Gavin English Thrillers

by Ken Lindsey

  I didn't think I lived under any delusions—I knew that Kara and I didn't have anything set in stone—but I really believed we were working toward something. We'd been spending a lot of non-work-related time together—dinner and drinks, a movie here and there, her being naked in the steam room at the gym... I know it was stupid for me to be so thrown by her going on a date, but I was.

  “That's... cool.” Cool? Really? What the hell, Gavin, get your head in the game! “I haven't hung out with Dave for a while, I'll probably give him a call.”

  “Good. Have fun.”

  What kind of nonsense is that to say to a guy? Good? Have fun? I may have been overreacting, but that seemed like a cold-hearted blow-off right then.

  I picked up my phone, found David in my contacts list, and hit the green slider. Kara left without another word, something like hurt showing on her face.

  The phone rang twice, then David answered, “What's up, Gav? I'm working right now.”

  “Booze. Topless girls with daddy issues. Tonight.”

  David laughed, “Is this an end to your stripper moratorium?”

  I abstained from visiting The Rail for over two months at that point. Kara voiced her disapproval of my strip club habit about that time, so I stayed away in an effort to prove to her that I was more than an old lech.

  She didn't like me going to strip clubs, and I didn't like her dating guys that weren't me. I guess neither of us were getting what we wanted that night.

  “Are you in, or am I paying for some other asshole's drinks?”

  “I'm in.”******

  Pink neon flickered against the windshield of Pastor Timothy Ford's 86' Toyota pickup. He parked in the center of a large, shared parking lot. To his left, a place where women danced naked for money. Directly in front of him, a place where the women did much worse. His heart raced; his breaths came in stunted, quick bursts. He was only moments away from the kill, and each second felt like an eternity.

  Soon, the man would exit that building—heart filled with guilt and stinking of his own lust. Timothy knew the man would be thinking of lies to tell about money lost, imagining ways to make it up to his wife and family before they could ever know he had done anything wrong... maybe even wishing he had not gone into that place at all.

  But too late. The sin had left its stain. And tonight, God was cleansing with fire.

  Timothy laid his hand on the cool metal of the blow torch sitting next to him on the truck's bench seat. The brass handle felt comforting against his skin as he waited for the man to find their way out of the building.

  “It's not going to help, you know,” The voice slithered through the air around him. “You could burn every whore and fornicator in the world and it wouldn't get His attention.”

  “Get thee behind me, Satan,” said the preacher through clenched teeth. He stared at his shaking hands, the knuckles were swollen and the skin was cracked and dry. He knew the voice would be gone again once he finished the night's work. And once the investigator got the proof Timothy needed, he would have his next target as well. He breathed deep, absolute in his faith that his every action took him closer to the Peace of the Lord.

  “Don't you ever get tired of being wrong, Tim-tim? There's nothing you can...”

  The door to the brothel opened; the preacher flinched at the new source of light, and the voice was gone.

  Timothy watched as a balding man stumbled drunkenly through the cast-iron security gate, fighting to button his shirt as he walked. The man stopped as the gate closed and turned back toward the building.

  “I love you, Destiny!” he cried. “I swear to god... you... You're my destiny, Destiny! You'll see!”

  Pastor Ford leaned over and pulled the syringe filled with Etorphine from the glove compartment. He smiled as he noticed that his hand no longer shook.

  After a minute of unintelligible yelling, the man waved a sloppy goodbye to the brothel and made his way through the darkness to the far side of the parking lot.

  Timothy was ready. He slipped out of the truck, not bothering to close the door all the way behind him. Silently, he stalked the stranger through the shadows of the dozen or so other vehicles that were parked there, waiting for their owners to finish all kinds of sinful business.

  “Dest... destiny. You'll see,” slurred the man to himself as he juggled his key ring, slouching against the side of a 90's model sedan. “I cannit wait, Dest... you'll fuckin' see.”

  As soon as the man leaned in to unlock the driver's side door, the preacher was on him. From behind, he reached around the man's throat and jammed the hypodermic needle deep into the fatty tissue of the jugular, slamming the plunger down and emptying the syringe in the same movement.

  “SKYAAARRRFGH!” yelped the man as he tried to spin away. “Whurts fuckin? Geroff me!”

  The pastor stepped back, not bothering to remove the needle, and watched as the man swung at him in his last futile attempt to stay upright. His swing was well short, and the momentum spun the man so that he lost his footing and fell to the ground with an “Oomph.”

  He was already unconscious when the preacher started dragging him to the pickup.******

  The Rail was packed with sweaty frat guys celebrating their dude-bro's impending nuptials. Since I have a terrible relationship with marriage and David and I both despise frat guys, we chose to move our own party somewhere else.

  “What about Moundhouse?”

  “Blech,” I replied. “What about Moundhouse? I said I wanted to get drunk and see some naked women. I didn't say I was sad and desperate.”

  “Come on, it's been a long time. I've heard Archer's has gotten a lot better.”

  “It couldn't have gotten worse. The last time I went there none of the dancers showed up for work and the club had some of the hookers from next door cover for them. Methed-out, double shift prostitutes are not sexy, David.”

  “That might be an unfair generalization,” he teased. “I'll pay for the cab there and back.”

  This was no small promise—the drive from Reno to Moundhouse takes at least forty minutes. He had me intrigued.

  “And half of the drinks.”

  “Deal.”

  “And you have to buy me a lap-dance from whichever girl I choose.”

  “Jesus, Gavin. Fine.”

  “Moundhouse it is.”

  We ran to the closest dive bar and took a couple of cheap shots while we waited for our Uber to arrive, then we were on our way.

  While I had been doing my best to be a good boy lately, David had been partying more than ever. He spent almost half the trip telling me about several of his infamous nights out, laying on the filthier details with extra relish. I did my best to ignore my jealousy and turn the conversation in another direction.

  “How's work been lately?”

  “I don't know. It's been fine, I guess. I just can't make myself give a shit half the time.”

  Ever since that psycho, Beth, had gotten David all twisted around, he'd been drifting. I had been doing for years, but seeing Dave turn from his responsibilities freaked me out. David was a Lieutenant in the Reno PD because he always worked hard and did things by-the-book. I don't think he ever even took a sick day unless he actually got sick.

  Then he watched the woman he thought he was in love with slit her wrists after trying to kill him.

  “I'm thinking about taking a leave of absence.”

  Woah.

  “What are you gonna do?”

  “I don't know. I thought I might get out of town for a while.”

  I could only give him half a nod. This wasn't like the David Reeves I knew. Being a cop was everything for him, and he'd only ever hated the idea of not being in Reno.

  I did my best to ignore my own discomfort for the rest of the drive, letting David tell me about the parties and girls and fights I'd missed. When we arrived at Archer's, he hopped out of the station wagon with a smile and gave the UBer driver a ridiculous cash tip.

  “You can get another on
e of these if you'll be around to pick us up when the club closes. Around two?”

  “You got it,” replied the driver. “I'll even pick you up a couple of coffees on my way.”

  “Make mine a double,” I chimed in, trying to get back into the partying mood.

  Then, we headed to the entrance. The bouncer at the door was an old biker with a mustache that hung well below his chin. He didn't say anything, but nodded to David after he paid the entrance fee.

  “Hope you're ready to get trashed,” David yelled over the thumping music pouring through the door as we stepped inside. “The drinks here are killer, and pretty soon the girls will be just as pretty as the ones in Reno.”

  Chapter 3: Fire and Tequila

  The cross stood out in the middle of nowhere, charred black and surrounded by rocky soil still stained from his previous ventures out to this spot. Even in the dead of night the drive out of the city and through the desert took at least an hour, but Timothy’s newest transgressor hadn’t begun to stir.

  “The drugs can’t work forever, Tim-tim. Maybe this one will be the one to wake up and bash your foolish skull in.”

  The pastor shook his head, refusing to look back over his shoulder in the direction of the Voice as he walked to the passenger side of the pickup an opened the door. He leaned the man forward, pulling him hard from the seat and letting the dead weight guide the sinner onto his shoulder. With a deep exhale, Timothy stood and lifted the man, carrying him to his place, and dropping him at the foot of the cross. He stretched, grimacing at the creaks and groans coming from his body, and hefted the cross from its cast-iron guide buried in the sandy earth. The cross fell flat, with a puff of sand and dust, and the pastor began the work of yanking and pulling on the man’s arms until he was in position.

  “Nothing you’re doing will make a difference, stupid boy. We already have your bed made, Tim-tim!”

  “Happy little pilgrims, going our way,” sang Timothy as he began the work of nailing the man to the cross. “To a land of beauty, singing all the day...” Sweat soaked his shirt and rolled down in rivulets from his brow as he swung the sledge hammer, making the railroad tie sing with each strike as the iron worked its way through flesh and bone, then deeper into the old burnt pine.

  The right wrist followed the left, after which, he wiped the blood, dirt, and sweat from the head of the sledge and injected the sinner with another, smaller dose to keep him under. The feet were more difficult; he had to be more precise in order to drive the nail through both feet, just as the Romans had done to Christ.

  The job took longer than he’d hoped, and It never stopped haranguing and mocking him, no matter how loud he sang the Lord’s praises. Maybe an hour before sunrise would arrive, Timothy lit the blowtorch and saw the man’s eyes flutter open from his place high up on the cross, he knew his labors were justified.

  “Hrrng...” groaned the unrepentant fool as he tried moving his wrists, his head lolling from side to side. Pain immediately registered in his dumb, clouded cow eyes.

  “It won’t do you any good to fight your bonds!” preached Pastor Ford. “Tonight, is the night of your reckoning, and the King of kings shall have His justice!”

  Finally, the voice fell silent as Timothy opened the nozzle on the blowtorch and the flames shot forth, roaring out blue and gold.

  “Whuuuutsss... whooo?”

  “Shut your filthy mouth!” he shouted in response as he turned the flames toward the man on the cross. “Your sins must be cleansed.”

  The man screamed and flailed as Timothy burned first his clothes, and then his flesh until he had no breath left. The pastor continued bathing the corpse with flame and prayer until the blowtorch finally ran out of fuel.******

  I awoke to my hair being pulled by a short woman, covered in a mural of tattoos, slapping the hell out of me.

  “Wake up!” she hollered as I snorted and huffed, flinching away from her assault. “My husband is home any minute, you gotta get the hell outta here. And you’re gonna have to carry your friend, I can’t wake him up for nothin’.”

  “Whussatt?” I asked, rolling away from her attack and kicking my legs off the side of the bed.

  “My husband!”

  I found my pants and shoes stuffed between the bed and nightstand and began to pull the pants on with one hand, while digging in the pockets to find my cigarettes with the other. “You’re married?”

  “That’s what I’m tryna’ tell you! And you and your friend gotta go. Right now.”

  “Ok,” I said, lighting a bent Marlboro with only one leg successfully stuffed into a pantleg. I took a deep pull from the cigarette and crammed the box and lighter back into my pocket. “I think I got all of that. Just a couple of questions, though.”

  “What?!?”

  “Where are we?” I stood and yanked the pants up to my waist, zipping and buttoning them smoothly before I took another drag, “And who are you?”

  David saved me from finding out what happens after her face turned from red to purple by stumbling into the room, stark naked, and immediately vomiting at the woman’s feet. I turned and dove across the bed before realizing I didn’t have my shoes on, and they were directly in the line of fire.

  The sounds he made were the first assault, followed directly by the smell, and then the screaming.

  “OH MY GOD!” she yelled while simultaneously jumping (unsuccessfully) away from the puddle and swinging a bejeweled fist toward David’s downturned face. “What the ffffuuu...” she shrieked before her feet slipped in different directions and she went down in a twisting heap, splattering and sliding face first into David’s mess on the floor.

  David’s eyes grew wide as I rounded the bed, grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him from the room. As we passed, I saw the sad, destroyed remains of my Italian loafers along with my cigarette, and watched our new friend tossing her own cookies all over the floor as she fought (again, unsuccessfully) to get back to her feet.

  “What happened?” mumbled my naked best friend as I pushed him toward his pile of clothes laying in front of the couch, which rested perfectly next to the doorway out of this terrible exhibition.

  “Put your pants on and grab your shit. We have to go.”

  I heard more splattering and cursing coming from the woman in the bedroom as David followed my instructions. Slowly.

  “Dude. Hurry your ass up.”

  “But,” started David as he finally closed the zipper on his jeans, “who was that? Was she trying to hit me?”

  Just then, I heard the unmistakable sound of a husband’s truck door slamming closed. It’s a sound I knew from many similar encounters since my divorce. Of course, most of those encounters didn’t involve as much vomit, and none of them included the straight-laced Lt. David Reeves.

  “Shut up.” I grabbed David’s badge from the pile of clothes now hugged against his chest and snatched my own jacket from the back of the couch. “Say nothing, just keep acting... well, keep being drunk.”

  I shoved the door open and jerked David through just as a very tall Hispanic man, with even more tattoos than his wife and forearms the size of my head, stepped onto the porch.

  “Excuse me, sir,” I nodded, flashing David’s badge very officially as I yanked my best friend (thank god he had clothes on) down the porch stairs and toward the sidewalk. “Please let your wife know that if she decides to press charges, we’ll have him in the drunk tank the rest of the day.”

  “Oh... wait, what?” asked the man.

  “What?” said David, only now offering any resistance to me pulling on his arm like a three-year-old.

  Praying the husband was too confused to notice my bare feet, I blurted a rushed, vague response, “I’m sure your wife will explain, sir. I have a car to meet at the end of the block.”

  With that, I tugged David’s arm and he followed my lead, blessedly letting me get us out of the situation before he could make it any worse. Once I heard the door close behind us, I let go of David’s arm and pulled
my phone from my pocket. “Get dressed.”

  Our Uber came from a spot only two minutes away. Thank god. I didn’t even care that it was a Prius.

  “I have no idea what happened back there,” said David after we were safely on the road.

  “I was about to get all that figured out when you decided to ralph all over that nice lady’s bedroom.”

  His look turned to concern and he shook his head, “I don’t think I did that. She was the one throwing up when I got there.”

  “You’re still drunk. You seriously don’t remember walking into that room with your schlong waving around and then blowing chow all over my three-hundred-dollar shoes?”

  “No. I’m not sure how I... hurgh how I... urfff...”

  Our driver jerked the wheel and slammed on his brakes once we were to the side of the road. “Do it outside. Do it outside!”

  David pulled the handle just in time let whatever contents he had left in his stomach flow out onto the sidewalk. Once finished, he pulled the door closed and wiped his mouth on neck of his shirt. “I’m not sure how I wound up on the couch,” he said as if nothing had happened. “Last thing I remember was all three of us doing shots and playing strip poker in the bedroom.”

  It all came back to me in a flood of drunken snapshots as the car quickly drove back out onto the road. Tequila shots. Aces, Deuces, and Jacks spread out all over the floral comforter. Making problematic eye-contact with David from behind a curvy woman... MEG! The woman’s name was Meg, and she was a waitress at Denny’s.

  Traumatic memories of the ménage à trois assaulted my senses until my stomach locked up, then let loose all at once.

  “Ahh for Christ’s sake!” shouted our driver, again slamming on his brakes and pulling to the side of the road. “I told you to do it outside!”

  Chapter 4: Good Sleep and Bad Truths

  Pastor Timothy Ford slept through the Thursday following his clandestine evening in the desert. No dreams. No nightmares. He slept the true sleep of a righteous man, well in need of rest to allow his temple to heal itself.