Gavin English Thrillers

by Ken Lindsey

  We decided to do the date properly. Kara went home to get ready as soon as I got back to the office, and I called and made a reservation at a swanky seafood joint downtown. Then, it was my turn to head home and get ready.

  My closet is one of the things that makes me happiest in this world. I know that as a man, I’m not supposed to care about clothes and shoes and fashion, but I do. It’s important to me that I present myself in a certain way to the world, and my wardrobe allows me to do just that. I’ve got suits and the necessary accoutrements for any situation, and that gives me confidence.

  For tonight, I chose a sleek Tom Ford two-piece black pinstripe and the classic white collared button-up shirt. No tie. Classy as hell. I had a moment of sadness, though, when I realized the best shoes to go with this ensemble were destroyed by my best friend’s vomit. Oh well.

  I showered, shaved, and suited up in record time so I was able to pour myself a finger of Jameson and have a smoke before I needed to leave to pick up Kara. Once the whiskey smoothed the rough edges on my nerves, I was able to appreciate how anxious I was.

  I’d been pining for this woman for better than a year, and now I had my shot. I don’t know how or why; god knows I’d done my best to screw it all up more than once. Kara is gorgeous and smart and funny, and I’m a self-sabotaging idiot who should tell her to run before it’s too late.

  I poured myself another quick shot, downed it, and headed out into the evening air. The Fall weather was perfect, with a slight chill and a faint hint of rain flavoring each breath. I put the top on the Jeep and hit the road while Sinatra and Count Basie played live at the Sands in Las Vegas through the speakers.

  I killed two more cigarettes before pulling into Kara’s driveway. She shared a small townhouse with a girl she knew from college. The curtains were pulled closed, upstairs and downstairs, but lights were on in every room.

  As I climbed out of the Jeep, the door to her townhouse opened and she stepped out, stopping me dead in my tracks. The light from inside the house framed her silhouette perfectly. She wore her hair pinned up, highlighting her bare neck and shoulders. Her dress was black and short, while her legs were tan, toned, and long.

  She stood there for a moment, raised an eyebrow at me as I gaped stupidly back at her, before closing the door and walking my way. I took a step around the Jeep, eyes still locked on Kara.

  “You look nice,” she said, a slight blush rising in her cheeks.

  “Oh, thanks,” I stammered. “I was gonna come to the door, but I... I mean, wow. You. Look. Just. Wow.”

  She smiled as I opened the door for her and climbed in. “Thanks, Gavin.”

  “Shit!”

  “What’s wrong?” she asked as I stood there holding the Jeep’s door like a dumbass.

  “I forgot flowers.”

  “Shut up and take me to dinner.”

  “I can do that.”

  Chapter 6: Discipline and Coffee

  Pastor Ford woke up on the floor of the church sanctuary at just past one in the morning on Monday. He was grateful he hadn’t urinated in that sanctified Hall, but his gratitude was much outweighed by his anger and fear at the return of the Voice.

  It was too soon, not even a full week had passed since he’d scorched that fornicator clean in the desert. Timothy thought (hoped, really) that he’d bought himself more time. He needed more time.

  What if Beverly Anderson wasn’t doing what he thought she was? What if he had to find yet another harlot or blasphemer or homosexual or adulterer? If he had to start all over, with It harping on him every day and night, drilling away at his sanity and stealing his faith...

  Pastor Ford knew he would go mad.

  It had to be her.

  He pulled the cellphone from his pocket; the screen lit up with a single notification. Timothy opened the voicemail and pressed the phone to his face as he listened.

  “Hi, Mr. Ford... err, Pastor Ford,” a woman’s voice came through the speaker. “This is Kara, from the Gavin English Agency. I wanted to give you a call today to let you know that Mr. English is finished with your case. Please call the office at your earliest convenience so we can schedule a time for Mr. English to go over the particulars with you. Thanks.”

  Could this be the salvation he’d been waiting for, or is this the deathknell for his sanity and conviction? He stared at the phone until his eyes began to water, and then played the recording again.

  And again.

  “It’s not going to work, Tim-tim. She’s not the one. Just slit your dirty little wrists and let me carry you home.”

  Timothy shook his head, eyes locked on the phone. “No.”

  “It’s not up to you, boy,” the Voice hissed, louder and harsher than before. “Your bed’s been made, useless fool. Now you have to lie in it.”

  Pastor Ford slid his thumb along the bottom of the phone screen, bringing up the phone number from the voicemail.

  “Stupid boy, you know your discipline’s due.”******

  Thirty Years Ago

  “You never lie to the people you love, Timmy. Remember that.”

  The young boy watched as his father brought the belt down, with an all too familiar whoosh and crack, on his mother's naked rear end. She didn't cry out exactly, it was more of an urgent whimper, but he could see that the noise made his old man smile.

  “But I didn't lie, Daddy,” pleaded Timothy. “You don't hafta...”

  “I know you didn't lie, dammit. You didn't get the chance cuz your mother decided to do it for you. She lied to a servan’ of Christ, in his own house!”

  Another whoosh, another crack. This time she did yell, and Timothy almost made the mistake of letting his tears flow when he saw that one of the welts had a trickle of blood coming from it. Almost, but he knew better. Tears from either him or his sister always made the old man go at it harder. Timothy was glad Alicia had gone to their aunt's house the night before, she could never stop from crying when the belt came out.

  “Please, Jim. I'm s... so sorry. Please...”

  He hit her again. This time she screamed and bucked—Timothy's dad grabbed a handful of her hair and jerked her head back until she was looking up at him. “You'll be still until your discipline's done, or I'll yank your lying head right off.”

  “Daddy! I'm sorry, Daddy. I promise I won't go into your room again. Ever.”

  “Everybody's always making promises,” the old man replied. “I think we gotta do something to make sure you remember what happens when you break the good Lord’s commandments.”

  Timothy nodded, only wanting his mother's pain to end. Her nakedness made him uncomfortable, she had hair in places he’d never seen and her breasts shook against his father’s thigh as she wept, but the blood on her rear-end and her tears were far worse. “Yessir. I'll do anything.”

  His father stared for a moment, and Timothy felt like his dad could see right through him, to the scared inside bits dancing around in his stomach.

  Finally, after what felt to the boy like an eternity, the old man nodded. “Alright then, Timmy. It's time for you to learn what it takes to be a man.” He threw the belt on the floor at Timothy's feet. “Pick it up.”

  Now, his own tears broke free and he felt goosebumps rise all over his body. “I don't wanna.”

  “I'm not going to ask you again, Boy.”

  Timothy wiped his nose with the sleeve of his pajama shirt, trying to avoid his father's eyes. The belt was a cobra lying on the floor, only wanting to hurt. To kill.

  “Now!”

  The boy picked it up, it was lighter than he expected and the clasp jingled merrily as it moved. He tasted blood in his mouth as he bit down on his tongue.

  “You’re gonna do three lashes, Timmy. Three good lashes to teach you and your mother the price of your sinnin’ ways. And you don’t dare even think about pussy-footin' when you do it neither. If you play around, I’m gonna make you do more and more until you do it right. Then I’m gonna put you over my knee.”

  “Dad
dy...”

  “Get on it, Timmy.”

  His mother didn't look back, didn't make a noise. Timothy raised his shaking arm.

  Whoosh

  Crack

  “One.”******

  “You suck.”

  David Reeves, my closest friend in the world, had a point. It was a point I’d been dwelling on for days, and it only got worse after my date with Kara. I’d meant to tell her about the incident with David and the waitress. I really had.

  “She said it didn’t matter. She didn’t want to know, and swore up and down that since we weren’t official, whatever happened didn’t count.”

  “And you believe her?” he asked, downing his third shot of espresso in as many minutes.

  “I... yeah, sure. Why not?”

  “Then not only do you suck, you’re also stupid.”

  “Jeeze, Dave. Don’t sugar coat it or anything. It’s not like I’m already beating myself up over this crap every day.”

  He shook his head and waived to the barista to bring him another espresso. “It’s going to be bad if she finds out after you two get serious.”

  “I know,” I replied, taking a long drink from the coffee mug, which was rapidly cooling in my hand. “What happens if I tell her, and she decides we’re never gonna reach the serious part? Hell, what happens if she quits her job?”

  “I don’t know, Gav. What I do know is that waiting for her to figure it out on her own will make it much, much worse.” Lt. David Reeves finished his fourth shot and stood from his seat at the table.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I’ve got some errands to run and then I need to check in at the precinct.”

  “Oh shit, I heard about that guy they found in the dumpster. Are you on that case?”

  David nodded. “Meet me for drinks tonight?”

  “I can’t. Gotta talk to Kara.”

  He gave me a wry smile, “Good man. Coffee tomorrow, then?”

  “Done.”

  Chapter 7: Choking Hazard

  Kara answered the phone after the second ring, “Gavin English Agency, how can I help you?”

  She waited through a moment of silence, then a man’s voice came through in little more than a whisper, “Yes, I’m returning your call from earlier.”

  “Alright, sir. Can I ask who’s calling?”

  More silence followed by a rustling sound as the caller’s phone was moved around, “I uhh... This is Pastor Ford. You left me a voicemail.”

  “Oh, right. Yes, of course. Gavin finished with your case, he wanted us to schedule a time for you two to meet and go over what he found.”

  “I don’t...” Ford hesitated, more static poured through the office phone’s receiver, “Why can’t you just tell me what is going on so I can figure out my next step?”

  There was a sharper edge to his voice now, which Kara didn’t like. He sounded suddenly mean, on the verge of growling.

  “I’m sorry Mr. Ford, I’m not...”

  “Pastor.”

  “Oh, I... Right, I’m sorry. Pastor Ford. Gavin... err Mr. English keeps his case notes between himself and our clients. I don’t know exactly what he found,” she lied, hating the irrational fear the man raised in her. “You’ll have to speak with him. We can schedule a meeting, is there a time tomorrow that would work for you?”

  “Tomorrow?! I have things to do, I need to know... this is a matter of great importance.”

  “Mr. English isn’t in the office today, I’m afraid. So, it won’t be poss...”

  “Garbage,” he growled again. She could tell his lips were now pressed directly against his phone. “Unacceptable trash, is what this is. I’ve already paid you people.”

  Kara’s mouth was dry and her skin prickled, “I’m sorry, Mr. Ford. There’s nothing I can...”

  “Pastor, damn you!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Ford muttered to himself as the phone began rustling again. Whores and burn were the only two words she was able to make out before the line disconnected.******

  Timothy Ford pulled his head and chest from under the afghan on his bed and threw the cell phone as hard as he could. It hit the wall, chipping the bright white paint and splitting off into several pieces.

  “Perfidious bastards!” he shouted, flinching at the sound of his voice echoing across his mostly bare room. He quickly yanked the blanket back up to his chin and began rocking back and forth.

  “My refuge and strength,” he murmured. “My shield and the horn of my salvation. My fortress and my deliverer.”

  “No one is going to deliver you, Tim-tim.”

  Ford winced and pulled the cover over his head. “Refuge and my strength...”

  “You’ve never had any refuge. You were born for torment and torture.”

  “No. No. His blood has made me clean,” Timothy whimpered.

  “There’s not enough blood in the world, Tim-tim.”******

  A Decade Ago

  “I can’t see you anymore, Tim. I’m sorry.”

  Jasmine was beautiful, even with the slight baby bump pressing out from beneath her thick Christmas sweater. Timothy swallowed hard, shaking his head “Please don’t do this. We can figure it out. I know God means for us to be together. To get married and make a family.”

  Tears swam in her wide, brown eyes. “I’m already married, Tim. This was a mistake and I can’t keep doing it.”

  “It’s not a mistake, Jasmine. You know I’ll be a better father than Frank could ever hope to be.”

  “I don’t know that, Tim. I don’t know anything,” she replied, now openly crying. “All I know is that Frank is my husband, and this is his baby.”

  The girl didn’t seem to notice the panicked look in Timothy’s eyes as he spoke, “You can’t do this, Jasmine. I love you.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she replied, wiping the tears away with the back of her hands. “Your love doesn’t erase my marriage, or the damage we’ve done to it.”

  Ford stood from the small kitchen table and looked around at the thinly decorated single-wide trailer, “So this is what you want? You want to live in his filth for the rest of your life?”

  “Stop it, Timmy. Please.”

  “Don’t call me that. You don’t ever get to call me that again.” He could feel his skin turning warmer as the anger welled up inside.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sure the church will forgive you. It might take a little longer to become a reverend, but...”

  Timothy took a step toward her, “What are you talking about?”

  For the first time, Jasmine noticed the terrible look in his eyes, “I... What’s wrong, Tim?”

  “Why do you think I’m going to be in trouble with the church?”

  She shook her head and pushed her chair back until pressed into the wall behind her, “I don’t. I just thought... after... when I tell Frank about things.”

  He stepped forward again, his knees now brushing against Jasmine’s. “You’re not telling Frank.”

  “But, Tim. I have to.”

  “I told you, Tim-tim. I told you that you were doomed,” the Voice snickered from somewhere behind him. It had always been there, as far back as Timothy could remember.

  At first, it was fun. Young Timothy Ford had a friend who was always there. Laughing and joking with him. Coaxing him to do the things he wanted to do, but was too scared on his own. It gave him the patience he needed after his twelfth birthday, the patience to befriend old Mrs. Ruther’s chihuahua, Buster.

  Eight weeks of head pats and making baby voices. How many greasy snacks had exploded in his pockets as he worked to get that stupid mutt to trust him? There were whippings and scoldings over the dirty pants, Band-Aids for the dozens of nipped fingers, and he’d even had to be nice to senile old bat while she talked about her fat, dead husband and their fat, stupid children who’d left home years before.

  All the work paid dividends, though, two nights after his birthday. Timothy waited for his
parents to fall to sleep and snuck out through the back-door, with a sandwich baggy full of day-old bacon.

  “This is going to be fun, Timmy,” It whispered as the boy pulled back the loose fence board between their yard and Mrs. Ruther’s. “He looks so happy to see you,” It snickered as the dog bounded through the hole in the fence and merrily lapped up the bits of bacon from the boy’s hand. “Don’t forget to clean your knife,” It helpfully reminded him when he got home, after burying the little beast in Mrs. Ruther’s garden.

  Lately, though, the Voice grew less friendly and fun. It harped on him about being a sinner, and was constantly reminding him of the afterlife that awaited fornicators and adulterers. People like him.

  Timothy shook his head, “No.”

  Jasmine pressed her palms against his chest as he leaned in, “Please. Stop. You’re scaring me.”

  “Good,” he replied, bearing down until her elbows bent and his face was only inches from hers. She flinched, turning her face to the side, still pushing with both hands, fighting to move him back.

  “Stop. Timmy, please. Pleeease...”

  He raised his forearm to the crook beneath her chin and pressed until her eyes went wide.

  “Tim!” she croaked as he began slowly restricting her airway. “Pluh... Pleeessss,” she begged, spittle flying. “Tuh... Tuuhmmm.. TIM!”

  Timothy put his knee across her thighs as she struggled, pinning her to the chair. She bucked and coughed, smacking and punching at him ineffectually with one hand, while wrapping her other protectively around her growing belly.

  “You don’t get to destroy everything I’ve worked for. You told me you loved me. You led me astray, Jasmine. Whore.”

  The young woman’s face was now purple and tight, her struggles nothing more than slight head bobs. Snot mixed with blood trickled over her swollen lips, and her eyes started to bulge from their sockets. She mouthed the word “no” followed by “please” and a moment later “baby”.