping_Large_Front.jpg

He Goes Out Weeping

David A. Fiensy

New Harbor Press

RAPID CITY, SD

Copyright © 2021 by David Fiensy.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed Attention: Permissions Coordinator, at the address below.

Fiensy/New Harbor Press

1601 Mt. Rushmore Road, Ste 3288

Rapid City, SD 57701

www.NewHarborPress.com

Ordering Information:

Quantity sales. Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the Special Sales Department at the address above.

He Goes Out Weeping / David Fiensy. -- 1st ed.

ISBN 978-1-63357-391-8

The characters, incidents, places, and situations in this book are imaginary and have no relation to any person or actual happening. Resemblance to any person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All Scripture quotations are the author’s revision of the King James Version. Public domain.

Acknowledgements

Thank you to my brother, Chris Fiensy, for his helpful editing and critical suggestions in the initial writing of this story. Thank you also to my daughters, Amanda and Jeannie, and to my sons in law, Rich and Brent, for reading the manuscript and their input.

Part 1

Chapter 1

Mac Adams was not happy. Six-and-a-half hours sitting here for a measly two hundred bucks! On this November evening at eleven-thirty PM, he sat under the streetlight shade of a massive magnolia tree. He glanced at his partner, Joe, and imitated Joe’s posture. They sat straight-backed and motionless on one of the five benches arranged around the tree. Mac thought of making conversation but decided against it. His partner seldom made small talk. He rarely talked at all except to complain about some ache or pain. Hypochondriac.

They sat so they could observe the entrance to the Divinity School building. Mac was feeling sulky. He didn’t know why they had taken this contract. But business had been slow lately. If they didn’t get more contracts soon, Mac would have to get another nighttime security job in some warehouse or store. It would pay minimum wage and require him to put in forty hours a week. Ugh!

On another bench arranged near the tree, two graduate students, both women, discussed politics. Occasionally, their argument grew loud. Yet, Mac Adams never looked their way. He had no interest in either MAGA or BLM.

An old stray dog wandered from bench to bench hoping for a handout, a leftover sandwich or something. He came over to Mac and Joe’s bench and sniffed them. Mac uttered a grunt and the dog moved on.

Mac had met his partner, Joe Tremaine, in prison. They had, it seemed, similar life’s goals: make the fat-cats pay for their hard times. A fat-cat was anyone with more of this world’s goods than they had. He and Joe had shared a cell for the year they served for assault and battery. They had made a pact to join up after they did their time and pursue their lofty ambition.

Mac Adams could hear the low voices of students from elsewhere on the university campus. They were on their way to their dormitories or to a late-night snack and drink. The libraries had closed; it was time to move the study or chatter elsewhere. There were still quite a few students milling about the thirty-acre quad but they were gradually moving to other parts of the campus. Soon the quad would be empty. The two men waited.

Someone emerged from the Divinity School front door. Mac Adams and his partner stood up. A man came out; he was tall, thin, and elderly and carried an object under his arm. Mac Adams scanned his figure with intense eyes. The man passed by and squeezed his chin. Mac Adams looked at his partner, shook his head, and the two men sat down.

Mac grumbled to himself again. Two hundred bucks to sit in the cold and wait for some student. Why not march into the building, beat the crap out of him, and walk away? Why all the cloak and dagger stuff? Why did they take his contract?

Two more left at about the same time, one a female wearing a uniform of some kind and the other her boyfriend or husband. They were holding hands. Cleaning crew probably. Mac sat down again.

A man and woman sitting under the tree were kissing. Now they got up and walked farther north toward their dorms. Mac glanced their way, relieved to have them gone. All that lip smacking annoyed him.

The two men sat alone on the bench. They waited. It was midnight. Mac Adams was getting more cranky. He liked these jobs but didn’t like to work for it this much. They had been sitting here since five o’clock. Seven hours under this creepy tree! A lousy two hundred bucks. Mac looked up at the tree’s branches barely visible against the dark sky. The magnolia tree must be over a hundred years old. Why didn’t someone cut it down before it fell on people?

Someone opened the door to the Divinity School building and stepped out. The figure walked past the magnolia tree and headed north. The young man carried a bookbag and walked briskly. The two men rose and studied him carefully. Mac nodded to Joe and they emerged out of the tree’s dark mass following him toward the northside of the quad.

Mac kept his eyes on the lone figure, his contract, his target, who now walked about twenty yards ahead of him and Joe. The target walked unaware of what was coming. His midnight stroll looked, to anyone taking the trouble to notice him, leisurely and carefree.

Leaving the quad, the target walked on past Gothic classroom buildings and came to the residential and dining section of the campus. There were dormitories, coffee houses, and cafeterias lining both sides of the walkway. The target and his stalkers could hear the muted voices of laughter inside the buildings and see dim lights. Inside people were living their small lives unaware of the unfolding event outside their bubble. Mac smelled the coffee and decided that he would—after the job—come back for refreshments. He wanted to relish a good day’s work. Maybe hoist a brewsky with his buddy, Joe, and drink an espresso. Maybe a couple of the co-eds would be interested in Mac and Joe. You never knew. This could be a big night for them.

A few persons were still outside but not many. Two or three couples sat on benches here and there in front of the dorms. An occasional coffee or beer drinker emerged from the student center. Mac Adams could see shadows walking in the distance.

On went the target past the football stadium. He stopped for a moment to look at the dimly lit tennis courts and then walked on. Finally, he approached the remote parking lot, the lot for students. It was now 12:15 AM. No one was hanging around this part of the campus.

As the target neared his car, Mac quickened his pace and closed in—Mac, a short, husky man, was now at four o’clock; his partner, Joe, a tall, thin man, was at eight o’clock. Though Mac was rather stout, he moved like a cat.

Mac Adams watched with squinted eyes as the target cast a quick glance to the right and to the left and then started to walk a little bent over. For the first time Mac noticed that the target limped a little. He appeared weak and defenseless. Mac Adams smiled; he enjoyed beating the helpless.

Mac was psyching himself up now. Some impulse fired in him. He was eager; he was angry; he would strike without mercy. He was ready to attack. He would get revenge for all the beatings he had endured as a child. He saw the faces of his abusers, those sadists in the foster homes. He would do the same to this weak victim. The world would pay for his suffering!

But then, as he got about five feet from the target, Mac Adams watched as the target took two quick steps to his left and slammed a left-footed side kick into the kneecap of Joe, bending his knee in the wrong direction. There was a Crack! Joe fell and screamed in agony.

Then Mac Adams watched, as in a dream, as the target took four sliding steps to his right, spun around counter clockwise, and landed a spinning hook kick into his temple—heel on head. Mac heard a Thud! He felt numb; his ears were ringing; his vision blurred. Then someone screamed. Who was screaming? His knees buckled. He felt the world rushing up toward his head and the cold pavement of the parking lot on his face.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Detective Ray Grandy leaned back in his chair and contemplated the framed award on his wall: "Certificate of Commendation." He had come from a humble upbringing in the eastern part of his southern state. His father and mother were simple folk who never went to college, who worked for minimum wage in small factories or as share croppers all their lives, and who sacrificed for their children. Now he was a police detective in a small city—Grafton, a town of two hundred thousand—and was a rising star. His father would be proud of him if he were alive today. His mother would be equally proud if she were aware any more of her surroundings. Dementia had taken its toll.

Grandy had rocketed himself to fame and earned himself the commendation when he solved the highway serial murders. Nobody else could figure them out. He had used his personal doggedness, his instincts, and his eye for detail. Details solve crimes, his teacher in the police academy had counseled. Gather all of them you can. But also, Sometimes you know who did the crime but lack the evidence. Then you have to get creative. Grandy was good at that second part.

His colleagues—critics really—in the department believed he intended now to press on and maybe, someday, become police chief and then, who knows, maybe go into politics. Mayor? Governor? He’s just using the police as a stepping stone to feed his ambitions, more than one veteran cop complained behind his back.

Grandy’s thoughts were interrupted by the police sergeant in charge of the night desk: Detective, can you take a look at this case?

Well, I’m really off duty. I just stopped by to pick up a homicide file I wanted to look at. Is it a murder?

No, a mugging—or an attempted mugging.

What! I’m not going to get into that. Give it to someone else. Homicide detectives hated to handle anything else but in a small police department, they were sometimes called on to accept lesser assignments.

This is a really busy night. Everybody else is already interviewing. As long as you’re here, why not talk to this guy?

I didn’t become a detective to listen to every lame complaint. Give it to someone else.

It’s an unusual case. The officer at the scene took down some notes you can review.

Oh . . . okay, what’s the problem? Grandy grunted in an irritated tone.

Uh . . . this graduate student fought off two muggers.

What’s so unusual about that?

He sent these two tough guys to the hospital. One may have brain damage—if he lives. The other will use a cane the rest of his life. Their mugging days are over. At this the sergeant handed Grandy a file.

I still don’t see the problem. Is he a football player or something?

I don’t think so. He looks like he couldn’t whip anybody.

Grandy sighed. Okay, send him in.

The student entered Grandy’s office. He was about the same age as Grandy, late twenties. But he was of slight build, modest height, wore glasses, and was obviously a nerd. Grandy studied the file the sergeant handed him, squinted at the student in an angry face, and then asked, Where did you learn to fight like that?

Fight?

You hurt a guy really bad. What’d you hit him with?

Nothing.

Uh huh. . . So, you’re John Book?

Yeah.

He glanced again at the file. Looks like you’re my age, twenty-eight.

Uh huh.

And you’re a student at Graf University?

Yes.

What year are you at Graf?

I’m a first-year doctoral student.

So, you came here last August. And what did you do before that? Professional student I suppose?

I graduated from college at twenty-two. Master’s work until twenty-three.

And from twenty-three until now?

Assistant librarian.

You mean, like, in a library?

Yep.

Where?

Indiana.

So, you have lived like—What? A bookworm—for the last five years but learned how to fight like a street thug? Did you grow up in a tough neighborhood?

I’m really not much of a fighter.

How did you whip those two serial muggers? Those guys have a criminal record. They’ve been in prison for assault. They would kick in your ribcage for pocket change.

I guess I lucked out.

Yeah, sure. The detective studied the file a little further and then asked, What happened? Let’s hear your story.

They got too close to me.

That’s it? They got too close? Did they grab you or take a swing at you?

No. I just thought they would.

Did they say something? Threaten you?

No.

What made you think they were about to attack you?

They looked like they would.

So, you started the fight because you felt threatened?

There really wasn’t much of a fight.

Yeah, sure. You know it was a fight.

Well . . . not much of one.

Why didn’t you wait to see if they really were going to attack you before you whacked that guy in the head?

Never wait to be attacked, Detective.

That doesn’t sound like something a librarian would say.

I read it in a book.

Uh huh. Why do you think they intended to mug you?

Steal my car, I guess.

Do you have an expensive car?

A ten-year old Toyota Corolla.

Have you owned the car long?

About five months.

I only ask because sometimes they transport drugs in old cars and then sell them to dealers. Thought you might have accidentally bought the wrong car. But five months seem like too long for that. . . Do you always attack people who get too close to you at night?

Not always.

So, you attacked two ex-cons, who may have mugged scores of people, and you whipped them both? Since you started the fight, technically, I could arrest you. See my problem?

No . . . I don’t think so.

Do you have a criminal record?

No.

Well, we’ll check on that. What are you studying at Graf?

Religion.

Ha! A religion doctoral student puts two career criminals into the hospital! Don’t you believe in turning the other cheek?

Chapter 2

Detective Ray Grandy waited until 10:00 AM the next day to drive to the hospital. He figured by then the mugger with the leg injury would be awake and the morning medical examinations would be finished. He wasn’t sure when the other guy, with the head trauma, would wake up, if ever.

He was peeved he had to follow this case further. After all, he was a homicide detective. Investigating muggings was beneath his rank and dignity. But since he had been handed the file last night—even though he was officially off duty—the sergeant asked him to do the follow up. It’ll only take a couple hours of your time, he had assured him. Yet, although Grandy was sulking over the assignment, he was also intrigued by the whole thing.

He made his way to the massive white building called Grafton Regional Hospital, parked in the hospital’s parking garage, walked in, and asked where he might find Joseph Tremaine, the one with the destroyed kneecap. Also, out of curiosity he asked where Mac Adams, the man with the head injury, was. He took the elevator to the to the fifth floor, exited, walked down brightly decorated hallways until he found room 5 TR 36. He saw Tremaine lying in bed. He had his injured leg elevated and in a cast. The patient had his eyes closed with a grimace on his face.

Detective Grandy entered the room and introduced himself. Hello, I’m Ray Grandy from the Grafton Police Department. I’m looking into the incident that happened last night.

Tremaine opened his eyes and mumbled, You ought’ta arrest that guy. He attacked us!

From what he tells us, you’re the ones who assaulted him. Grandy always tried to deceive a suspect to see what he might say. He remembered, of course, that Book confessed to attacking first.

Oh yeah? Then why am I layin’ here in the horspital and he’s runnin’ free? At this point he pressed his call button for a nurse. I need more pain meds! Where are those lazy nurses?

So, tell me what happened, Grandy asked.

We was just walkin’ toward the parking lot and that man came at us, real sudden.

What’d he hit you with? Did he have a weapon?

Yeah. Yeah, man, he had a brick, and a baseball bat . . . and a lead pipe.

All that?

Yeah, he swung that bat inta my kneecap and s’ploded it. I ain’t never felt such pain, Tremaine answered and then he yelled: Nurse! Where are ya? You incompetent witch! Ain’t nobody cares how much pain I’m in! At this, he began to whimper and thrash around in the bed.

Grandy tried to get the patient back to the topic: Did he seem like somebody who knew street fighting?

He knew somethin’, man. That psycho was out-a control, Tremaine answered with gritted teeth.

So, what did he hit your friend with? He’s done massive head trauma to him, according to the report I received last night.

I dunno know man. It all happened fast. I think a brick. . . Yeah, a brick.

He carried all those weapons . . . er . . . items?

I’m tellin’ ya, he was a-spinnin’ around and them ball bats and things was a-flyin’ ever-whar, Tremaine whimpered.

How could he get close enough to you to whack you with a bat?

Dunno. Jist came at us.

Did he say anything?

No, he didn’t say nothin’. Nothin’ at all. Nurse! Nurse! I’m dyin’ in here!

So, Mr. Tremaine, you have a criminal record I see. You did time in the state penn for assault.

Them was mixups.

Were they?

Yeah, I mean I was framed for those.

You beat an elderly woman. They identified you by viewing the security camera across the street. You got a year for that one. I’d have given you ten. If that lady had died—well, we’d not be having this conversation now.

I done my time. You got no reason ta harass me.

But you see how it looks. You have a criminal record and your friend Mac has a similar record. You two met in prison.

Why are you a-tormentin’ a sufferin’ man? I tell ya I’m dyin’ here and nobody cares.

You and your buddy get out of prison and then we have this incident. It looks bad for you. It looks like it could’ve been your fault.

No! Hain’t true! That guy’s a whacko, I tell ya! Oh . . . my leg hurts! I’m dyin’! Tremaine then began to wail like a wounded animal.

This man claims you two were about to attack him.

But we didn’t. . . Oh! . . . How’d he know that? . . . He cain’t read no minds! . . . My leg! My leg! . . . I need morphine! Nurse! You #@%&#!

What were you doing there? Did you have a car in the parking lot? Grandy asked calmly.

Sometimes we takes a walk late at night, Tremaine grunted through gritted teeth. Ah! Ah! Somebody help me!

So, you’re out walking late at night. Are you a student at Graf University? Grandy looked nonchalantly out the window as he spoke.

No, but we jist sometimes takes walks. . . Oh! Ah! Now he began to cry like a baby: You know for our health and stuff . . . Oh!

So, you’re not a student there. You had no car in the parking lot. This man claims you were closing in on him and about to assault him.

He’s a-lyin’. He attacked us.

Okay. We’ll see.

Grandy left Tremaine’s room and walked toward the nurse’s station. The patient in room 36 seems to be in a lot of pain. He’s calling for a nurse.

A middle-aged woman with a stethoscope hanging loosely around her neck looked up wearily. You mean Tremaine?

Yes.

He just wants morphine. We can only give so much morphine each hour.

"I thought