Free The Breath of God by Jeffrey Small

occurred there. This quasi-governmental organization is an abomination, he thought. These arrogant scientists were playing God, even though they didn’t believe in him. That its main campus was embedded in the heart
of Emory University, one of the most liberal schools in the Southeast, was an added bonus. He would show them. His mission’s purpose was not loss of life but something more powerful: fear .
    Tim picked up his pace, continuing to block out the itching with sheer force of will. Tonight would start a new and more purposeful chapter in his life. He found Johnny’s pickup around the corner, just where he’d told his childhood friend to park. Johnny might be a doofus, Tim thought, but he was reliable.

    English Literature Professor Martha Simpson woke up and reached for the cell phone on the bedside table. She squinted against the glare of the blue light to read the time: 4:45 AM. The man sleeping next to her lifted a corner of the flannel sheets and rolled it tightly to his chest. Using her phone to light her way, she found the armchair in the corner of the room where her midnight blue suit lay folded. As she quietly dressed, she studied the figure snoring under the bunched-up blanket.
    Harold Billingsly, holder of the distinguished Winchester Professorship of Religion, was the first man she had dated since her husband had died suddenly of a heart attack last year. She’d been determined to take things slowly and was surprised to find herself here in his town house in the center of the Emory campus on the night of their fourth date. She knew that Harold had been divorced for three years, and his distinguished looks and engaging demeanor had intrigued her for years. He’d been sweet to her after Arthur’s death, and their relationship developed naturally. Still, she felt uncomfortable having slept with him so soon. Martha was unsure what relationships in your late forties were supposed to look like.
    After she kissed Harold on the forehead, she tiptoed down the hardwood steps to his front door. The cool autumn air woke her fully. She wrapped her red pashmina around her neck and headed down the sidewalk toward the Michael Street parking deck, where she had parked the night before. She was anxious to make it back to her apartment to tend to her cat, who surely would be wondering where she was. She’d have plenty of time to prepare herself for the day’s classes.

CHAPTER 7
    PUNAKHA DZONG, BHUTAN
    G RANT TAPPED HIS FINGERS on his cast while he pulsed his healthy left foot to the same imaginary beat. He felt as jacked up as he used to feel when he chased NoDoz with Red Bull while studying for exams. But today he’d only consumed a single cup of tea with his ten o’clock breakfast an hour earlier.
    He lay on a granite knee wall, which surrounded the single tree in the center of the dzong’s flagstone courtyard. The journey down the tall, narrow steps from the second floor of the monastery had taken every bit of his energy, but he was pleased that he’d been able to make it down three days in a row. The October sun cast a golden glow behind his closed eyes. Grant tried to pay attention to the path his breath took as it entered his nostrils and filled his lungs, like Kinley had taught him, but his mind wasn’t cooperating today. Not only did the chatter of a British tour group taking pictures inside the dzong distract him, he had too much to think through.
    After a week of not-too-subtle requests, he’d finally convinced Kinley to show him the Issa manuscripts, and Grant thought that surely today would be the day. Grant knew that his new friend was risking a lot by taking him to the library, which was off limits to foreigners. Unfortunately, Kinley had insisted that the texts remain there. Bhutan had stringent laws against removing cultural artifacts from the country, with the penalty being a long prison term in a primitive jail cell. In an attempt to preserve its