A small church sat on top of a hill, just off a beaten road that linked to the more modern road. Surprisingly despite the rustic feel it wasn’t really that far off from civilization, the joys of Northern California versus the much more space starved south. This little wooden structure had someone care for it, the windows were intact, the white paint was dried out but not chipped or worn away, and when one went inside it was a quaint if somewhat plain interior with a half dozen smaller pews on each side of the isle with a small altar at the end. Some stairs snaked off on one side and led up to a small platform with an old organ, the opposite side a door that likely led to some private quarters.
The patch of dirt out front had the Bishops car pulled up, on the side opposite to the entrance of the small cemetery that held maybe two dozen headstones and plaques. Humble, quaint, unassuming - Arturo was glad he could borrow the keys from the owner for the evening, a part of the partnership he had with his local allies.
Arturo himself sat in the front row - black slacks, black jacket, deep red collared shirt- , half way down the pew. He was leaning forward with elbows on his knees and hands clasped as he spent his time looking forward, examining the iconography. He waited patiently, no longer in a state of utter starvation but not exactly sated by any stretch.
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Striking Looks
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