Dire Harvest Book 2 Chapter 5

ONE

The portly old guy at Deacon’s Auto Salvage and Sales, with the name Alvin embroidered above his right tit, wasn’t all together happy to do business with a stranger he’d never met before, especially one who looked like he was running from something. That was trouble he didn’t need. But when Gary pulled out a wad of hundred-dollar bills from his front pocket, Alvin Deacon adjusted his principals to fit the occasion. 

“I got a new Toyota here,” Gary said. “I’m looking to trade.”

“Nice lookin’ car,” Alvin Deacon replied. “Got all the papers for it?”

Gary smiled and began slowly counting out hundreds from the neatly rolled up wad. “I believe this is all the paper we need to make a transaction, wouldn’t you agree?”

Alvin Deacon smiled and spit a mouthful of tobacco juice and saliva onto the greasy dirt that surrounded the salvage yard portion of his business. Stacks of smashed up cars, tires, and various rusting auto parts shielded the two men from the main road, giving them the right amount of privacy to do the sort of business the authorities might not approve of. “What do you got in mind, young man?”

“There’s a panel van in your sales lot up there by the road. Looks like it’s seen a few years. Let’s make it an even swap?”

“Boy, you think I was born yesterday!” Alvin Deacon said. “This car of yours is hotter than a preacher’s wife! Don’t know where you stole it, but if I get caught with it on my lot… bye-bye, Alvin Deacon. No deal.”

Gary counted out five thousand dollars from his money roll. “This Toyota and five grand cash for that piece of shit van.”

“Add another five thousand to the top of that and you got yourself a panel van.” Alvin Deacon said with a smile exposing some of the turd colored tobacco wad in his right cheek.

The look on Gary’s face changed. It became dark and fierce and unnervingly confident. He stepped to within an inch of Alvin Deacon’s face. “That Toyota, five thousand, and I won’t come back here in the middle of the night to slit your fat throat!”

Alvin Deacon had run a less than reputable business for well over thirty years. Most of the people who came through here were already unsavory types, looking to unload stolen crap for whatever they could get for it. Threats like that were nothing new. But not once in all that time had anyone scared him like the man standing here, now. The guy injected a terrifying confidence into every word he spoke. There was no doubt in Alvin’s mind if he didn’t take the deal, there was a better than good chance he wouldn’t wake up tomorrow. 

In a weak, shaky voice, Alvin Deacon said: “Give me a couple minutes to get you a license plate, buddy. I’ll meet you out front with the keys.”

Gary handed the man the five grand, then watched him walk inside the metal backdoor of the dirty cinderblock building. Fifteen minutes later, he was driving away in a blue, 1997 panel van that drove like shit and smelled like it had once belonged to a plumber.

TWO

At another truck stop, just over the Maryland border, Gary used some of his newly gained cash to purchase a carton of Marlboro reds, two hamburgers, some various small bags of snacks, a buck knife (why do truck stops always have a display case full of knives?) and a windshield mountable GPS device. There was no way he was going to wander around blindly any longer, and old-fashioned paper maps were definitely out of the question. The cigarettes were an added indulgence. He hadn’t smoked in quite a few years, but the habit had somehow shown up in the back of his mind recently, returning the old craving. The damn things had gone up a lot since the last time he’d bought a pack, too, but he had the money. Who cared? 

He opened the GPS box, mounted the suction cup bracket to the windshield, and plugged the thing into the dashboard cigarette lighter. The unit had to update (of course) for several minutes before becoming operational, so he had time to relax and eat his junk food. 

“Where the fuck are we going?” he said with a mouth full of burger.

Zlo spoke, but this time Gary was ready for the vibration and kept his food from reversing in his throat. “Ah yes, our destination. The place we will make history. The start of our grand adventure.”

“Yeah, great,” Gary said. “You seem pretty hip about this place. What makes it so special?”

“Special isn’t the proper word for it, Mr. Elmer,” Zlo said. “It’s a charnel pit, a cesspool, a vile, repulsive land that disgusts me above anything else on this wretched earth.”

“Well, I don’t want to go there,” Gary said. “Place sounds like a shit-hole.”

“Oh, indeed, it is a shit-hole,” Zlo said. “And we are going to destroy it.”

“Can’t we go someplace nice?” Gary asked. “There are kids all over this goddamn country, millions of them. We could set up shop by the beach or some place like that, couldn’t we?”

“We can go anywhere you’d like, Mr. Elmer, anywhere at all… after the soul of Cumberland Springs is in despair and we bring its people to their knees. That is our only priority at the moment.”

The GPS had finally finished its update and was ready for use. Gary typed in the name Cumberland Springs and waited to see where this place was on the map. “Is that Cumberland Springs, Pennsylvania?” he said when the device returned the results.

“Yes, it is.”

“Well shit! It’s only an hour and a half from here,” Gary said. “We can be there by—” Just then, he glimpsed something in his driver's side mirror: a lovely, young, well dressed blonde woman pumping gas into her car. But that wasn’t the only part of this scene stopping him in his tracks. The intriguing part was the even lovelier child, buckled into the back seat—a girl of maybe eight or nine years of age. They were perfect and beautiful, so innocent, so unsuspecting. And there was no man around, either. Just the two of them, like gentle deer grazing together in a field, completely unaware that hunting season had just opened. 

“Mr. Elmer,” Zlo said. “While I do genuinely appreciate your enthusiasm, we have an agenda. There will be plenty of time for you to indulge later.”

“I want it,” Gary said, unable to take his eyes off of the mirror and the blonde woman with the precious cargo in her back seat. “I want the reward! I need it!” He was shaking with excitement.

Zlo laughed. “I am impressed, Mr. Elmer. You are certainly getting into the spirit of our adventure.”

“I can’t wait, Zlo, I really can’t! I gotta have my reward!”

Zlo didn’t respond, and Gary became uncontrollably intense. He couldn’t help it. His reward was just a few feet away, staring him in the face, begging him to come and retrieve it. They were about to slip away at any moment. She had put the nozzle back into the cradle of the gas pump and was now screwing the gas cap back on. In a few seconds, they would be gone. 

Fuck!

“Zlo, they’re getting away! She’s back in the car!”

“Do you think you can be discrete, Mr. Elmer? Inconspicuous?” Zlo finally said. “Your last attempt almost ended our adventure before it began.”

“Yes, I can,” Gary replied. “I know where I went wrong with the last one. I can do it. Let me have this!”

The car with the blonde woman and child pulled away from the pump island and headed for the exit. They were leaving, completely unaware a rabid animal had set its sights set on them with the most horrifying of intentions.

“You may proceed, Gary. But above all, be discrete,” Zlo said.

Gary didn’t answer, didn’t even blink. He put the van in reverse, backed out of the parking spot, and headed off toward his prey. Seconds later, he was following them on the interstate at a safe, unnoticeable distance. 

Discrete.

After a few brief moments of travel, the right turn signal of the car in front of him blinked. She was getting off at the next exit. Gary’s heart raced and his palms dampened with sweat. This was about to go down. He was really going to find out if he could do it or not. Of course, he knew he could. He’d had that little bastard at the previous truck stop dead to rights until the fucker nearly took his fingers off. That was not about to happen again, though, no, sir. This time, he’d knock the kid out first. Better to carry dead weight than a screaming, biting wildcat. 

From the exit, the woman drove a few miles down a rural road until houses appeared on the left and right—nice houses, big and new. There was money out here. Moments later, she turned left into a beautiful housing plan. The large brick sign off to the right of the entrance read: Lynnwood Acres. The houses were amazing, perfect slices of the American Dream for anyone making six figures and up. Gary immediately realized he stuck out like a sore thumb. A blue panel van that was over twenty years old cruising the streets of this neighborhood? And in broad daylight? Nope, not here, buddy. He was going to have to make this quick—like lightning quick. And he’d have to do it without the woman even knowing what had hit her. Any kind of scream or yell would certainly alert the entire neighborhood. It was bad enough everybody around here probably had those goddamn doorbell cameras that kicked on at the first sign of motion. 

Discrete.

She pulled into the driveway of a big red brick and stucco McMansion. The place was enormous! Even if these people had ten kids, there would still be more than enough room here for all of them. Gary thought one of two things was at play: either they were loaded beyond belief, or mortgaged to the tits. Most likely the latter. 

None of that mattered now, though. He needed to get the kid and get the hell out of here quick. A smash and grab, in and out, before anyone knew what had happened. But how? He guessed he could hit the woman from behind and hope she went lights out before making any noise. But damn if his right hand wasn’t still throbbing from the last kid he had tried to nab and those razor blade teeth of his. Gary didn’t think he’d be able to crack her hard enough to put her down in one blow, and anymore than that would probably send the kid in the backseat into a screaming fit. Not good. There had to be another way.

He stopped the van far enough away from the driveway that the woman didn’t notice him. He’d have the drop on her, but he was going to have to do it right now; she had just gotten out of the driver’s seat and was opening the back door to unbuckle the child. 

Shit! 

Then he saw it, sitting in the van’s center console next to a can of Coke and a crinkled up cheeseburger wrapper. The knife (good ole truck stop cutlery). He bought it because it looked cool, and also because he’d heard his grandfather once say that every real man carries a knife. That was it, the quickest way possible. He wouldn’t have the time to stick around and turn this bitch into a work of art, but she would still be one of his creations, none the less. She just didn’t know it yet.

She opened the back door and bent inside to unbuckle the child. Gary sprung from the van in a full sprint with the buck knife clenched in his right hand like a predator’s claw. He bolted across the lawn and in mere seconds arrived at his destination. She didn’t know he was even there. Without hesitation, he grabbed the woman by her beautiful blonde hair, pulled her out of the car—standing her up against his body—slid the blade deeply across the front of her throat (so deep he actually felt the metal scrape across what had to be her neck vertebrae), then cast her aside like a garbage collector throws a trash bag. She fell to the ground beside him, gurgling and dousing the freshly manicured front lawn with warm, red blood. Her death noises were audible, but hardly loud enough to alert the neighborhood. 

Gary paid the dying woman no more attention; her process would end soon, and she would fade peacefully into the darkness without anymore help from him. His focus was now on the child, still buckled in the back seat. The kid didn’t make a sound—she couldn’t. Her face was so full of horror she looked as if she might explode at any second, but no noise escaped her wide open mouth, yet. The child was in shock, unable to process the atrocity that had just happened to her mother. Gary thought for a second, then decided he couldn’t risk it. She wasn’t screaming now, but chances were as soon as he started off across the lawn, back to the van, she’d bellow like the fat lady at the end of an opera. He had to deal with this right here, right now. 

With the butt end of the buck knife, Gary hit the kid in the middle of the forehead, relieving the look of terror from her face, replacing it with a more peaceful, senseless expression. She was out cold in one shot. He pulled her out of the back seat, situated her in his arms, and ran balls out for the van. He tossed her inside from the driver’s side door he’d left open, then jumped in as well. He had left the van running when he started his play, so getting the fuck out of here was simple and quick. 

As he pulled away from the house, he looked back at the front yard. The woman was on her knees with her face in the grass and her ass in the air. She had both hands around her throat, using her last moments of life to keep as much blood inside of her body as she could (a futile attempt). But her position—which she would ultimately die in—and the amount of blood that covered her lovely white sun dress struck Gary the most. Everything he touched now became immortalized as a work of art. It was amazing, even to him, this newly discovered creative ability. He was a modern master, harnessing the power of the gods to bring humanity something chaotic and beautiful. The world was a better place now that it had a new, prolific genius on the loose. 

“Well, well, well,” Zlo said. “I must say I am indeed impressed, Mr. Elmer. That was fierce! A thing of beauty to observe. Certainly, a thing of beauty.”

“It’ll be a lot more beautiful if I can get the fuck out of here without getting caught,” Gary said. He was doing his best to navigate the neighborhood slowly without drawing attention. This was the hardest part. His instincts wanted to punch the gas and flee the scene in a hurry, but nothing attracts attention like a vehicle—especially an older piece of shit that didn’t belong here—speeding through quiet streets in the middle of the afternoon. 

“You’re going to do just fine, Mr. Elmer,” Zlo said. “I had my doubts at first, but your lack of humanity, coupled with these so called ‘street smarts’ you’re displaying at the moment, have given me a newly gained confidence in you. Keep up the good work!”

THREE

They age the stuff in a charred oak barrel, or cask as it is often called, for a minimum of four years. During that period, the distilled alcohol (made from a two hundred-year-old corn, wheat, rye, or barley recipe) takes on rich flavor characteristics from the wooden barrel. It expands and seeps into the wood on warm days, and condenses back into the heart of the barrel—cask—on cold days. This process is natural, a reaction that occurs in the natural world only to be monitored by man, not interfered with. There is no other flavor like it. Though many have tried, none have ever been able to replicate the taste of fine whiskey aged in charred oak. And something so wonderful shouldn’t be altered or over processed. Leave it alone, the way it’s been done for hundreds of years, the way it was meant to be. 

Reverend Allen smiled as he stood at the whiskey section of the Spirit Shoppe. There were so many wonderfully crafted brands to choose from. It all depended on what one was in the mood for, of course. Scotch, with its earthy peat flavor, unmistakable to Scotland; Bourbon, with its deep richness and slightly higher alcohol content; Tennessee whiskeys, cut with the natural mineral spring waters of the region and filtered over charcoal for extra smoothness. And then there are the Irish. God bless the Irish! Triple distilled. Why triple one might ask? To sure, to be sure, to be sure.

He did this every time he came to the liquor store, standing in front of the shelf, thinking of all the different processes that made each of these delicious nectars. But the result was usually the same, nine times out of ten: good old Jameson. Not that the Jameson family made a better product than any of the other names on the shelf, it was just the right one for Reverend Paul Allen. 

Quite a few of the Baptists whom he ministered to on Sundays didn’t much approve of seeing their reverend leaving this particular store with a brown paper bag in hand, and in broad daylight. Reverend Allen didn’t mind. It wasn’t a sin to enjoy a fine glass in moderation. Yes, he had understood he’d been going through more bottles than usual after his ordeal with the devil in that hospital room back in November, but he could handle it. Alcohol wasn’t a problem if you respected it and respected yourself. A glass or two (sometimes three or four) while settling back in the evening was a treat, not a crutch. And he reminded himself of that every time he poured two ounces over ice into his favorite rocks glass. 

Now he sat at his desk in his study, looking at the computer screen and sipping from an iced glass of that fine Irish splendor. 

Earlier in the evening, he had gone to dinner at the Jennings house. Bill and Elaine had invited him over. Elaine’s recently divorced sister, Leslie, who was only two years younger than the reverend, happened to be there as well. It was easy to see they were trying to fix him up with Leslie, who he did find moderately attractive. He enjoyed the conversation—and the subtle flirting—well enough to do it again in the future, perhaps. But for now, things of that nature would have to wait. He was on a mission these days, which definitely took precedent over anything else.

The research was still on screen, waiting for him to pick back up where he had left off the other night. Daemons, ghosts, the devil, evil, possessions, exorcisms, paranormal phenomenon… it was all there, ready for him to dive back into the cesspool for a late night swim. The subject was fascinating, no doubt, but disturbing all the same. How could God allow these things to exist? And did they really exist at all? Could the encounters Lauren Rivers and her grandmother, Sharon, and countless others had claimed to have had been merely overactive imaginations? He laughed, thinking of his own experience. Nope, no way. His ordeal was as real as a summer's day. That was no deep-rooted part of his imagination, no figment of a forgotten memory resurfacing to haunt him. It was the devil and his minions, crossed over into our world, and they sure as shit held no quarter for Reverend Allen. 

He rubbed his head at the spot where a piece of his flesh had been torn off during the John Doe incident. Hair would never grow again over that spot, but his barber, Jim, did a good job at leaving certain areas longer to cover the scar. Reverend Allen knew it was there. He subconsciously rubbed the damn thing every time he thought back to that night in the hospital. Those bastards had tried to kill him! That went way beyond just the bogey man giving a scare on a dark night. They hated him and wanted him dead. No, these were not figments of the imagination. Those things existed and they could slip into our world as they pleased, or so it had seemed. Maybe they had rules as well. He didn’t know. What he did know was they were there last Thanksgiving, surrounding the patient in room 337, and they did not appreciate the reverend stopping in for a quick prayer. 

So why all the research? What was it going to accomplish? Ok, so the devil is real. What now? Can you fight him? Kick his ass like standing up to a bully? Actually… maybe. From the research he’d already done, he’d found several instances (outside of fiction books and movies) of people standing up to the devil and coming out on top. Most of the stuff he’d found came out of the Catholic faith. They seemed quite adept at facing Satan and sending him packing. They even had a school at the Vatican to actually train priests on how to face the evil one and emerge triumphant. Reverend Allen laughed to himself as he imagined a group of priests in a sort of religious karate class, kicking and punching their way to victory over evil. 

Spiritual Karate or not, there was something down this road. The Catholics took facing the devil seriously. He thought for a few moments about what direction he would head in his research tonight and decided the Catholics might be a good place to start.

After two hours of reading and skimming countless pages (and two glasses of fine Irish whiskey), Reverend Allen had decided it was time to reach out to the Catholics to see what they might offer for advice. It couldn’t hurt. As far as he knew, they were all worshiping the same God, Savior, and Holy Spirit, so why not open a conversation? The worst thing they could say would be, “Go burn in hell, you heathen Baptist sinner!” or something to that effect—probably not so harsh, though. Best-case scenario: perhaps they might open up some of their tightly guarded documents for him to read through. After all, the reverend was only trying to protect his people from the forces of evil. No matter what denomination of Christian they were, shouldn’t protection from evil be in everyone’s best interest?

Though Pittsburgh was a good distance away from Cumberland Springs (close to two hours by car if you take the PA Turnpike), it seemed like the best place to start. The Dioceses of Southwest Pennsylvania was founded way back in 1835 and, from their website, looked extremely organized. Plus, if they were open to receiving him, a trip to the city might be nice. He hadn’t been out that way since before Mary Ann had passed on.

He began his journey by reaching out to the Diocese General Secretariat whom he found via their website, a Father McEllen. Reverend Allen didn’t think sending a letter straight to the Bishop was a good idea right out of the gate. Organizations had chains of command, protocols that needed to be followed. Starting at the top usually got you placed at the bottom. It was much better to work your way up from the middle somewhere and see where it led you. 

The reverend began:

Attention: Father McEllen, General Secretariat, Catholic Dioceses of Southwest Pennsylvania, Pennsylvania.

Dear Father McEllen,

My name is Reverend Paul Allen of the First Baptist Church of Cumberland Springs, PA. I’m writing to you today regarding a matter that…

FOUR

“… is of great importance to myself and several members of my congregation. Before continuing on with my reason for reaching out to your diocese, I would like to state that what you are about to read is no hoax. My testimony is real and can be verified by others if need be. Please continue reading this letter with an open mind and an open heart.

“Six months ago, right around the Thanksgiving Holiday, police discovered a man in the backyard potting shed of a local resident. He was in a horrific state of degradation and barely clinging to life. Paramedics brought him to Cumberland Springs Memorial Hospital, where he was placed in the ICU Ward and given a grim prognosis. His body was in such a terminal state, the doctors couldn’t imagine how he was still alive. 

“This is where I must ask you again to keep an open mind and an open heart. 

“An ICU nurse, a patient in the next room over, and one of the paramedics who brought the patient to the hospital have all claimed to have felt an evil presence surrounding the man, accompanied by horrible smells of sulfur and raw sewage, and the actual appearance of shadow figures. This incident has affected each of them deeply, so much that it has changed their lives forever. I can tell you for certain their testimonies are truthful. There is no personal gain to be had from anyone by developing a fabrication. My certainty also stems from my own incident, which occurred in that very room with that same patient.

“On Thanksgiving night, I was on my way home from dinner at one of my congregant’s house when I stopped off at the hospital to offer prayers for a dying patient. I had heard about the patient earlier in the evening from the ICU nurse who had been attending to him over the past few days. When I sat beside his bed, I was astonished at his state of deterioration. I had never imagined a human being could last so long in such an advanced state of decline. Next, I opened my Bible and read Scripture to him. In the instant I read, an invisible force attacked me. Within seconds, I was being thrown around the room—even to the ceiling—then kicked, bludgeoned, taunted, scratched, cut, and every other form of torture one can imagine. The ordeal went on for several minutes until it finally threw me out of the room, into the hallway. The room was wrecked to pieces, but the patient remained still, not moving throughout the entire experience. 

“I, too, saw shadow figures, smelled the most vile odor, and felt the hatred of pure evil as it unleashed its fury upon me. My experience with the evil surrounding this patient was more visceral than what the others had experienced, in that it had nearly killed me. I testify to this story in front of God and my Savior, Jesus Christ. Evil is real, sir; my very own ordeal with it has made that very clear to me.

“My research over the past six months in trying to understand and cope with this event has led me to your doorstep. I have read much about the Catholic view on facing evil and driving it from God’s earth. My reason for contacting you is to find a better perspective on what had happened to me and the other people who experienced this presence, and how to prepare and protect ourselves against it, should it appear again. Some of us are having residual nightmares and thoughts that have been with us since the incident and would like to find a way to drive it out. Constant prayer has made my life manageable, but the lives of some of the others are not going so well. 

“Please feel free to contact me at… And he goes on with his contact information,” Father McEllen said. He placed the printed copy of Reverend Allen’s email on his large wooden desk and slid it across to the two priests, who sat in leather chairs on the other side. “What do you make of this?”

Father Richardson picked up the letter and looked it over.

“He sounds convincing,” Father Andre said.

“He certainly does,” Father McEllen said as he sat back in his chair. He took a deep, cleansing breath. “Not something we usually get into, is it, Father Richardson?”

Father Richardson, the youngest of the three men at age 32, looked up at his superior priest with concerned eyes and a still boyish face. “This sounds terrible,” he said, and handed the paper over to Father Andre.

“Indeed, it does,” Father Andre added. “But what does he want from us? It doesn’t sound like he’s petitioning for an exorcism or anything like that.”

“Perspective,” Father Richardson said. “Sounds to me like he’s looking for another point of view to give him perspective.”

Father Richardson looked around the large wood paneled room with its bookshelf encased walls with slightly nervous eyes. Getting called into the General Secretariat’s study was like being summoned to the principal’s office. And he’d spent enough time growing up in Catholic School to know those meetings were never just a social call. Something important was afoot, which called for a resolution. Luckily, at his current age, he didn’t have to worry about getting cracked across the knuckles with a yardstick by a pissed off nun who was having a bad day.

“I don’t like to get involved with these things,” Father McEllen said. His older, wrinkled face showed a look of distaste. “It’s not that we’re insensitive to anyone’s experiences with this kind of issue. I just feel perhaps this Reverend Allen should look within his own church for guidance. I’m sure the Baptists have their methods for these matters.”

“I agree,” Father Andre said. He slid the paper back onto the desk. “Let’s direct him back toward his own church. Things like this usually end up making it into the tabloids, then being made into books and movies, and before you know it, the catholic church is at the center of another scandal. It wouldn’t look good if something like that came out of this diocese.”

Father McEllen and Father Andre were much older than Father Richardson, and much higher in the diocese's hierarchy (Father McEllen being the highest, just under the Bishop). Father Richardson was fairly new to the administrative side of the church, recently filling the job of Vicar for Church Relations.  

Though Father Richardson was new to his position and still getting his feet wet around the diocese, he couldn’t simply agree with his two superiors. The letter this reverend had written had a tone to it that struck Father Richardson. It was a genuine call for help, not just a tabloid ghost story written to goad the church into playing along. He let his heart be his guide as he thought about what the letter had said, and the heart didn’t toss any red flags yet.

“I’m sorry, Father Andre,” Father Richardson said. “I’m getting a different feeling from this letter. It sounds authentic to me, like a legitimate plea for help. I think we should consider and pray on this before making a final decision.”

“You’re more than welcome to disagree with me, Father Richardson,” Father Andre said. “But my opinion stands. This looks like trouble we don’t need.”

Father McEllen rocked in his comfortable leather office chair, looking back and forth between the two other priests. He sat quietly with his fingers together in a V shape under his chin, pondering over the situation for several moments. An antique ticking clock that had probably been in this study for a hundred years was the only sound to disrupt the silence. “Are you working on anything pressing at the moment, Father Richardson?” he finally said.

“At the moment, I’m still getting acquainted with my office and the diocese campus,” Father Richardson said. “I haven’t really dug into any projects yet.”

Father Andre let out a deep breath and looked toward one of the bookshelves, displeased this issue wasn’t being outright dismissed.

Father McEllen said: “St. Vincent’s Monastery is out in that region, up in the mountains. I believe it’s less than an hour from Cumberland Springs—I actually had to look that place up on a map. Why don’t you take a drive up to see the Monastery? I’ll notify the Abbot, a Father Quinn, I believe, to take you on a tour and keep you over for a night or two. From there, you can pay this Reverend Allen a visit, maybe get your own perspective on the matter. Report back to me when you finish and we’ll resolve the issue for good. How does that sound?”

Father Richardson smiled widely but tried to keep his excitement at bay. There was an adventure at hand and a problem to solve. He was being granted leave to play detective under the authority of the Holy Roman Catholic Church! Even if nothing came out of this excursion, the thought was still enough to get the juices flowing. “That sounds fine, Father McEllen. I’ll contact this Reverend Allen and let him know I’ll be in the area.”

Father Richardson, with a noticeable spring in his step, grabbed the printed email off of Father McEllen’s desk and left the room, closing the door behind him.

The two remaining priests looked at each other for a silent moment. 

“You think I’m crazy for doing that,” Father McEllen finally said.

“That kid has only been here a week,” Father Andre said. “We don’t really even know him yet. I’m not questioning your judgement, Father. I just worry that things like this have a tendency to get out of hand, quickly. Before you know it, there’ll be headlines: CATHOLIC CHURCH INVESTIGATES EVIL IN A SMALL TOWN. You know how these things go.”

Father McEllen leaned forward and placed his hands on his desk. “Honestly, Father Andre, I felt something when I read that letter. Not sure if it was the words the reverend wrote, or if my conscience perked up when I read it, but there was something about the letter that seemed authentic. I can’t put my finger on it, but it was there.”

FIVE

He ended up in Perryopolis, an hour south of Pittsburgh, in Fayette County. It was the place where he had grown up. Not a lot goes on in this area (small town, farms, a Dairy Queen, a few bars, a gas station) but it’s the place where Henry Ward was born and raised. And it’s the place where his mother and father still lived, in the house they had bought before the kids were born. After driving around for a few hours, not knowing where to go or even having the slightest hint of a plan, Agent Ward ended up at his parent’s house. Just pulling into the driveway lightened his spirits a bit—only a bit. 

Home was safe. He sat in the driveway of the small, two-story cottage, embracing the feelings of love and warmth his memories provided at the moment. Nothing had changed here, not so much as a flower on the rose bushes or a branch in the two oak trees in the front yard. Ward had always come home at least once a month to see his parents, and definitely every holiday, but today was the first time he had taken notice of what this little place really meant to him. When life was difficult and the world was shitting all over him, he could go home, where it was safe, where the world couldn’t follow. 

His mother had come to the front door before he had even stepped out of the car, her face beaming with an endearing smile as she looked at her boy. “Well, my day just got a whole lot brighter,” she said and kissed his cheek when he stepped onto the porch. 

“Hi, mom.”

She pulled back from his hug and studied his face with great interest. “What’s wrong, honey? Is everything alright?”

He walked past his mother and into the living room, saying nothing. He continued into the kitchen, straight to the refrigerator, a habit he’d had since he was old enough to open the fridge door. 

“Henry?” his mother asked. She was leaning against the kitchen archway with her arms folded.

“I’m ok, mom,” he said, pulling out a carton of milk from the top shelf.

“Lie to me again and see what happens, young man,” she said. She had used that phrase for as far back as he could remember. It was not a phrase to be tested, either. When mom let that one fly, she was not fooling around.

He poured a glass of milk and put the carton back in the refrigerator. “I’m just taking a break, I guess.”

“You’re still wearing your suit,” she said. “You never come here in the middle of the day—in the middle of the week—wearing your work clothes.”

“Yeah, I just left the office,” Ward said and sat down at the breakfast nook table.

She tilted her head and studied her son for a few seconds, then went to the refrigerator and pulled out some lunch meat and condiments. A few minutes later, she placed the perfect sandwich in front of his face, exactly the way he liked—loved—it. He’d had these same ingredients in his own refrigerator but could never come close to making a sandwich that tasted as good as the ones his mother made. 

“Alright, son, spill it. What’s wrong?” his mother said.

Ward took a bite of the sandwich. More of life's burdens disappeared as he crunched through the layers. The effect was instantaneous. What could this woman possibly do differently to make a sandwich taste this good? 

“I’m ok, mom, really. Better now,” he said, holding up the sandwich in front of him with a full-mouth smile. His smile quickly faded and his eyes became uneasy when he looked over at the refrigerator.

His mother looked in the same direction to see what had changed his mood so suddenly. “Katie,” she said, gravely. On the refrigerator door, among several dozen other pictures fastened up there by decorative magnets, was a picture of Ward’s niece, Katie. She was wearing a sundress and holding an Easter basket full of chocolate rabbits and colored eggs and colored straw. Her face was exuberant with joy.

Looking down at his sandwich, feeling almost guilty for enjoying it so much, Ward put it down on the plate and pushed it away.

“Honey, don’t,” his mother said. “I can’t say this to you enough: what happened to Katie was not your fault. End of story.”

Ward didn’t answer. He couldn’t look at his mother, either.

“That bastard came out of nowhere and took our Katie from us,” mom said. “Thinking you could have saved her is not good for you, Henry. There was nothing you could have done. By the time you got to the place where she went missing, our girl was already gone.”

She tore a paper towel from a roll on the table and wiped her eyes. “And don’t forget, you’re not the only one who lost her. Yes, you lost your niece, but your sister lost her daughter, and your father and I lost our granddaughter. This has devastated us all equally.”

“But I’m the FBI agent, mom! It was my job to find her and catch the guy!”

“It’s understandable to blame yourself, dear,” mom said. “And you’ve always put so much pressure on yourself to be the best, so I know how hard this is for you. But you have to move on from it, son. Please, for yourself and for all of us. You can’t carry this with you anymore.” She took a drink of her own glass of milk. “Besides, you did finally catch him. When no one else believed you were on to the guy, you proved them all wrong.”

“Yeah, but he was already about dead when I found him. That’s not saying much.”

“Henry, you knew it was him. When everyone else said you were wrong, you stayed on it, and now he can’t hurt anyone else.” Mom wiped her eyes again. “When I try to make sense of it all, I like to think Katie didn’t die in vain. Her death brought you onto the case, and you, not anyone else, finally brought that pig to justice. That’s how I sleep at night, knowing my son apprehended that evil piece of filth.”

Ward smiled at his mother. He loved her glass half-full approach to life. He didn’t actually make a conscience decision to come here today after leaving the office. It was like he was on autopilot, and the car had somehow ended up at his childhood home. Maybe somewhere deep inside he just knew seeing his mother, and listening to her wisdom, might be the thing he needed to get through his problem. She knew him so well, inside and out, and always had the right thing to say to get him past any obstacle.

“When was the last time you visited your sister?” mom asked. 

“It’s been a while.”

“You should go see her,” she said. “Maybe the two of you could both use some time together?”

She was probably right, but Ward had been avoiding going out there since Katie’s death. His sister’s house was nothing more than a harsh reminder to him that Katie was gone. He wasn’t avoiding Sis by any means (they saw each other during every holiday at his parent’s house and sent each other funny text messages all the time), but that house… It was far too painful. Why didn’t she and Dan move after all this? Just get the fuck out of the area? Henry would have. Perhaps they might have felt like they were leaving Katie behind or something like that. He didn’t know. But they were still there, together, chugging along through life the best they could, considering. 

“Where’s dad?” Ward asked.

“He’s still at work,” mom said. “You know your father. He’s afraid if he retires, he’ll die.”

They both laughed together, and suddenly the sandwich on the table had regained its appeal.

SIX

The kids were off at school and Glen was at work till 4:00. It was the perfect time for Vickie Crawford to get organized around the house and do some prep work for Brandon’s birthday party this Sunday. She enjoyed being organized; it was the part of her Type A personality she fully embraced. Every jar and can in the pantry was in its respective place on the shelf with the labels all facing front. Every article of clothing perfectly folded and organized in its respective drawer or closet. Pots, pans, silverware and kitchen gadgets all had an assigned place in a drawer or cupboard. And there were whiteboards all over the house with lists and chores and to do’s and everything else the other members of her household needed to be reminded of. If it was on a whiteboard, it had to be done, and Vickie was the only person allowed to erase anything from them (upon her inspection and approval, of course).

She enjoyed being a mom and taking care of the house. Nothing she’d ever done before in life had come close to the satisfaction she got from keeping her family straight and organized. That went for her husband, too. He needed just as much organizing as the kids, if not more at times. That thought always made her smile. He’d be lost without her, and she liked it that way. 

The phone rang while she was at the breakfast nook table, going over her list of things to buy for Brandon’s party. Glen was going to grill a bunch of meat, but he was worthless at making side dishes. That part was understood to be her responsibility. 

“Hello?”

“Hey, Vic,” the voice said on the other end. It was Kara Walker, one of Vickie’s oldest and dearest friends. They had been that way since the day they met in the first grade at Cumberland Springs Elementary.

“Hey, girl,” Vickie said, recognizing the voice immediately. “What are you up to today?”

“Just running my ass off, getting stuff for these kid’s school projects and every other thing they’re involved in. They’re about to run me ragged.” Kara said, laughing. “You and me need to send the kids and the husbands off somewhere and do a Wine and True Crime night at one of our houses. I could use the break.”

“Oh, I’m with you there, Kara,” Vickie said. “I’ve been trying to get everything together for Brandon’s birthday party this Sunday. Even just a little birthday party turns into a big event around here. You know, with Glen knowing every single person in this town. He doesn’t want to leave anyone out or hurt any feelings.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Kara said. “That’s why I called, actually. Do you want some help?”

“Oh my God, that’s so sweet, Kara,” Vickie said. “Aren’t you busy enough with your own kids and Jack?”

“Oh, I’m plenty busy around here. That’s why I’d like to get away from them,” Kara said. 

“You’re terrible,” Vickie said, laughing. “Actually, I have everything planned out pretty well so far. You know me and my lists.”

“Oh, I know all about those.”

Vickie continued: “But on the day of the party, I could definitely use the help. Can you come over early on Sunday, say 10:00 AM?”

“I take Nolan hiking around the Shawnee Lake trail on Saturdays, so Sunday I’m totally free,” Kara said. “I’ll make Jack take the kids to church. Is Brandon excited?”

“Ha! He’s trying to play the cool teenager, turning fifteen and all, but I can tell he’s brimming with excitement.”

“What did you and Glen get him for a present?”

Vickie scoffed. “That’s still up for debate. He wants a damn crossbow!”

“Shit,” Kara said.

“Yeah, shit is right,” Vickie said. “That’s the last thing a fifteen-year-old boy needs. But Glen is swaying toward letting him have it, and if I say no, I’ll be the bad guy.”

“Sometimes you just have to be the bad guy, plain and simple,” Kara said. 

“Would you let Nolan have one when he turns fifteen? He’s only a few years from that age.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Kara said. “But Jack would probably get it for him, anyway. You know how that goes.”

“What would you do?”

Kara laughed. “I’d shut off the pussy for a few weeks, for sure. But I’d probably cave in, eventually. I think I’m hornier than Jack most of the time.”

Vickie laughed hysterically. These were the conversations she loved the most. Her best friend, laying it all on the line and telling it like it was. “You’re out of control, girl! I love it!”

“I know, right?” Kara said. “Hey, I gotta run, but I’ll be over around 10:00 AM on Sunday. Send me a text if there’s anything you want me to pick up before that. Later, babe!”

“Ok, bye, sweetie!”

For the rest of the afternoon, Vickie Crawford had a wide smile on her face. Kara had a way of doing that to her.

SEVEN

A flutter of anticipation always hit Father Richardson when he called someone on the phone he hadn’t met before. It was just a subtle fear he might stumble in his first few words and make a fool of himself. He looked at the dial pad on his office phone, which almost seemed to laugh at him and his apprehension. Fear be damned, he thought as he tapped out the numbers and listened for the connection to ring. The guy probably wouldn’t answer, anyway; hardly anyone does these days. That left him with only a one shot message on voicemail that would be recorded and played back. If he sounded like an idiot there, no telling how many people might hear it. Hell, it could even wind up on the internet before the whole thing was over. He didn’t—

“Hello, Reverend Paul Allen speaking,” the voice on the line said in a cheery tone.

“Ah, hello… Reverend. This is Father Richardson from the Catholic Dioceses of Southwest Pennsylvania.”

There was a moment of silence before the reverend said: “Yes, yes, Father Richardson. You’re calling in reply to my email, I assume?”

“Yes, Reverend, I am. How are you today?”

“Well, I’m doing just fine. I’m thrilled to hear from you,” Reverend Allen said.

Father Richardson smiled and relaxed. He received a good vibe from the man on the other end within just a few short sentences of conversation. “And I’m happy to speak with you, Reverend. Indeed, I am calling about your recent email to our Diocese General Secretariat, Father McEllen. He has instructed me to reach out to you.”

“I see,” Reverend Allen said. “I appreciate this very much. After I had already sent the email, I read it over again in the morning and thought maybe you all might think I was a little crazy.” He laughed, nervously. 

Father Richardson laughed. “No, not at all. Your letter was sincere, sir. I can assure you no one thought you were crazy.”

“That’s good to know,” the reverend said. “So, what did you think about the content of my letter? About our issue?”

“I have to say, Reverend, it sounds like a terrible ordeal. First let me ask… are you alright? I mean physically, that is. It sounded like you went through quite an experience.”

“Thank you for asking, Father. The bruises have healed, as well as my broken arm, but several other scars still remain. I believe they will for the rest of my life. Physically, though, I’m doing ok. Mentally is a different story. I’m still trying to cope with the aftermath.”

“God bless you, Reverend. My prayers are with you,” Father Richardson said.

“Thank you, Father. Well, I assume since you’re calling, you may have an opinion about my story?” 

“I do, Reverend, and I’d like to hear more about it, perhaps even see where this took place. Would that be possible?”

“Yes, absolutely! I’d love to have you come see us, if it’s not too much trouble,” Reverend Allen said. “I know Pittsburgh isn’t a quick trip. Would you like a place to stay while you're here? Our church parsonage is a big house and I only use a small portion of it for myself. You’re welcome to lodge here during your visit.”

“That’s very kind, Reverend. Actually, I’m going to stay at the St. Vincent Monastery for a few days. It’s a little less than an hour from where you are. How does Wednesday work for you?”

“I will clear my calendar, Father. Wednesday is perfect.”

Father Richardson hung up the phone and stared at it for a moment. That man was sincere, no question. There wasn’t a hint of deceit anywhere in his voice. Something had happened to those people in Cumberland Springs, he was sure of it, now more than ever.

EIGHT

The Lakeview restaurant had opened its doors for business in the 1940s, a few years after the war. The country was happy then and ready to move on from the horrors that had happened in Europe and the Pacific. Countless numbers of boys had left to defend freedom and fight oppression, never to return, leaving behind families and friends who would grieve for them for the rest of their days. 

One boy who did return (well, he left a boy but certainly came back a man) was Harvey Auster. Harvey joined up on December 9th, 1941 and didn’t get back until early 1946. “Five years of pure hell on earth,” was all he’d ever say about his time in the war (he was a U.S. Marine in the Pacific Theater). He’d never elaborate further than that, not even to his wife, and no one really ever pressed him about it. 

When Harvey got back to the states and his little town of Cumberland Springs, he took all the money he had been paid over the course of his military career—which he had not spent a dime of during his enlistment—and bought an old barn that had once been part of the Thompson farm, on the west bank of Shawnee Lake, about twenty feet from the water. The barn itself didn’t cost that much; it was the restoration and all the glass that ate up his funds. But Harvey had a vision only he could see. People in town told him over and over, “Quit foolin’ with that old shack and waistin’ your money. Go get a job in the textile mill or one of the coal mines like everybody else with any sense does.” But Harvey didn’t have time to listen to any of that. He had seen something in the old barn and piece of ground no one else could.

After three years of non-stop work and sweat and sometimes blood, Harvey Auster had achieved the vision he had dreamed of during so many nights while laying in a muddy foxhole, trying not to get his ass shot off or blown up. It was this vision that gave him a reason to keep going through the bullets and the guts and every other inhumanity man can think up to destroy each other. It was this small piece of heaven in his hometown he had fixed up and made into something he and everyone else who lived there could enjoy: the Lakeview Restaurant.

The barn itself was built in the late 1800s by the Amish. If you wanted a barn that would last forever, the Pennsylvania Amish would be the ones to get it done. By the time Harvey was finished with his vision of the place, it had giant windows, floor to ceiling, all along the lakeside wall, exposing not only the beauty of the lake but the most majestic sunsets this part of the world had known. Dinner and a sunset were the big selling point for the Lakeview. The place was packed every evening to watch the giant orange ball cast its brilliant colors across the water and sky, and every table in the room had the perfect view. 

Harvey was fishing on that very spot with his father, years before the war, when they had shared that sunset together. During his time in the middle of hell, he thought back to that day and the incredible view and swore if he ever made it home alive, he would never miss another moment of that glorious sunset. And sharing it with others, well, that would be the pièce de résistance. 

Devon and Linda sat at one of the middle tables now, ten years after Harvey had died and his kids had spread his ashes over the lake, right outside this giant wall of windows. They loved the Lake View, as did everyone in Cumberland Springs. They had even had their wedding reception in this very room. It was a special place for the community, built by someone who loved it as much as he loved his town, and that love was felt by everyone who came here.

Linda looked at her husband, who seemed better somehow. It had to be the new therapist. When Devon came out of her office earlier today, he didn’t seem to carry the heavy weight on his shoulders that usually burdened him. He was different, better. She smiled, watching him read through the menu. He’d get the Chicken Parmigiana, he always did. 

“What are you getting, babe?” Devon asked.

“I haven’t looked at the menu yet,” Linda said. 

Devon looked up at his wife. “And you’re waiting for?”

“I’m waiting for you to stop looking so adorable, but I don’t think that’s going to happen anytime soon,” she said and giggled.

Devon put his menu down and looked into his wife’s eyes. “Are we about to have one of those nights, Mrs. Harris?”

“We are, Mr. Harris,” she said with a devious smile.

“A naked night, Mrs. Harris?” he asked.

“Why, Mr. Harris! You’re no gentlemen!” she leaned in closer to the table. “Which is precisely how I prefer you.”

They erupted into laughter, drawing attention from a few people around them, but not annoying anyone. Both were slightly blushing, now. It had been a long time since they had shared a playful moment like this. Life had become so serious, so cumbersome, lately. Linda had prayed they could eventually return to the happy kids they once were, before Devon went off to Iraq and everything had changed, and especially before whatever had happened last November.

The waiter stopped at the table. “Do you need a few more minutes?” he said with a smile.

“If you do it right, a few minutes is all you need,” Devon said, and he and Linda boiled over with laughter again.

The waiter gave an obligatory chuckle then said: “I’ll give you a few more moments to decide.”

They giggled and smiled at each other some more before regaining enough composure to look at the menus and order food. Devon did order Chicken Parmigiana, again. 

Outside, the sunset had begun. Indescribable shades of purples, yellows, reds, and oranges seemed to set the sky on fire and reflect brilliantly off of the water below. It was breath-taking, not to mention romantic. The attention of everyone in the restaurant went to the giant floor to ceiling windows facing the lake. The room fell almost completely silent, save for a few clanging plates and glasses in the background. This was the moment the dinner crowd had come to see, and the reason Harvey Auster had built the place.   

Devon and Linda looked on quietly at the view beyond the windows, holding hands across the table. She rubbed the top of his hand with her thumb, a gesture that filled him with warmth every time she did it. 

“Quite a sight, isn’t it?” a voice asked from behind Devon, whispering in his ear. “But nothing like the sight of you pissing yourself while Marines died all around you in the desert, is it, Corporal Harris?”

He turned quickly, and was face to face with a white-haired older woman who sat at the table behind him. She had pulled her chair close to him and her face was now inches from his own. 

“This sunset is nothing compared to watching you let all those young boys die, huh?” she continued. Behind her, seated at her table, was an older man in an outdated plaid suit. He was looking at Devon and nodding in agreement with everything the woman was saying. The look on his face said, shame on you.

His heart fluttered like a dog trying to run on a freshly waxed hardwood floor, then began pounding in his chest. His breath took off with his heart and he struggled to find air.

The woman glared at him with dark, foreboding eyes. They seemed to possess a terrifying confidence, unworldly and foreign. They didn’t belong in this world with the rest of us, like something that had come here from an unspeakable place, here only to cause harm and pain. 

He couldn’t speak. There wasn’t enough breath in his lungs to push through his vocal cords. 

“Oh, having trouble, are you?” the woman said. “Honestly, young man, whatever made you think you could handle being a medic in the Marine Corps? You can’t even face an old woman in a crowded restaurant. How could you ever imagine being competent enough to save lives? You are pathetic, Devon Harris! Simply pathetic!”

“Yes, pathetic,” another voice said from a different part of the room. A middle-aged man and woman sat at a table, both looking at Devon with contempt in their eyes. “You let our son die in that shit-hole,” the man spoke. “You’re a worthless piece of trash, Mr. Harris. Trash!”

“He let our son die, too,” a voice came from another table. When he looked, he saw another middle-aged man and woman, both of them crying. The man’s red face and furrowed brow made him look like he wanted to kill Devon.

Devon felt a subtle tapping on his knee. He looked down and saw a little blonde-haired girl in a cute sun dress staring up at him. “Why did you let my daddy die, Mr. Harris? He’ll never get to see what I drew for him in school today.” She held up a child’s crayon drawing, crudely illustrated, but Devon could still make out the image. It was him in his camouflage fatigues, the name Harris displayed prominently over his right jacket pocket, his face sad and drawn to look like a clown. Dead bodies lay all around him in a giant pool of red crayon blood. The word Daddy floated above one body with an arrow pointing down at it.

Suddenly, from all over the room, shouts and jeers came from every person there: “You killed our son, you bastard!” “Fuck you, Devon Harris, I hope you pay for this!” “You don’t deserve to live, you pig!” “Kill yourself, Devon! Just kill yourself!”

He felt a presence standing next to him, large and imposing. He looked up. Staring back down at him was Captain Bender, his commanding officer in Iraq. Bender’s face was distorted into that bull dog scowl so many Marines had feared. When that look appeared on Captain Bender’s face, you needed to get the fuck out of the way, fast! “What the ever-loving-fuck is this, Harris? Explain this bullshit to me, NOW!” 

Devon stared into the captain’s face, tears now pouring down his cheeks. The sound of the jeering crowd growing louder in the background. 

“Are you crying, you little bitch?” Captain Bender said. “Tell me you’re fucking shitting me right now! You are crying? No wonder there’s dead Marines all over the goddamn place. You let them all die. These mothers and fathers are sonless and daughterless now because of you. Wow! You fucking amaze me, Corporal. You just fucking amaze me. And that’s not easy to do.” He reached into his belt and pulled out a shiny, nickel plated 1911 Model Colt .45 pistol and held it in front of Devon, waiting for him to grab the handle and take it. “Just kill yourself, Harris. It’s the only way to make all this right. Do it!”

Devon looked across the table at his wife, who was shaking her head and looked utterly disgusted at her husband. “The Captain is right, honey. It’s the only way to make this right. Just kill yourself.”

The jeering had turned into a soft chant in unison that became louder and louder with every phrase they spoke. “Do it… do it… do it… do it.” Soon they were all hysterically screaming in perfect harmony, “DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!”

He looked at the gun his commanding officer held in front of him. It was a special model made by Colt, given only to officers. “Come on Harris, it’s time. Give these families peace. Kill yourself.”

A scream bellowed up from deep inside and felt like razor blades in his throat as it blasted out of his mouth. Devon stood up and nearly flipped the table into his wife’s lap. “NO! NO! NO!” He shouted, grabbing his ears and forcing his eyes closed as hard as he could. “I won’t,” he yelled. “I won’t do it!”

The room went silent, not even the clank of a glass or dish. Devon caught his breath and finally pulled together the courage to open his eyes, still holding his ears. Captain Bender was gone. The little girl was gone. The white-haired woman at the table behind him was gone. In fact, no one in the room looked at all like the people who were spewing such horrible taunts at him moments ago. The restaurant was full of familiar faces, people he’d known from living here all his life. And Linda was still seated at the table, though now she looked shocked and afraid. Actually, everyone in the room looked shocked and afraid. 

What had just happened? It was real; he was sure of it. He had felt the spit hit his face as Captain Bender unloaded his artistic, profanity laced rant upon him. He had smelled the horrible breath of that old woman who whispered in his ear. It had all happened. None of that could have possibly come from inside of his own head. 

“Damn it, fuck!” he said and headed for the door, almost knocking over the restaurant manager—one of Harvey’s kids—as the man was coming to see what was wrong. 

Linda got up and ran out the door after her husband. She was crying so hard her eyes were fully blurred over with tears. She actually did hit the manager and knock him over on her way after her husband.

NINE

One hour per day, rain, snow, or shine. That’s it, one hour. It hardly seemed like enough time on a beautiful day like today, but that’s all they allotted the inmates at the Somerset Correctional Facility. One miserable hour. Some played basketball, some lifted weights, others just walked around feeling the sun on their faces (a small pleasantry so many take for granted). And then there are those who just sit in one place until the bell rings, the sullen ones, not wanting to be bothered as they revel in their own misery.

Harry and Billy were walkers. They milled around the yard, doing their best to avoid the bigger inmates who bullied them or threw things at them or called them faggots. They were in very little danger of getting shanked or beat up, because both were experts at keeping out of trouble. They were small and slinky—like weasels. So, just like on an elementary school playground, the smaller kids had to become adept at avoiding the attention of the bigger kids, who just loved to flex their muscles. Society hasn’t developed far from kids on a playground to nations asserting their dominance over one another. The mentality is all the same: the bigger you are, the more power you have, and you always want to make sure everyone knows it. 

“Hey princesses,” an inmate yelled at Harry and Billy as they walked around the track together. “When’s the beauty pageant? I can’t wait to see you in your little fairy dresses!” The jeer came out of a group of sizable men who were lifting weights. Laughter erupted from the pack. 

“Not a word, Billy,” Harry said. “Just keep walking.”

“I hate those motherfuckers,” Billy said in a low voice. “Let me run into one of those assholes on the outside someday; See what happens!”

Harry laughed. “Yeah, you’ll get your ass kicked out there just as fast as you would in here. But out there, no one will be around to break it up.”

“Yeah, well, fuck them guys anyway!”

They put their heads down and kept moving out of the range of the weightlifting crew. At least it was a nice day outside—that made the comments a little easier to swallow today. 

Still in the middle of their first lap around the yard (they could do about ten before the bell rang), Harry and Billy noticed something strange. Was it a feeling, perhaps? Neither could tell, but something heavy had suddenly filled the air. They looked at each other with perplexed faces, realizing they had both felt it. And whatever it was became thicker as they continued walking. Finally, they had to stop; going any further seemed like a terrible idea. 

“You feel that, don’t you?” Billy asked.

Harry looked around. “I do, man. I don’t know what the fuck that is, but I feel it.”

This part of the yard was unoccupied for some reason. It was as if all the inmates must have felt the same thing and kept away from this section. And oddly enough, there wasn’t a guard in his usual spot over here, either. He must have bugged out, too. 

“Oh shit! Look!” Billy said, grabbing on to Harry’s sleeve with one hand and pointing at something with the other.

Harry looked and quickly saw what had seized Billy’s attention. About twenty yards ahead, sitting on a bench under the shadow of the prison building’s main wall, was the new inmate, the one that came in the other day. He sat like a stone statue with his arms crossed and a frozen, imposing glare chiseled into his face. He had longer dark hair, and a stumbled face. But it was his body that stood out the most, extremely toned and almost a full size too big for the prison garb they gave him upon arrival. He didn’t belong here, not just in this prison, but perhaps not in this world. Something was wrong with him, about him. It was terrifying to be in his presence, and the guy was still twenty yards away.

Without saying a word or giving a gesture, Harry and Billy turned and headed back in the other direction, toward the weightlifting crew. Moments later, the weightlifters were mocking and laughing at them as they walked by.

“Hey, princesses, why don’t you two kiss for us? Give us a show?” a voice called out. 

Billy stopped and looked at the inmate who had made the comment. “That guy over there,” he said, pointing toward the one who had terrified them. “He told me to tell you he wants to see you right now.”

The inmate looked over to the spot Billy had pointed to. He quickly turned his attention back to the weight bench and left Billy and Harry alone, as did the others.

TEN

Tuna salad on toast with a pickle on the side and a handful of plain kettle cooked potato chips. Somebody told Glen once that eating too much tuna could give you mercury poisoning, but he didn’t care. Whatever Becky, the head cook at Nana’s, used in her tuna salad recipe, made it a delicacy that could be served in a five-star restaurant, something he simply could not resist. It was a sandwich you had to have as soon as it crossed your mind, and nothing could stand in your way.

“You ever going to try anything else on the lunch menu, Chief?” Becky asked as she personally brought the sandwich out to the lunch counter and placed it in front of Glen. “I make a pretty good Philly Cheese Steak.”

Glen laughed as he looked adoringly at the plate in front of him. “Becky, you have achieved perfection with this sandwich right here. Anything else couldn’t possibly live up to it.”

“That is a pretty good sandwich, if I do say so myself. Let me know if you need anything else, Chief.”

The lightly toasted bread and expertly made tuna salad melted in his mouth, as always, upon the first bite, sending signals of happiness and contentment throughout his body. He ate slowly, savoring each mouthful until he had consumed the last morsel. Today was a good day.

It took Glen a good twenty minutes to eat his lunch and reflect on how wonderful it was. After he had finished, he got up and left a $10 on the counter. They never charged him for anything at Nana’s, but he always left the amount for his meal plus a tip on the counter, regardless. 

The day was bright and the smell of spring was everywhere as he stepped out of the cafe onto the town square. Jim Henderson’s lawn service was cutting the grass around the gazebo and the Veteran’s monument, filling the atmosphere with the sweet smell of fresh cut grass. It reminded him he needed to cut his own lawn when he left the office later this afternoon. 

There were twelve metal street lamps in total around the square, each with a decorative metal arm that jutted out of both sides, a little more than halfway up, just before the English style glass lantern top. The metal arms were used to hang floral baskets, two on each lamp post. The Cumberland Springs Beautification Society was hard at work hanging the new baskets, just in time for this weekend’s Mile Long Yard Sale. They only had four light posts completed, but it looked pretty good so far.

“How ya doing today, Chief?” Barbara Rowland called down from the top of her ladder. She had just placed a basket of spring flowers onto its respective hook.

“I’m doing fine, Barb,” Glen said, looking up, shielding his eyes from the sun. “The light posts are looking beautiful, as always.”

He exchanged brief smiles and pleasantries with the ladies who were helping Barbara, then headed over to see Jim Henderson, who was taking a break from his grass cutting and sitting on the granite bench by the Veteran’s monument. He knew Jim was taking a little more than just a normal break from his work. His kid brother, Ryan, was the second from the last name carved into that memorial, honoring him as another one of Cumberland Springs’ young men and women killed in service to our country. Whenever Jim cut the grass over there, he always ended up spending an hour or so sitting on that bench. Sometimes Glen would leave him to it, but other times he’d pop over for a quick chat to make sure Jim was ok. 

Glen sat down next to Jim, saying nothing. The two men just stared at the names on the memorial together quietly.

“Not a bad day out today, huh, Chief?” Jim finally said.

“Not bad at all,” Glen said. “Good day for cutting grass.”

“That it is,” Jim said. “I got a few more to do before I call it a day.”

“Yeah, I’m thinking about cutting mine today, too, after work,” Glen said. “Are you and Mary still coming over on Sunday for my son’s birthday party?”

“Oh yeah, we’ll be there, Glen,” Jim said. “Mary already called Vickie to tell her we’re coming.”

Glen put his hand on Jim’s shoulder. “That’s great! I’m glad you’re coming, buddy. Should be a good party. I’m grilling.”

Glen got up and left Jim to his thoughts, confident his friend was ok.

Across the square from the war memorial, was La Chance Hardware and Sporting Goods. Tim La Chance had taken over his father’s hardware store completely a little over ten years ago (though the old man still comes to work every day, he lets Tim make all the business decisions now). The first thing Tim did when he took the reins was open up the warehouse in back and make it part of the store. Then he brokered deals with major suppliers of name-brand merchandise and turned the place into a thriving business able to compete with any of the big chain stores in Bedford or Somerset. And his small town pricing structure made sure La Chance Hardware was the best place around for all your home good needs.

Though Glen was two years ahead of Tim in High School, they had still spent some time on the same football team together. It wasn’t until recent years that they became such close friends. Now the Crawfords and La Chance’s got together all the time and enjoyed each other’s company very much.

“Hey, buddy,” Tim La Chance said as Glen walked into the store. “Glad you stopped by today. That thing came in you were thinking about buying Brandon for his birthday. Holy shit! It’s a badass!”

“You didn’t say anything to Lisa, did you?” Glen asked. “You know, the first thing she’d do is call Vickie.”

“Huh? Oh, no, not a word,” Tim said. “I can’t believe Vickie is letting you buy it for him. Lisa would kill me if I let my boy have one of these. Follow me.”

They walked into the back part of the building, which was now the sporting goods section. 

“Actually, Tim,” Glen said. “Vickie and I are still in discussion. She’s not happy about it, but I think she’s coming around.”

“You ever shot one of these things?” Tim asked. 

“Well, no, I haven’t. But I’m pretty good with a regular bow. How hard can it be?”

Tim put the box on top of the glass counter and both men looked at it with eager anticipation. 

“Want to do the honors?” Tim said. 

Glen laughed. “I think the two of us are more excited about this than my son is.”

He pulled off the cover of the large box, exposing the device inside, a black compound crossbow complete with six arrow bolts. Damn, the thing just looked mean! They stood there staring at it in awe. 

“Let’s shoot it,” Tim said.

“What? Here?”

Tim could hardly contain himself. “Yeah, man, I sell archery supplies now, too, and I just set up a range in the basement. I might start a junior archery league this summer for the kids. How cool would that be?”

“You’re a kid, Tim,” Glen said.

“Oh, and you’re not, ole pal?”

They couldn’t hold themselves back any longer; they had to know how this thing worked. And after an hour of firing countless arrows down range in the hardware store basement, Glen finally realized he needed to get back to work before the end of his shift.

“If I can’t win the debate with Vickie over getting this for Brandon tonight, are you going to be stuck with it? I mean, do you think you can sell it if I can’t buy it?” Glen said.

“Are you kidding me?” Tim said. “If you don’t want it, I’m keeping it for myself. Hell, I’ll even let you come over and play with it, occasionally.”

Glen left the hardware store and headed back to the municipal building. While he was shooting paper targets in the basement with Tim, the Beautification Society had finished all of their hanging baskets, and the square now looked vibrant with color. 

“Any calls, Lindsay?” Glen said as he came into the office.

“Nope. Zip, nada, zilch, Chief,” she said.

Glen sat down in his comfortable chair and put his feet up on his desk. He quietly said to himself: “Perfect! Just the way I like it.”

ELEVEN

Power, raw and violent and all-encompassing. It was everything, all that mattered. Power over the world and each of its inhabitants. Man, beast, fish, plant, and microscopic organism, Gary Elmer reined over all of it, and all of it understood and graciously bowed to him in servitude. He was the supreme ruler, the god over everything that lived, owner and conqueror—the benevolent one. The most powerful force on the planet was not rushing water, a volcano, lightning, or an atomic explosion. The highest form of energy in the known world was Gary Elmer.

The feeling could not be put into words—humans didn’t possess the intelligence needed to describe what Gary felt. And being that he was the only person who had ever lived capable of attaining this level of power, humans could never understand it, anyway. It was his and his alone. 

What could he do with such power, such energy? He could heal or destroy, inflict vast amounts of pain, or end all suffering in the world today. His finger was on the button of life, and it was only for him to decide which way humanity should go. 

It was immense, this unbelievable current that resonated through every cell of his body. There truly were no words to put it into the human context. He had become a god, pure and simple. 

He awoke on his back in the middle of a forest, looking up at the sky through the leaves and branches of giant trees which surrounded him. The warmth of his experience now fading from his body in subtle aftershocks. He had come back. The rush was over and Gary Elmer, ruler of the natural world, was now just Gary Elmer, the man he had always been. The reward had come and gone. But damn, that shit was intense!

When he sat up and looked around, he didn’t recognize where he was. He had no recollection of how he ended up out here in the middle of the woods, but it was a warm afternoon, and he had just come down from the rush of a lifetime, so all was good. Better than good, actually, all was perfect.

After he sat for a few minutes, enjoying the sounds and smells of the forest, he got to his feet to have a look around. Being lost in the woods was actually a regular fear of Gary’s, but not today. Today, the world was just fine, and nothing could bother him. 

A short walk through the underbrush led him to an almost undetectable dirt road. It looked like an old gas-well access or logging road that had been long forgotten and grown over. But someone had gone this way recently, because something had tamped the overgrowth down, possibly a vehicle. 

He followed. 

After a few minutes of walking, Gary saw it: the blue piece of shit van he had purchased from that Alvin guy a few days ago. His memory was returning now. He didn’t remember driving the thing clear out here, but he must have. Damn, that reward is a trip! The last thing he remembered before the reward was him running. He was running for some reason. It was a good reason, too, but what? Why the fuck was he running?

“Oh, shit!” Gary yelled out to the echo of the woods. “The kid!”

The memory hit him hard. He had killed that woman and abducted the child from the backseat of her car. He’d knocked the little girl out, but he didn’t know how long before she might have woken up. Hell, he didn’t even know how long he was laid out in that power drunken stupor. She could have easily come to and made a run for it. The little fucker might be anywhere out here!

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” He yelled as he ran for the van, his nervous heart pounding in fear. He could be screwed right now. Guaranteed, there was a search party out looking for her by this time. Dogs, helicopters, an entire line of cops and volunteers just begging to take a shot at a child abductor—which is what he was now. His fear and lack of confidence were the farthest thing from the power trip he’d just been on. He hated the way he felt.

Gary ran so fast up to the back of the van he couldn’t slow himself down before smacking right into it. He didn’t fall, but bruised his left shoulder. The doors flew wide open when he pulled them, one getting away from his control and banging off of the left taillight, luckily not breaking it. He stood, out of breath, peering into the dark cargo area. The space was empty, save for a small mound of something. He couldn’t make it out at first as his eyes adjusted to the dark interior, but soon he came to understand what it was. 

There was hair, blonde, like the woman he had killed on her own front lawn, but lighter, younger. It was the hair of a child. Her back was turned to him and she was curled up in the fetal position. Gary let out a tremendous sigh of relief. The kid was still here and not in the hands of the authorities, giving them a vivid description of the man who had killed her mother and the blue van he was driving. She hadn’t woken up yet. He knew he had cracked her pretty good, but didn’t think she’d be out for this long (however long this long was). 

He stared at her curled up body for a moment, studying it. There was no movement from her at all, not even a twitch. There wasn’t even the rise and fall of her breathing. She looked inanimate. 

Gary swallowed and gave his breath a few more seconds to slow down. He then reached in and grabbed the girl by the shoulder. Her body was cold. He pulled her over onto her back, then stumbled backward in shock, falling onto his ass. That face! It scared the hell out of him. Her face was contorted in an expression of sheer terror. Her eyes bulged almost wide enough to pop out of the sockets. Her mouth hung open in a frozen, soundless scream. And in the split-second glimpse Gary had seen before his ass hit the ground, he even noticed the purple bruise in the middle of her forehead where he had hit her with the butt of his buck knife. Her appearance was macabre. It scared him. He’d seen things in his life before this moment that had shaken him up, but this little girl’s face genuinely horrified him. 

“What are you doing on the ground, Mr. Elmer?” Zlo’s voice vibrated through Gary’s body, causing him to let out a scream.

“Zlo! What the fuck?” Gary shouted. “What happened to her?”

Zlo laughed. “This innocent? The one you procured for me?”

“Yeah, the girl. What happened to her?”

“You’re referring to her current condition?” Zlo said. “It is a result of my indulgence. The only thing which gives me any relief from this wretched place I’ve been cast here to endure.”

“Is she dead?” Gary asked. He was even more out of breath now.

“Oh, indeed,” Zlo said. “She is no longer with us.”

“What did you do to her? Why does she look like that?” Gary asked, panting for air.

“Oh no, Gary. The question is: what did we do to her?” Zlo said. “You are just as much a part of this grand adventure as I.”

The weight of the situation became heavier than Gary could have imagined. Was he a child killer now? Was he even capable of doing something like this? Yes, the reward was worth anything, but looking at this dead kid, knowing he was responsible, just didn’t seem possible. There was still something left inside, a flicker of light in the dark cave of his soul, trying to tell him this was all too much. Killing wasn’t the issue; he could do that all day and sleep like a baby at night. But killing a child? And right there was the line. If he’d ever wondered what line he wouldn’t cross, he’d found it staring back at him from the cargo area of this piece of shit van. 

“Are you serious right now, Mr. Elmer?” Zlo said.

“Zlo, I can’t do this, man. I can’t kill a kid.”

Zlo laughed. “Well, technically, your responsibility over her death comes only from the fact that you brought her to me. The rest is my doing.”

“How did you kill her?” Gary asked. “Why does she look like that?”

“I’ll explain this once, Mr. Elmer, then we really must move on to the focal point of our adventure: You bring me the innocent, and in return, I give you a reward that fulfills every dream and desire you’ve ever had. As for her condition? It’s simply wonderful. I merely present myself to them. The fear they endure from my appearance is more than they can withstand, leaving them to die in a moment of horror and trepidation. This, I relish; I absorb it; I revel in it! It is the only relief I have here on this fetid ground (other than watching you commit atrocity after atrocity, just to satiate your own selfish desires. That I definitively appreciate). So, to clear your conscience (which I can’t believe you’re still wrestling with after all of this), no, Gary. Though you brought her to me, your hands did not complete the final act. And just so you don’t forget…”

Gary dropped to his knees. The rush of power came over him so fast he felt like he could explode into billions of particles. He was no longer in the woods, standing next to the van. Now he was on a mountain top, looking down over a vast valley filled with what looked like millions of people. They were all bowing up and down, worshiping him and chanting his name. The women, all beautiful beyond belief, were each naked and dancing for him in the most erotic gestures. The men were holding up golden statues made in his likeness. There were even animals, bowing to him in servitude. He was once again the supreme being on earth, the god he always knew he was.

Then it all vanished and the pain of reality was back. He lay on the ground outside of the van, begging Zlo to take him back to the mountaintop, back to the people who adored and worshiped him. 

“So you do remember that, Mr. Elmer?” Zlo said.

Gary laughed. “Fuck yeah, I do!”

“Then pull yourself together! It’s time for our grand adventure to begin.” 

Gary got up and dusted himself off. He reached into the van, grabbed the girl’s body by the hair and the back of her pants, and threw her into the wooded underbrush of the forest with no regard at all, the same way he had tossed her mother aside, like she was just another trash bag for the heap. He got into the driver’s seat and lit a Marlboro before starting the van. 

“Are you going to leave the body like that?” Zlo asked.

“Ha! Fuck her,” Gary said.

Zlo let out a long, hearty, vibration filled laugh. “That’s the spirit, Gary!”