Motorcycle Monk

 CHAPTER 3  - DEAD LAND 

As Father Tim approached EdenCorp headquarters, he was awestruck by its sheer size and magnitude. The building rose fifty-five stories, a monolith of steel and glass. His gaze followed it upward to the top floor, which jutted out over the street. In the shifting sunlight, it looked first like a diamond, then—disturbingly—like the head of a giant serpent. A faint shiver crawled up his spine, as if something unseen was watching from above. Inside, the lobby air was cold enough to sting. The scent of industrial cleaner mixed with the metallic tang of recycled air. Tim was immediately stopped by a security guard in a tactical vest, an AR-15 slung at his side, and a camo beret pulled low. “Sir, may I help you?” the guard’s deep voice rumbled, echoing off the marble walls. “Officer, I’m here to meet with Grayson Colt at nine o’clock. Can you direct me to his office? The guard stepped closer. “I’m not an officer. I’m a security engineer protecting EdenCorp’s assets. I need to check you for weapons. Turn around so I can frisk you with this electronic wand.” Father Tim replied calmly, “As you can see, I’m a Catholic priest. I carry no weapons, only the spirit of the Lord.” “I don’t care if you are the Pope. It’s company policy. Turn around now,” the guard demanded, raising the wand and grabbing Father Tim’s shoulder. Something in the guard’s posture, rigid and aggressive triggered Father Tim’s Aikido training. In a blink, he stepped behind him, twisting his hips and lightly gripping the guard’s shoulder with his left hand, throwing him off balance. As the guard stumbled, Father Tim seized the wand with his right hand, bent the guard’s elbow sharply, and forced him to release it. The guard fell, his rifle clattering to the floor with a metallic crack that echoed through the lobby. Father Tim caught the wand with both hands, then stepped back. With a graceful bow, he extended it toward the shaken guard. “Here. You may frisk me if you must— but do so at your own risk.” The guard slowly rose, his eyes wide with the shock of being disarmed so easily, warily taking the wand. “No need to frisk you. Please follow me to the elevator.” 

As Father Tim exited the elevator and entered the executive suite conference room on the fifty-fifth floor, a chill swept over him. The air felt dry and forced, like the  sterile atmosphere of an elaborate museum—beautiful, expensive, and lifeless. Even the silence felt engineered. Grayson Colt rose from behind his massive gold-anddiamond-inlaid desk. The office smelled faintly of leather, cologne, and something colder, like rain before a storm. “Mr. Vale, you’re three minutes late. I have a busy schedule, and I don’t like waiting.” “For one, it’s Father Tim. And I’m late because I had to have a brief conversation with your security ‘engineer.’” Grayson was tall, around six-foot-one with deep, penetrating hazel blue eyes framed by a bone structure that highlighted his handsome features. He was in his mid-sixties with just a hint of gray in his neatly trimmed hair. His suit strained against the frame of a bodybuilder. Grayson clasped Tim’s hand, applying crushing pressure to assert dominance. But years of enduring his friend’s Father Lane legendary handshakes had prepared Tim. He matched the pressure, forcing Grayson to falter. Shock flickered through the eyes of Grayson’s deeply tanned face. Tim held his gaze, looking for even a flicker of humanity in those pale eyes, but found only emptiness. Something essential in the man felt long gone, as if the light had been extinguished years before. Finally showing mercy, Tim released his grip. Grayson pulled away quickly, rubbing his sore hand. “Sit down, Tim. 

We have important matters to discuss. I was a good friend of your father’s. I remember you playing basketball as a kid, I even caught a few of your games at USD. Too bad how your career ended… and what happened to Lisa in Mexico. What a tragedy.” He shook his head, but a smug, knowing smile crept across his lips. The mention of Lisa made Tim’s blood pressure spike. His face flushed red, a vein throbbing on his forehead. The room seemed to tilt for a moment, the air thickening. Breathe… just breathe and blend, he heard his sensei’s voice remind him. A calmness settled over him, like a hand on his shoulder. “Well, Grayson, I wouldn’t call you my dad’s friend. He said you couldn’t be trusted. You tried to sabotage many of his projects, including the land I am building the village on that he left me in his will. I know you attended USD games, but I always assumed that was because you were a donor trying to secure construction contracts. Funny thing, you never secured those contracts. Maybe the executive team heard about your underhanded dealings.” Grayson stood, a diabolical smile curling across his face. “I always suspected your father was behind that. But I had my revenge and he knew it as he was lying on his deathbed.” Hatred blazed in his eyes. A cold ripple ran through Tim. Revenge? Was this what Dad meant on his deathbed? Before he could speak, 

Seymour, lead counsel for Malstrom & Devlin, jumped up. “Mr. Vale, you are in serious trouble with the federal government—specifically the Environmental Protection Agency.” Tim stayed calm outwardly, though his insides burned.   Seymour continued, “EdenCorp possess a recent EPA survey of your land. This report confirms your property has been classified as a biohazard. Authorities are prepared to condemn it and certify it as Dead Land. Unless the land is completely remediated and deemed legally fit for development, the site is worthless.” In fact, EPA federal agents will begin removing anyone on that land, so “your” people will be gone, like they just disappeared from your land. 

Tim shot to his feet. “I don’t believe it! Show me the report! I’ve been working through the city permit process, our plans were approved. And now, at the last minute, this bogus EPA report appears? I’m not buying it!” Seymour smirked. “We were concerned about the safety of the residents and the city’s approval. Through Grayson’s political contacts in Washington, we requested an emergency EPA study.” He tossed a thick file across the table. Tim caught it midair and slammed it down. The cover read: EPA Emergency Findings on 77-77 Camino del Ángel, San Diego, CA His hands shook as he flipped to the conclusion: 

Recommendation: Both plots of land condemned. Remedy: 

Level 3 containment cleanup. 

Estimated cost: $12,000,000. 

The words seemed to pulse on the page. Glowing in neon colors like a warning.  Closing the report, Tim looked up. Grayson’s eyes gleamed with smug victory. Grayson leaned forward, his smile thin and predatory. “Tim, let’s stop pretending. Your land is finished. The EPA has branded it Dead Land, toxic, condemned, worthless. And you? You’re sitting on a liability the city wants erased. “So, here’s my generous offer: one hundred thousand dollars. Pocket change for me, salvation for you. We’ll take the land, absorb the cleanup, and in return, EdenCorp becomes the hero. The press will worship us, the city will shower us with contracts, and the tax revenue will flow like champagne. “And your little dream? That pathetic village for addicts and vagrants? Forget it. The city doesn’t want your homeless sanctuary. They want luxury condos, high-end retail, and people who actually matter. Your ‘flock’ can push their carts south of the border and rot in the filth where they belong. “Face it Tim, you’re out of your league. Your father knew it. And now, so do you. You have four days to accept my offer, or I go to the bank and start foreclosure proceedings, ruining your land forever.” 

Tim sat motionless, heart pounding like a motorcycle engine. His breathing techniques failed him. The executives’ death stares pressed in, hungry for victory and profit. He raised his eyes. Lord, please guide me. The memory of the homeless man on his property earlier that day returned—the helplessness in his eyes, the desperate plea for help.  “Father… Father, are you here to help us?” Tim had turned, taking in the man standing before him. A long, uncut beard, grime clinging to his clothes, hands shaking. The posture of an addict. A life unraveling. “Father,” the man had said, voice trembling, “I was raised in the Church. I know I’ve made poor decisions. I’ve been on the streets for two years—ever since my mom OD’d. I have nowhere to go. Nowhere to turn. I heard there’s a priest who wants to build a village to help us. Are you that priest, Father?” 

A presence filled Tim now, warm and steady. A soft voice whispered: Seek, and you will find. Tim stood tall, his fiery green eyes taking in the room, his gaze stopped, locking on Grayson. His voice thundered through the room: “YOU CAN ALL GO TO HELL!” Without another word, Father Tim turned and walked out.