Gavin English Thrillers

by Ken Lindsey

  Now that he had emptied the bedroom, making it ready for whomever would take his place, some of his discomfort at the loss of the Voice eased. The lamp was the last of his worldly possessions, and without it, he could finally finish his work. A sort of lunatic excitement built up throughout the day, until Timothy felt like he might burst right out of his skin.

  He left the Rectory and found his way to the main entrance of the church. The oversized double-doors were hand crafted a century ago, made of aged and darkened oak, with a stained-glass cross letting light through the center of each door. Next to the entrance was a bulletin board, filled with children’s activities and Bible studies, Alcoholics Anonymous flyers and the regular service schedule.

  Pastor Ford wondered if services would continue as normal after the he was gone, and guessed the police would have to shut things down long enough to disrupt at least one weekend. That felt right; it would be like leaving a flag at half-mast for a fallen soldier. He also wondered if any of his parishioners would carry fond memories of him, or if the tableau he meant to leave in the basement would be the entirety of his legacy at the Lakeview Church of God.

  None of that mattered, he knew, in the grand scheme of things. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder.

  He entered the church, thinking wistfully that he would only walk through those doors one or two more times, before it was all over. Ford tried to guess how many times he’d passed through the ornate entryway, but knew he’d never get close to the truth. He’d spent more of his life here, on the church property, than anywhere else in the world.

  He marched through the foyer, ignoring the collection plates and ministry pamphlets left out from the last service. Then, he entered the sanctuary and was greeted by rainbows of glistening light, pouring through the huge stained-glass windows on either side of the pulpit.

  One window depicted the three crosses of Calvary, while the other showcased three white doves, flying in a sea of blues and greens and yellows.

  Pastor Ford smiled, recognizing that it had been too long since he’d noticed all the beautiful things that made him love this church, all those years ago. The building was gothic and grand, exactly the kind of representation of Faith that anyone who loved the Lord could be proud to call home.

  Timothy thought it fitting that his journey should end in such a beautiful place, since it began in a world of ugliness and pain. It was the end the preacher imagined he deserved after years of service to God. He’d been the lamb, beaten and tortured and slaughtered by his family. And now he was the shepherd, helping to usher sinners back into the fold.

  Soon he would be at the Father’s right hand.

  But first, bring salvation to the Whore.

  He opened the trap door and climbed down to the basement, enjoying how smooth the rungs of the ladder were after decades of use. It was well-made, like the rest of the church. He admired the hard working, God fearing craftsmen who put the building together, piece by piece. When he got to the bottom of the ladder, he flicked the switch to illuminate the basement.

  His basement. His altar.

  The picture mirrors from his bedroom were placed at an angle at the sides of the horse trough. The trough itself had been painted white, and pale, golden hay littered the ground.

  Ford admired his work. With the mural at the center of focus and the mirrors... and soon he would light the candles... The trough would be transformed into a glowing and holy baptismal pool, the perfect place to cleanse the woman’s sins.

  He walked to the baptismal and knelt before it, closing his eyes and resting his head on the rounded lip of the tub. He felt the water slosh gently back and forth, and smiled when a few cool droplets spritzed his scalp.

  Instead of praying in silence, as he’d planned, his mind wandered. He remembered the first time his father forced him to discipline his mother. He’d hated it, because he loved her. But even as a child, Timothy had known that sin demanded consequence.

  He and his mother had wept together afterwards, embracing on the floor of the kitchen after father drifted off to sleep. Timothy begged her to forgive him and she swore he didn’t need her forgiveness.

  He never asked her forgiveness again. The Voice insisted that he and his father were doing God’s work, and apologizing for that was a sin in itself. The last time he whipped her, he was fifteen years old, and he laid ten hard lashes with his own belt across the small of her back. His father was ill, and watched approvingly from his place on the bed.

  After he finished the work, his mother met his gaze, her own eyes bloodshot and swollen with tears, and told him that she wished she’d never given birth to a beast like him. He didn’t hold it against her; sheep can’t tell the difference between shepherds and butchers.

  His father taught him well.

  After some time, Timothy dipped his fingers into the water of the baptismal and touched them to his forehead. They were cool and the water was refreshing against his skin. He stood and offered a silent prayer to the Lord for strength.

  Chapter 13: Stories and Songs

  “The son of a bitch got off.” David was fuming; the sound of his teeth grinding came through loud and clear on the speaker of my phone. “Goddamned Laura Wilson and her bleeding-heart Public Defender bullshit convinced those twelve morons that just because he might have had something to do with his first wife’s death, doesn’t mean he had anything to do with dead wife number two.”

  I wiped the sleep from my eyes and sat up, kicking the twisted sheet off from around my legs. “How did she die, the first wife?”

  David let out a wet, derisive snort, “Burglary gone wrong, according to the reports. The husband found her, bleeding out in the living room after someone cracked her head open and beat the living hell out of her.”

  I hadn’t had my coffee yet and, in my opinion, it was way too early to be talking about this stuff. But I knew he needed to vent, so I stayed with the conversation as I trudged to the kitchen in yesterday’s underwear.

  “What did the burglars take?”

  “His official report to the cops stated that they had eight thousand dollars cash in the safe. His alibi was that he took the dog fishing and set up camp for the night near the Truckee River.”

  “Just him and the dog? I’m guessing he didn’t have to stop for gas or anything?”

  “You guessed right.”

  “What happened in that trial?” I asked, pouring several cups of scalding water into the French press. I loved watching as the freshly-ground beans stained the clear water with swirling clouds that would soon transform into glorious coffee.

  “Never had one. I’m guessing the District Attorney decided there wasn’t enough evidence to move forward so the case is still officially open.”

  I felt for him. I’d been through a few similar situations in my time with the Department, and it always sucked. Having the jury come back with a not-guilty verdict in a case like that might be even worse than leaving the case un-tried. When you’re in the courtroom, with all the mahogany and pomp, you can’t help but feel like justice is getting done.

  When it doesn’t, it’s a hard slap to the face.

  “What are you gonna do?” I asked him, finally pouring myself a cup of hot, delicious wake-up juice.

  “I’m going to finish my shift. After that,” he paused a moment longer than was comfortable, “I don’t know. I’m exhausted.”

  I thought about asking if he wanted to talk about it over drinks, but I had other things I needed to take care of. We ended the call after a little more of our usual chitchat, and I made a mental note to check in on him later that night.

  I finished the entire pot of coffee while running through the normal morning routine on autopilot. I couldn’t get my mind off of the preacher situation, and decided to call Kara on the way to the office.

  “Gavin English Agency, how can I help you?”

  “You’re such a work-nerd,” I joked as I pulled the Jeep onto the freeway, ignoring all the bastards trying to leave me stuck
on the on-ramp. “Don’t you ever sleep in?”

  “I would love to sleep in, but it’s not like you’re ever going to show up early enough to open the office. Someone has to be here for the clients.”

  It was rude to say things like that to your boss, but she was right. Mornings are the worst. “Fine, fine. I’m grabbing a huge coffee downstairs when I get there, three cups aren’t going to be enough this morning. You want anything?”

  She let out a disappointed groan, “Arrgh. How are you still alive? It can’t be good for you to pound a gallon of coffee every morning, your heart’s going to explode.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, my dear. The coffee gets my engine running, and then the whiskey keeps me from red-lining. It’s a perfect system.”

  By the time she was done mumbling about biology and life-expectancy and heart failure, I was in my parking spot. It was early enough for me to miss the lunch rush, but late enough to miss all those pesky morning-people, so I didn’t have to wait in line for my Joe. I dropped an extra dollar in the tip jar for the fast service and made my way to the office.

  I almost doused myself with my drink when I got to there, trying to wipe some fingerprints off the window panel with my name on it. Kara watched me juggling my phone, coffee cup, and keys and laughed heartlessly from her desk instead of helping. Her love of schadenfreude is one of the reasons I dig her so much.

  “You’re lucky we don’t have any clients in here, no one would trust you after seeing that disaster,” she laughed once I got the door opened.

  “Near disaster, thank you very much. I had everything under control, just like always.” I set my drink on her desk and shoved everything else into my pockets. “Speaking of clients, do I have any coming in this morning?”

  “Nothing scheduled.”

  “Good.” I decided to jump right in, see if those points I earned went up on the board. “I went to the Andersons’ house.”

  She cocked her head, trying to figure out the context of the conversation I’d thrown her into the middle of, and then her eyes went wide. “You did? When? What happened? Did you talk to them?” She stood from her chair, suddenly forgetting about my caffeine addiction and my occasional lack of grace.

  “Woah, calm down there, Silver. One question at a time please.”

  “Damn it, Gavin, just tell me. Is that why you didn’t come in yesterday?”

  “Kind of. I was up late looking in to a few things.” I wasn’t ready to tell her about Timothy Ford’s possible criminal past, so I focused on the story of meeting Clark and Beverly. “They thought I was there for sex.”

  Kara smirked, “See, I told you. Everyone knows that you’re a perv.”

  “Funny. Do you want to hear the story, or not?”

  She walked around the desk and sat on the edge closest to me, handing me my forgotten coffee. Her tartan-patterned pencil skirt pulled up past her knee, showing the smallest segment of her honey-colored thigh. “Yes, please,” she purred.

  I’m a sucker. I’m a sucker, I’m a sucker, and I’m a goddamn sucker. And she knows it. Plays me like a violin. I wanted to kiss her right then, but I fought the urge and played it cool like always. “What were we talking about?”

  “The Andersons. You were telling me about when you went to their house.”

  “Oh, right,” I replied, and proceeded to tell her about possibly the coolest couple I’ve ever met.******

  He’s been following her since she left her apartment. Pastor Timothy Ford has never watched procedural crime TV shows or read memoirs from police detectives; he has no idea how to follow someone without being noticed. He drives his pickup as close to her minivan as he can get, mimics her every turn and lane change, and nearly rear-ends her at an intersection.

  Still, she is oblivious to her shadow. She leads him to the bulk-foods store, and he parks his truck only three spots to her left. Ford scrutinizes her every move through the passenger-side window until she enters the building. He doesn’t bother to lock the door to his Toyota and leaves the keys in the ignition; he won’t be needing it anymore.

  On his way into the store, he continually checks his pocket, making sure that the needle is there. He’s grateful for the thieving veterinary assistant, without whom, he never would have found his supply of M99. She was less grateful to him when he removed her hands and let her bleed to death.

  She didn’t understand that he was delivering her to the only salvation she could hope for. He expected her gratitude would be bountiful when he saw her again in Paradise.

  His eyes move over the patrons in the produce section until he spots her. Beverly Anderson is loading a plastic bag with fat, overripe tomatoes and brazenly flirting with a stock-boy in a green apron. He tells himself that she can’t help it, the sin is buried too deep in her flesh.

  He stalks her for most of an hour, until she finally lines up behind a group of teenage boys at the checkout stand. He thinks of all the innocent young men he is likely saving from her debauchery by killing her. Ford checks for the needle again as he leaves the store, and once more after he climbs into the back seat of the minivan. He places the stolen key into the ignition, but does not turn it.

  From the corner of his eye he sees her exit the building, pushing a cart loaded with food and toiletries. Timothy climbs behind the driver’s seat and over the last row, positioning himself, ducked down low in the storage area. He pulls the hypodermic needle from his pocket and removes the plastic cap. His hands are shaking and his breathing is shallow; the air around him is electric.

  The van lets out two mechanical beeps as Beverly Anderson presses a button on her key fob; she doesn’t notice when the locks don’t disengage as usual.

  A shadow falls over Ford through the back window and he clenches his teeth, almost sick with anticipation. He hears the latch click on hatch and the door begins to swing upward. He pounces.

  The tip of the needle slides easily into the side of the woman’s neck and he depresses the plunger before she is able to react. She takes a single step backward and her mouth opens for a scream as he grabs her blouse with his free hand.

  The scream freezes in her throat as the paralyzing agent in the drug does its work. She gasps as he yanks her into the storage area, her eyes dart furtively and her mouth gapes open and closed again and again. She looks like a goldfish, helpless and stupid, being flushed down the toilet.

  Beverly Anderson is unconscious before the pastor climbs out and closes the minivan’s hatch. He pushes the cart, still loaded with goods, into the empty parking space across the lane. Perhaps the Lord will let someone in need find it, and it will bless their day and bring them closer to Him.

  He smiles as he drives the Andersons’ van out of the parking lot and onto the street. The sun is shining and the sky is blue.

  “Father Abraham has many sons,” he sings the old children’s hymn as he rolls the driver’s window down, “and many sons has Father Abraham. And I am one of them, and so are you.” His voice is deep and smooth and he revels in the cool wind flowing through the vehicle. His hands are no longer shaking. “So let’s just praise the Lord!”

  Chapter 14: Watching and Waiting

  “Gavin, Clark Anderson is on the line for you.” Kara leaned against the doorframe, pointing at the phone on my desk. I might be wrong, but I think her blouse had one less button done up than it had earlier. I couldn’t decide if she was torturing me or rewarding me.

  “What does he want?”

  “I’m not sure, he asked to speak with you and said it was important.”

  I nodded and she headed back to her desk in the outer-office. I almost forgot to pick up the phone until her perfect ass disappeared from view. “Gavin English,” I answered, hoping Mr. Anderson would ignore the pubescent crack in my voice.

  “Hi. It’s uhh, Clark. Anderson. From the other day?”

  “Sure thing, Clark. How can I help you?”

  “I uhh…” He sounded so much different, stammering and nervous on the phone, than he
had when we’d met. Half-naked, meeting a stranger, he’d been all confidence. Now, though, it was like a totally different person. “I’m calling because, well, because Beverly isn’t answering her phone.”

  “Okay. Is that out of the ordinary for her?”

  “Yeah. Well, no, but kind of. I just, well, she called me about an hour ago and said she thought she saw, umm, Pastor Ford at the grocery store.”

  I didn’t like where this was headed, but I didn’t want to add to whatever panic Clark already had going on. “What did she say, exactly?”

  “She, well, she stayed on the phone with me for a while. She said she wanted to keep circling until she saw him again, you know? But she never did. I assumed she just saw someone who looked similar, and you know… with the whole thing? With the pastor already, well, I thought she was overreacting. Probably.”

  “All right, Mr. Anderson, I’m sure there’s no reason to panic. Why don’t you tell me which store you guys shop at and I’ll go check the area and make sure there haven’t been any accidents or anything to slow her down.”

  “Oh Jesus,” he whined. “Do you think she was in an accident? I should go too, right? Meet you there?”

  “No,” I responded, trying to use the authoritative tone I’d learned in the academy. “You stay home, and let me know when she gets there.”

  He sighed and took a few measured breaths before responding, “Right. Yeah, when she gets home. Yeah, I’ll let you know. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  “Me too, Clark,” I lied.

  I dropped the phone in its cradle and sat back in my desk chair with my eyes closed. Thankfully, Kara hadn’t started filling the place with her whiny, indie-rock yet. I liked everything I knew about her, aside from her taste in music. It was an imperfection I was happy to accept most of the time; just then, though, all I wanted was silence.