URGENT Justice

by John Etzil

  I was served by a smiling, slightly overweight fiftyish redhead named Sarah who smelled like cigarette smoke.

  “Where are you from, honey?” she asked.

  “New York. I’m passing through with my mom to visit some relatives in Pittsburgh. How about you? You from around here?”

  “Yeah, born and raised. Never left.”

  “Never had the urge to live in other places?”

  “Nah, not really. I’ve got it nice right here.”

  “Good for you.” I took a sip of coffee and decided to do a little prodding about the church. “Mom’s a holy roller. Any good churches around here?”

  “Why, sure, honey. The First Unitarian Covenant of Friendly Friars is where you want to take her. Services every day at seven a.m. That way, most people can attend before work. We have multiple services on weekends too.”

  “That’s convenient. Who’s the pastor?”

  “Pastor Jeff. He’s out of town until tonight.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, Pastor Jeff’s busy. He’s the mayor too. He pretty much has a say in everything around here.”

  “Interesting. Is your pastor allowed to marry? That’s becoming pretty mainstream now. A big change from when I was growing up.”

  She hesitated a second, and I saw her look away. “It’s complicated.”

  I couldn’t help but notice the pregnant pause and the wary look in her eye. Sarah excused herself to go check on someone’s order.

  I finished my burger and washed it down with tap water that smelled like eggs. God, this place sucked. I missed the Red Barn so bad, especially Debbie.

  I left the diner and drove around the FUCOFF church to see if any lights were on. Pitch black. I wondered if the pastor lived in the rectory. I would have to drag Frances to the seven a.m. service tomorrow. Hopefully the pastor would be on the altar. Maybe she’d recognize him. If she didn’t, my only option was to break into this place and search it. I was convinced that the pastor was a person of interest, and I wasn’t leaving here until I found out for sure. I thought about breaking into the rectory tonight, but my fatigue level was off the charts high, so I decided to get a good night’s sleep before I went into stealthy burglar mode.

  I drove back to Peter’s Motel and let myself in. Frances was lying in the same position she’d been in when I’d left, and still snoring like a buzz saw. I figured she was out for the night. I decided to shower before hitting the couch, wondering if my pit bull Buddy snored louder than Frances, and if he did, was I conditioned enough to sleep through this racket?

  I had no way of knowing it, but Frances’s snoring was the least of my worries.

  16

  The Prophet

  Buford sat in the Prophet’s office, a sparsely furnished room with light paneling, a shag rug, and a few landscape paintings decorating the walls.

  “So what’s going on?”

  “We have a visitor, sir. A sheriff from Schoharie County, New York, by the name of Jack Lamburt.”

  “Schoharie County?” The Prophet leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his white hair. “That’s unfortunate.”

  “Yes. And he’s with an old lady.”

  “Really?” He frowned and finger-stroked his chin. “You think he’s on to us?”

  “Not sure, sir. But to be safe, should we, um, proceed with risk reduction?”

  “Are they staying at Peter’s?”

  “Yes, sir, they just checked in. They’re in the usual room.”

  “Good. Don’t do anything. Let me watch them for a while, and I’ll let you know if we need to proceed. His visit could just be a coincidence.”

  “Roger that, sir.” Buford stood up, and with a slight bow, he shook the Prophet’s hand. “Thank you, sir.”

  The Prophet nodded, held his hand, and said a quick prayer. Buford left, and the Prophet picked up his phone and dialed a number from memory.

  “Yes?”

  “Come over now. We may have a problem.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll be right there.”

  Twelve minutes later, the Prophet welcomed the man into his office. They exchanged a few quick pleasantries and went into a small room off his office. They sat down at a desk filled with small black-and-white monitors. Except for a single upgraded miniature camera that had been installed recently, the security system at Peter’s Motel was almost as antiquated as the motel itself. The Prophet turned on the bank of monitors and looked at the front desk, where Willard was busy playing some kind of electronic game. The Prophet shook his head in disgust. Damn that kid. No matter how many times he preached in sermon about the evils of the devil’s electronic devices, the younger generation seemed to be drawn to them like flies to shit. The world was going to hell.

  He switched over to the camera that covered the right hallway and caught a glimpse of a large man exiting the last room.

  “Who’s that?” the man asked.

  “It’s a sheriff. From Summit, New York.”

  “Oh no,” the man said. He fumbled through his pockets, took out a cigarette and lit it.

  “You recognize him? Did he see you when you were in town?”

  “No. I remember everyone I ran into. I never saw this fellow, and I’m sure he never saw me. Maybe his visit is just a coincidence?”

  The two watched as the sheriff climbed into his SUV and pulled out of the parking lot. The Prophet switched cameras to the one inside the smoke detector in room number 19. “What about her? You recognize her?”

  The man examined the slumbering figure on the bed, but he couldn’t quite place her. The Prophet zoomed in to get a closer view of her face. The man recognized the old lady from the bait shop, and he bolted upright. “Shit. I remember her. I ran into her at a store I stopped at to get a pack of smokes, and we had a short conversation. I remember thinking about how she was smart as a tack for an old lady. She must be here to identify me.”

  The Prophet scowled and picked up his phone. Buford answered on the first ring, and the Prophet didn’t waste any time on pleasantries. He barked out his order with military precision.

  “We are a go with Operation Risk Reduction. Assemble your crew, and stand by for further instructions.”

  The Prophet waited for confirmation and hung up the phone.

  Menthol Man shook his head and stood up and left.

  17

  Visitors

  Inside the small room next to his office, the Prophet watched the old lady sleep on the bed. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation, the adrenaline from the upcoming mission energizing his whole body, giving him life, making him feel like he was eighteen again. Like when he was in the Marines, taking aim with his sniper rifle and preparing to take a life in the Middle East shithole where he’d spent three years in a secret combat mission in a secret war that the US wasn’t involved in.

  God, he missed those days. Playing God, deciding who lived or died. Nothing in civilian life could make him feel that way. Lord knew he tried, everything from cocaine to making porn films. But the only thing that came close was killing. And sex with teenage girls.

  He reached for a cigarette, lit it, and inhaled deeply. He followed it up with a mouthful of Balvenie scotch and smiled. He caught a glimpse of movement in the corner of the monitor. His eyes widened, and he perked up in his chair and watched the door to the motel room open.

  A man walked in.

  He leaned back in his chair and took a celebratory sip of the thirty-year-old scotch.

  I got you now.

  He relished his victory for a few seconds, then picked up the phone and dialed.

  Buford answered with a curt “Yes, sir?”

  “It’s go time.” He awaited confirmation and hung up the phone.

  “You sure this will work?” the young man asked. His voice had a slight tremble to it, and he balled up his hands and rested them on his lap to hide his nervousness, which in his case presented itself in the form of shaking fingers.

  “Yeah, I’m sure. Now quit bugg
ing me. Third time you asked. This ain’t my first rodeo.”

  “I know, I know. It’s not my first either.” He wiped the sweat from his brow and rolled down the car window to let some cool night air in.

  “Grow a pair, will you? You’re a goddamn deputy for Christ’s sake.”

  “Yeah, I know, but this guy’s a sheriff. From a real town.”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “He probably has some serious training.”

  “And we have the element of surprise. Now shut up. We’ll be there in a few minutes. And no slamming the car door when we get out. We don’t want to give that up.”

  “Give what up?”

  “The element of surprise. Jeez, kid, get your shit together.” Sheriff Buford shook his head in disgust. Kids these days…

  18

  Caught with My Pants Down

  I soft-closed the door and tiptoed through our dark room without turning any lights on. I was stealthy as could be, not wanting to take a chance on waking Frances for fear that she’d keep me up all night chatting. Or worse, she’d light another cigarette and smoke me out.

  I managed to make my way into the bathroom without bumping into anything, and I turned the nightlight on. I closed the door and stepped out of my clothes.

  I reached past the shower curtain and turned on the shower, which only took a few seconds to reach a warm temperature. I stepped in and stood still, letting the warm water cascade over me and bathe me in relaxation. The water pressure was firm, like you’d find in the older hotels before the politicians came up with water laws that decreased shower flow to the same pressure that an eighty-year-old man with an inflamed prostate barely reached at three in the morning.

  I finished rinsing off and killed the water. I stepped out of the shower, careful not to make any noise, and grabbed a towel to wipe myself dry. I turned to hang the damp towel over the shower curtain rod and the light came on. I heard a guttural scream. Without thinking, I grabbed my Glock from the toilet seat and spun around, ready to fire.

  It was Frances.

  “Jesus, Frances, what the hell? You could’ve been shot.”

  “I needed to go to the bathroom.”

  “You could have knocked.”

  “I didn’t know you were in here. The only light was the nightlight. You always stand around with no clothes on in the dark?”

  I put the Glock on the sink, grabbed a towel and covered myself with it.

  She smiled and nodded towards my junk. “You’re not in André the Giant’s league, but not too shabby either.”

  I felt my face flush. What was it with old people and their inappropriate social skills? Did they lose their filter as they aged? I sighed in frustration. That vision of her with Max and Gus freight-trained though my head again, and I shook it away with a cringe.

  “Can you please get out?”

  “You’re blushing.”

  I pointed to the door. “Out.”

  “I don’t have my Depends on, and I need to pee.”

  I closed my eyes and took a breath. “Fine.”

  I held the bunched-up towel on my junk with one hand, grabbed my clothes with the other, and slid past her and out the door.

  “Don’t worry, Jack, I promise I won’t tell Debbie that you flashed me.”

  “I didn’t fla—”

  Something caught my eye. I stopped midsentence, heart racing, and looked towards the door to our room.

  Two men were standing there with guns pointed at me.

  19

  Taken

  The one closest to me was about fifty years old, big and “husky,” as Mom used to say. Which really meant fat, although the magic slenderizing effect of blue jeans made him look like today’s normal. He wore a tall cowboy hat and a flannel shirt and sported a short gray beard that made his fat face look even wider.

  “Turn around,” Fat Face said. “No sudden moves.” He moved his pistol in a circle.

  This was bad. I had no choice but to follow his instructions. I turned around.

  “Huh? What’d you say?” Frances yelled from the bathroom.

  The second man, a lot younger and more fit than Fat Face, stepped past me. He had a normal-sized cowboy hat on and an old flannel shirt tucked into his flat-ass skinny jeans. A camo backpack hung from his frame. With his pistol leading the way, he pushed open the bathroom door with a violent shove, slamming it against the wall.

  “Jack!” Frances screamed. I looked inside the bathroom and saw her sitting on the bowl, her dress hiked up, but covering her goods. Thank God. Her eyes widened when she saw it wasn’t me.

  Flat Ass stepped into the bathroom and grabbed my Glock from the sink. “Come on, old hag, time to go.”

  Frances scowled at him, flushed the toilet, and stood up. She went to pull up her drawers, but Flat Ass grabbed her arm and yanked her into the room. “I said move it.”

  I cringed. “Take it easy with her. She’s no youngster,” I said, fearful that she’d trip over her drawers and break a hip. Thank God she was nimble enough to step out of them.

  Flat Ass gave me the stink eye and pulled Frances over to the bed. He smirked at me and shoved her down extra hard on it. “Sit down, you old bitch.”

  Feisty old Frances wasn’t having any of it. “Where’s your manners? You kiss your mother with that fuckin’ mouth?”

  Fat Face stepped in, his gun waving. “Shut up, both of you.” He grabbed my pants and shirt from the bed, felt them up for weapons, and tossed them into my lap. “Get dressed. And no funny stuff.”

  I stood up, turned my back to them, dropped my towel, and stepped into my Vertx pants. I turned around to grab my shirt, and Flat Ass noticed the tattoo of London, my hero German shepherd, on my chest. He laughed at me.

  “A dog? That’s a pussy tattoo. Wanna see a real tattoo?” He pulled his flannel shirt open and displayed a fire-breathing giant bear with an axe in one hand and a cowering hunter in the other.

  What a freaking weirdo.

  Fat Face elbowed Flat Ass. “Quit fuckin’ around.” Then he turned to me and motioned to the bed with his gun. “Sit.”

  Flat Ass made an angry face at me and slipped out of his backpack. He laid it on the bed and unzipped the main compartment. He took out a couple of burlap sacks, the kind used in farming operations, and a roll of duct tape. He shook open one of the sacks, spraying dried-up hay dust into the air, and put it over Frances’s head.

  “Fuck you, dickhead,” she said.

  He laughed at her and taped the burlap around her neck. He grabbed her wrists and had to force them behind her back, where he taped them together. He motioned to me.

  “Your turn, dog lover.” He placed the bag over my head, and it was lights out for me. He taped it around my neck and did the same with my hands behind my back.

  I wondered how much air I had inside the burlap bag. Burlap’s not as airtight as plastic, but this type was tightly woven, and I knew that getting fresh air through it would be difficult. Did these clowns know that they’d set Frances and me up for suffocation? Did they even care? My guess was no, and that was concerning to me. It’s one thing to be taken at gunpoint. It’s another to suffocate.

  I sat there, trying to relax and slow my breathing, but my heart raced in my chest. I listened as the two walked around and searched our room. I racked my brain, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. We’d been in town less than a day. How had we been made so soon?

  A few minutes went by, the two goofballs mumbled some things to each other, and I was taken by the elbow.

  “Come on, time to go,” Fat Face said. He led me out of our room and down the hall. I could hear Frances behind me, talking to her guide, something about boiling him in tar.

  The exit door creaked open, and we were led out onto the gravel parking lot. I had no shoes on, and the small stones dug into my feet, but I knew sore feet would be the least of my problems. Boy, was I right on that premonition.

  I heard a car door squeak open, and my
head was shoved forward and down.

  Everything went black.

  20

  Faking It

  I woke up to the gentle rolling motion of a moving car on smooth pavement. My head throbbed like I had been kicked by a horse. At first I didn’t remember what had happened, but as the seconds ticked by, my brain cleared and I recalled the motel room invasion. I decided to play possum and pretend I was still unconscious. It might give me an edge. Or maybe not, but I saw no advantage in letting my kidnappers know that I was conscious. I let my head hang forward, and with each motion of the car my upper body swayed freely against my shoulder harness.

  I opened my eyes. Everything was still dark, and I felt the harsh fabric of the burlap sack buffeting my face from the breeze of an open window. The burlap smelled like stale grains—not the worst smell in the world. Certainly better than manure.

  “John’s meeting us at the garage?” Flat Ass asked.

  “Yeah,” Fat Face answered with a chuckle. “I think he wants to talk with them before we ‘set them free.’” He put special emphasis on the last three words, as if he was pretending to be Whitney Houston singing in the church choir. The last words made me cringe. His singing voice was fingernails-on-chalkboard awful.

  We slowed and came to a stop, and through the open window I heard a garage door roll open. It sounded like one of those big heavy doors that you’d find at an industrial warehouse building. We inched forward, stopped, and the engine died. The garage door rolled closed.

  The opening and closing of two car doors, along with the car rising slightly from the reduction in weight, confirmed that both our kidnappers had exited the car.