Wounds by Alton Gansky Page B

heart.
    Ellis was a man prone to depression, and he spent no time trying to convince himself otherwise. He accepted the disorder as part of his nature—and his penance. His depression came on its own schedule. Sometimes he woke with a love of life and a keen desire to be about his work. Then it would begin: the darkness, tangible, viscous like oil, percolated up from the center of his being. It spread slowly, leisurely. Over the years he had come to recognize the sensation that heralded the darkness. He knew its every whim, its every path. At times it settled on him like a black fog descending from the sky, filling first the room, then his mind, then his heart. There was little he could do about it, and he had long since given up trying. For a time he considered seeing a doctor. There was medication he could take, chemicals that would keep the ebony mists away, but he always dismissed the idea. His depression was part of him. It helped define him. He took no joy in it, but he accepted it. When it came, he simply acknowledged its existence and continued with his work.
    His work. His work was his anchor, his compass, his balm. It was the only medication he needed, the only one he wanted. He was a man of faith and prayer, but in his most honest hours, he had to admit that he needed more than prayer to keep himself sane.
    The traffic on the I-15 thinned as he put distance between himself and the heart of the city. Still, it coagulated at each of the major communities. Not one to listen to music, he made the trip in silence. At times he listened to an audio book. His brain was a ravenous beast that liked to be fed. Tonight though, it was well mannered, letting him think of spiritual things.
    Would he have been happier in a more High-Church environment, with its rituals and structure, its creeds and dictates? Such structure was enticing, and while it might fit his temperament, it didn’t match his doctrine. The gospel is simple and direct, and he tried to match his life to that pattern. He was intelligent, kind, and fractured. Centuries ago, he would have been a prime candidate for a monastery.
    The miles rolled beneath the wheels of his silver Honda Civic, past Kearney Mesa and on north. The clot of cars continued to thin, freeing the asphalt artery to higher speeds. Ellis didn’t care. He had plenty of time. He planned to arrive early and spend a half hour or so in his office. It was as much home to him as his condo in Escondido, or his small sailboat that seldom sailed. There were few places where Ellis felt whole and welcome. His office was one such place.
    When he pulled onto the property of San Diego Theological Seminary, he saw few cars. Only three. The Good Friday Service was still an hour away. Two of the cars belonged to members of the janitorial staff, who were no doubt cleaning up the worship center. The other belonged to seminary president Dr. Adam Bridger. Bridger was the closest thing Ellis had to a friend. A former pastor, like several of the faculty, Bridger was a man of letters. Unlike Ellis, he was also a man of the people. He loved to be in crowds, something that gave Ellis hives. Like Alan Dunne, the academic dean, his wife was a surgeon.
    As he parked, he thought about the difficult task facing Bridger. He had led a community-wide Good Friday service for the last ten years. Normally, it was a joyful time despite the somber remembrance. Today, though, he would have to address the death of Doug Lindsey. Ellis knew that both Dunn and Bridger had visited the family. That had to be rough. He tried not to feel grateful that the job hadn’t fallen to him.
    Ellis walked through the thickening twilight and made his way to his office.
    His depression followed on his heels.

    Carmen had spent very little time in the office. She had been called before her shift was to start, and now it was looking as if she would be digging into the overtime coffers of the SDPD’s budget. Good for her bank account. Not