by Ken Lindsey
Timothy leaned back, only a fraction of a fraction of an inch, and she drew in a short, broken breath.
“What did you call me?”
Her only response was to wrap both arms tightly around her midsection.
“She doesn’t care about you. She’ll laugh along with all the others once you’re gone. Once they know you’ve found your place in Hell.”
Timothy bent forward again, crushing her throat until he heard something pop beneath the soft, pale skin. Suddenly, she jerked in the chair hard enough for Timothy to lose his balance. He fell sideways, against the table, and froze in place.
Jasmine kicked and twitched, falling out of the chair. She clutched at her throat, digging in with her small, red fingernails, and scraping flesh. Timothy watched as blood vessels burst in her eyes and her lips turned swiftly from pink to purple to a dark, mottled blue.
In reality, it took Jasmine just under six minutes to suffocate to death. To Timothy, though, it could have been either an eternity or an instant.
As he cleaned up the mess, Timothy noticed that the Voice seemed absent for the first time in his life. He went about the work of packing the body into the car, driving out of the city, and burying Jasmine in the desert in silence as well.
It was early morning before he found his way home and fell directly to sleep. When he woke, hours and hours later, not yet realizing he was covered in his own piss, he knew that the silence and rest had been his reward for a job well done.
Chapter 8: Lies and Football
“You need to tell him you didn’t find anything.”
Kara followed me into my office as soon as I arrived and closed the door. She seemed a bit frantic and her eyes shimmered with worry. I poured us both a finger of Jameson and she surprised me by accepting the glass and downing it in one gulp.
“What the hell happened?”
She shook off the initial whiskey burn with a grimace and a smack off her full lips, “Ford called. There’s something wrong with that guy.”
“You mean the preacher? What did he say?”
“It’s not what he said, exactly. He’s off, Gavin. I can’t really explain it. I knew it the day he came in, but I assumed it was just the super-religious thing. He called yesterday afternoon... it was bad.”
I swallowed my own drink in one and sat down at my desk. Kara watched as I rifled through the drawer until I found the file I wanted. It was marked T. Ford and next to that, scribbled in Kara’s delicate handwriting, Pastor. I flipped the file open to find a stack of black and white photographs paper-clipped together.
“If you’re sure,” I started, pulling the photos and two small notebook pages filled with my own shorthand notes from the file, “then I trust your instinct.”
I dropped the photos and notes into the trash bin beneath my desk and stuck the empty file folder back into the drawer.
Kara smiled and retrieved my glass, “What are you going to tell him? He obviously knows about the mechanic.”
It was a valid question, but I didn’t have an answer yet. “Tell me about what happened when he called.”
She filled me in while she poured me another drink and washed her own glass. There wasn’t a ton of information there, but what there was left a bad taste in my mouth. Kara was genuinely upset by their interaction, and I understood why.
I needed to handle the situation delicately, I knew that much. How the hell I was supposed to do that was the mystery. I decided to improvise, I’d always worked best under pressure.
“Dial Ford’s number and patch it through, I’ll talk to him myself.”
“You never told me what you’re going to say.”
“Something profound, I’m sure.”
Her face showed how little she liked my answer. Oh well, wasn’t the first time, wouldn’t be the last. That’s why being the boss is so awesome.
“Do you think we should let the Anderson’s know? Warn them?”
“Warn them about what, Kara? You think Mr. Anderson is gonna hear anything at all once we tell him about his wife banging the Michelin man?”
She made a face I didn’t like; I’d hurt her feelings. Damn it.
“That’s not what I meant,” she answered in barely more than a whisper.
“I know. I’m sorry. The truth is that we weren’t hired by the Andersons. We’re working for Ford, and being a bit of a creep doesn’t mean that he’s some sort of psycho.”
“You don’t know what it feels like,” she answered, her expression shifting from dejected to defiant in an instant. “He’s scary, Gavin. I’ve seen guys like him a hundred times. They stop thinking of women as people as soon as a woman does something they don’t agree with.”
I didn’t respond, I just watched as she paced the length of my desk. She was right; we were in uncharted territories for me. Most likely, nothing would come of the situation. Pastor Ford might be an asshole, but not every asshole is some kind of abuser. Right? Shit.
“So?” Kara asked, still looking stern but no longer pacing.
“I uhh… what do you think I should do?”
“I haven’t got a clue, Gavin. But you need to take it seriously.”
“I am.”
She gave me a curt nod and headed out of the office. “Oh,” she stopped before closing the door and gave me something very near a smirk, “and no more drinking today. Get your head in the game.”
“Yes, coach.”
She closed the office door softly, leaving me there to figure things out on my own. Without whiskey.
After a few minutes staring at the computer screen, I lit a cigarette. She might be able to keep me from the sauce, but she’ll have to pry the cancer sticks from my cold, dead hands.
Half the pill was ash before I came up with a plan of action. Well, the beginning of a plan of action. Or, maybe it was something to keep me busy to avoid feeling like an inconsiderate douche.
I pulled up Google and searched for Timothy Ford’s church, Lakeview Church of God. The website popped up at the top of the search page, just below the ads. Once I clicked it, though, the place it brought me to felt like a trip in the DeLoreon to the mid-nineties. There was a huge, off-center photo (Pastor Timothy hangs with some of the church youth!) and a swarm of bright flashing buttons (Calendar of Events! and Click Here for a Guaranteed Ticket to Heaven!).
Although the website looked like something from the last century, the information seemed up-to-date. Ford appeared as the only staff clergy, and then there were a couple of lay-people who handled the daily paperwork and daycare. Beneath that, I found the button I was looking for (Board of Directors).
With more than a little trepidation, I clicked the link. It brought me to a gray, non-flashing page, filled with three large photos. Each photo had a name beneath it, followed by a description of the person.
The first was an elderly woman who had a background in finance and loved the Lord with all her heart. Betsy Davis dedicated time to the church because it was a worthy cause, and because her children lived in Florida and she couldn’t stand the humidity.
Next came an even older man who retired from the military in 1992. Calvin Humphrey loved the Lord with all his heart, and dedicated time to the church because it’s what his wife would have wanted him to do. He is excited to see her when God takes him home.
Lastly appeared a younger guy who enjoyed his manager’s position at the dog food plant just outside of the city. Rick Manderly, too, loved the Lord with all his heart. Outside of church and work, he enjoyed snowboarding and going to Christian music festivals with his wife and young children.
Clark Anderson wasn’t on the list.
I pulled the trash bin up onto my lap and pulled my notes back out. It was right there at the top of the first page.
Clark Anderson, member of the church board, friend of client.
If Ford lied about one thing, he probably lied about the other. I shoved the notes back into the bin and picked up the phone.******
Pastor Timothy Ford sat in his
old Toyota, across the street from the Andersons’ split-level home. He had been there when she arrived first, and it was nearly impossible to fight the urge to follow her inside and get the ugly business over with. He did fight the urge, though, and it was a good thing; her husband pulled his mid-size SUV into the driveway next to her mini-van, only two or three minutes after she went inside.
He watched the curtains open on the huge picture window to reveal a large living room, decorated in the modern style, with a sinfully huge flat-screen television at its epicenter. Even from across the street, Ford could see the talking heads rambling about missed opportunities and yards gained during their halftime broadcast. Beverly smiled at her husband as she brought him a beer and sat next to him on the sofa, both of their backs turned to the window and the street beyond it.
He imagined kicking in the door. Revealing the woman’s sinful nature to her husband and… and what? Timothy Ford knew that it would come to nothing more than a screaming match, maybe some tears. Who would pay for their sins? Who would be held accountable?
No. Clark Anderson lived the life of a sheep, just like the rest of them. Not a shepherd. Shepherds had to be made of sterner stuff. Shepherds had to do the hard work. It was left to the shepherds to protect the sheep by killing the wolves.
Beverly Anderson was a wolf, he knew it in his bones.
When the phone rang and began to vibrate in his pocket, Ford flinched, slamming his thigh into the steering wheel hard. He gritted his teeth and sucked in a hiss of air as he rubbed his thigh with one hand and retrieved the phone from his pocket with the other.
He answered it on the second ring, “Timothy Ford.”
“Mr Ford,” replied a man, “it’s Gavin English. Do you have a minute to speak?”
Pastor Timothy Ford unclenched his teeth and groaned, “I suppose.”
“Perfect,” came the man’s reply. His voice oozed with sinful arrogance. “I understand you called yesterday; I’m sorry I wasn’t available to speak with you myself.”
“Yes, well I imagined with the money I paid for your services you would have been happy to make yourself available to me.”
“Right. Yeah. I uhh, well I do have other clients.” English cleared his throat, “Which, of course, is not an excuse. Again, I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you.”
“Fine, then. Do you have any news for me?”
“It might be best if you can come into the office, I can go over all the facts with you. Can you make it today?”
Ford reached down to turn the key in the pickup’s ignition, pumping his foot three times as he did so. The truck roared to life and he gave the Andersons’ home one last look, “I’m on my way now.”
Chapter 9: The Wolf
After hanging up with Ford, I called David at the police station. I knew he was at work today because he had court for a big case the P.D. closed several months back. Dave took a personal interest in the case because the guy got busted after murdering his wife, and once they got him in the system, they found he had another wife die under mysterious circumstances in Colorado six years before.
It was all too familiar and I tried to get him to stay away from the case, but since when does anyone listen to me?
“Lieutenant Reeves,” he answered in his big bad cop voice.
“Hey big papa, I need you to do me a favor.”
“I’m busy, Gav.”
“Busy with what? How’d the closing arguments go?”
He responded with a growl.
“That bad, huh?”
“Public defender had them eating out of her hand. No verdict yet, so there’s still hope. Just not much. What do you want, Gavin?”
“Can I get you to run a name up the flagpole, let me know if anyone salutes it?”
“Sure.”
I gave David the pastor’s name, address, and the address of the church, not really expecting he’d bring anything back for me. After we got off the phone I sent Kara home so she didn’t have to see Ford. She hugged me before she left, and asked me to call her later. Hopefully that was a sign that she wasn’t too pissed at me.
After that, I had a smoke and wrote up half a page of notes about Mrs. Anderson and her actions on the day I followed her. Grocery shopping, coffee with a group of similarly aged women, and then home, where I clearly heard the vacuum running for a good twenty minutes.
It was all bullshit, but how could the right and honorable Pastor Tim know that?
I thought about pouring myself another Jameson, but decided Kara was probably right in her assertion that I didn’t need another drink at work today. I hired her because she’s smart, so I might as well listen once in a while.
I was about to light another cigarette when I heard the door to the outer office open and close. “Hello? English, are you here?”
I didn’t like the way he said my name, all aggressive and pissy, but I decided to respond professionally, “Yes, sir. Come on back to the office.”
I stood as he walked through the outer-office, grumbling. He gave me a half nod when he entered, and ignored the hand I stuck out in greeting as he sat across the desk from me.
“Let’s get to it,” he said, the muscles in his jaw clenching between each syllable.
“Right,” I said, sitting back down. “Sorry, I had to let my assistant go home early today.”
“What does that have to do with my case?”
“Well, nothing.”
“Then it doesn’t matter. I’m not very happy with the level of service you’ve provided thus far, and I’d like to leave this place before my clothes permanently stink of your cigarettes.”
It’d been less than a full minute of interaction with this twat-waffle, and I was already biting my tongue. “Well, as far as our… work together, I’m happy to say I don’t have much to report.”
His eyes went dark and his jaw flexed again, “What exactly does that mean?”
“It means that I followed Mrs. Anderson all morning after you called me on Sunday, and she didn’t do anything out of the ordinary. At least, for what I assume a housewife would be doing on a Sunday while her husband’s at church.”
Pastor Ford’s eyes darted back and forth a few times and his breaths began coming quick and shallow. He didn’t say anything, but started shaking his head and jerking forward and backward in the chair.
He looked like he was coming unhinged. I wondered if Kara had caught some of this in their phone call yesterday.
After a minute or so, I leaned forward a bit, “Pastor Ford. Are you all right?”
He stopped everything and looked back at me, shook his head again and took a deep breath. His eyes were wide and manic. “Yes. I’m fine. Are you absolutely sure? Did you take any photos or anything?”
I made a show of digging into my file drawer and pulling out the notes I’d written just before he arrived. “I don’t usually bother with pictures unless there is something… untoward going on. I did take notes, though.”
He reached out and took the page from me, scanning it quickly and standing, crumpling the page and shoving it in his pocket.
“I’d be happy to answer any questions you might have, or…”
“No,” he replied. “This isn’t right. It can’t be.”
I stood so he wouldn’t tower over me as I lied directly to his face. “It’s what I found. She seems like any other housewife. I’m sorry. I thought this would be good news for you.”
“It’s not… I don’t know… Shut up!” Ford didn’t seem to be speaking to me when he said this. He shook his head frantically and kicked the chair so that it toppled to one side.
“Ford. You need to calm down. Now.”
When he looked back at me, his expression twisted into something between a grimace of pain and a sneer of disgust. He stood there, frozen and staring at me for what felt like forever. He wasn’t breathing and I could see a vein in his temple throbbing beneath his skin.
As I was about to speak, he turned and bolted out of the office. A moment later,
I heard the door to the main entrance slam open and closed once again.
I rushed out to catch him, make sure he was safe for the road, but I was too late. I saw him speed down the road, cutting off several cars as he hopped lanes, in a trashy old Toyota pickup. I almost laughed when I saw that the vanity plate read, “PEACE2U.”******
Pastor Timothy Ford blew through another red light, oblivious to the honking and middle fingers and fender benders in his wake. Traffic was another part of the world, slipping by him in an unfocused haze.
He jerked the steering wheel left, cutting off a soccer mom with a car jam-packed with children. He accelerated through an intersection, barely missing a homeless man pushing a shopping cart full of refuse through the crosswalk.
“No,” he mumbled to himself for the thousandth time. “No.”
“There’s nothing to be done about it, Tim-tim. It’s too late. You picked the wrong person.”
Ford shook his head like a rabid dog trying to shake off flies picking at his flesh.
“There’s no one else for you.”
The pastor let go of the steering wheel with both hands and began yanking and tearing at his hair. He gnashed his teeth and spittle sprayed as he prayed, “Thou art my…”
“Go home, fool. Slice open your wrists and be done with it.”
“No!” he shouted, ripping two loose wads of hair away from his scalp. “She’s the one. He has to be lying.”
The Toyota listed to the right and took the side-view mirror off of a pizza-delivery van. Ford grabbed the wheel and straightened the vehicle back into his lane, bringing the scenery outside of the cab of his truck back into focus.
He waited as he turned the corner and pulled to the side of the road, but the Voice had nothing to add. Timothy put the pickup into park and flipped the ignition to the off position. The only thing he heard was the sound of his own gasping, wheezing breaths.
He swallowed and closed his eyes, basking in the momentary quiet. Then, panic set in. Why (because I’m right) was It silent all of the sudden? Was he about to miss his opportunity (final, only, last opportunity) because of the word of some Godless investigator?
