by J. Fritschi
Before she could scream, she noticed something in his hand. “Please, don’t hurt me,” Shelly stammered, “Take anything you want. Take my truck. Take my…” before she could finish, the man in black knelt down next to her, and jammed a towel soaked in chloroform over her mouth and nose. She swung her head from side to side, but he held the damp rag firmly to her face as she flailed her arms at him. She gasped as he crushed her and inhaled the sweet chloroform as she began to black out.
At the last moment, she saw her entire life flash in front of her. Not in sequence, like a movie. Instead, every significant memory she had from childhood until that night came rushing back to her at once, stacked one on top of the other like a kaleidoscope.
With his prey wounded but still alive, the killer slung Shelly over his shoulder and hurried her to the back of his van parked across the street. Everything was going just as he planned. As he got behind the wheel of the van, he couldn’t wait to get his victim to her final destination where his grand plan would begin to unfold. He was going to make Father John and his dad pay for what they did to him.
chapter 8
AFTER ATTENDING THE evening prayers, Father John retired to his cell. It had been a long few days of travel and his body was fatigued. He wanted nothing more than to lay down on the thin mattress of the single bed that ran along the concrete block wall, but knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep until he put his mind at peace. Why did he have a dream about the end of days and what was he doing back in Northern California only hours from his boyhood home?
He sat down at a wood writing table and removed his bible from his knapsack. It was the bible his father gave to him for his christening when he was just six months old. It was his only possession from his childhood. He laid the worn, leather book on the desk and flipped open the cover. Inside, written in elegant long hand, his father had inscribed the following notation;
To my son John,
Never be afraid to follow the path that leads to your destiny.
Love,
Dad
The message was simple and ambiguous, but Father John always got the impression that his father knew what his destiny was. When he was growing up, his father spoke to him like his destiny was already decided, but he would never say what that destiny was.
“Your destiny can not be drawn out for you,” his father told him. “You must discover it on your own.”
Father John flipped through the pages until his fingers came to rest in a gap. As he opened the book, he stared at a tattered black and white photo of his parents standing together dressed in their best Sunday attire. He pulled it out and examined his mother’s puritanical face and flowing blonde hair. Every time he looked at the picture of her, he was filled with an empty sense of longing. He never knew his mother. She died while giving birth to him, but he often spoke to her in his head.
The only memories he had of her were manufactured from the stories and pictures his father shared with him. It was hard growing up without a mother, and he turned to God and the church at an early age to fill the void caused by her absence.
Slipping the photo back into the bible, he pulled out the only other picture he kept of his family. It was taken when he was just a year old. It was a faded black and white photo of his father holding him in his arms, standing next to his four brothers. They were all dressed in coats and ties in front of the Oakland Children’s Orphanage, where his father was a donor, fund raiser and board member.
The only other photo he kept in his possession was a close up of a young Italian woman with long dark hair flowing in the wind. He admired her glowing cheeks and full lips as his soul ached for her. She was the love of his life.
Father John first saw her while on sabbatical at the Vatican. She was seductive with a smooth, olive complexion. She carried herself with ease and confidence as she sauntered through the halls admiring Michelangelo’s fresco paintings that adorned the vaulted ceilings and walls. When he first saw her, it was as if his eyes had been opened for the first time. Never before had he noticed such beauty. He admired every inch of her being, appreciating every curve and every feature of her glowing face. After seeing her, the frescoes were even more beautiful, and for the first time, he appreciated the artistic beauty of the artist’s works.
He wished his Mother and Arianna could have met each other. He often thought that their souls were somehow intertwined. As he closed the photos in his bible and placed it on the single shelf above his desk, he rose with a grimace. He didn’t feel right. At first he thought it was fatigue, but then he felt a sharp pain surge in his head like a white hot, steel marble, causing him to raise his hand to his forehead as he staggered into the bathroom. With his hands planted on the sides of the sink, he leaned in and looked in the mirror. His face was pasty and a trickle of blood ran from his nose. The crippling pain grew as Father John stumbled from the bathroom to his bed.
His body ached as though he had the flu. He pulled the covers tight as he shivered uncontrollably. Beads of sweat rolled down his back. His vision was blurry and he felt dizzy. He closed his eyes, praying for the pain to go away, when he slipped into a horrific nightmare.
chapter 9
FATHER JOHN CAME to standing in the isle of a dark sanctuary illuminated by flickering candles. It was chilly and the wind howled. He glanced around at the dusty pews and stained glass windows. Where was he? The last thing he remembered was passing out with a terrible headache.
Up on the stage, lying on the altar, he saw what appeared to be a naked woman. Father John couldn’t believe it. What was she doing there?
He approached cautiously and saw that her wrists and ankles were bound and her face was swollen and bruised. Who was doing this to her? He had to save her.
He tried to move, but he was helpless. He just stared at her wantonly. What was happening to him?
When Shelly woke, her eyes were hazy and her mind was groggy. She didn’t know where she was or how she got there. She gazed around at the flickering shadows, trying to get her bearings when the image of the intruded scrambling out from beneath her truck flashed in her mind. Where was he?
She tried to get up but a stinging pain shot through her arms and legs. As she lifted her head, she saw that she was lying naked on an altar. Her heart began to race. She had to get out of there.
She was struggling to get free when she noticed something move. She turned her head and saw a dark silhouette. Holy shit. What was he going to do to her?
Father John’s heart was pounding when he felt something stir in his loins. He tried to fight the craving, but he longed for her supple body.
She started to move and Father John was relieved. He watched with the curiosity of a wild animal as she struggled to regain consciousness, intrigued by her vulnerability, but also wanting to set her free.
He could see the fear in her eyes as she began to yank against the plastic ties on her wrists and ankles. Father John wanted to tell her everything was going to be alright.
He crawled onto the linen covered altar and straddled her. She looked at him with pleading eyes as he leaned down and licked her neck. It was terrifyingly exhilarating. He couldn’t help but enjoy the feeling of power and control as he forced himself on her.
Shelly watched through tears as he straddled her. She hoped that it was over quickly. She closed her eyes and bit her lower lip as she recalled a trip she and her mother took to Yellow Stone Park after her Father left. Her mom held her and cried herself to sleep as Shelly assured her everything was going to be alright. It was the last memory she had of her mother before she met her step father.
When his hunger was satisfied, he slumped down and caught his breath. He could feel her heart racing like a struggling animal before it dies. He raised himself up and saw that she was turning her head. She was the one who made him do this and now she didn’t have the decency to look him in the eyes? If she thought she was so much better than him, then she deserved to die.
Father John waved a glimmering blade in front of h
er. Her eyes bulged as he raised the knife above his head. God, please save her. He plunged the blade into her chest with a crunching thud. Her back arched as she began to gurgle. His heart sank with despair as he watched the life run out of her eyes.
He then pulled out a scalpel and cut her belly open with the precision of a surgeon. Father John watched in horror as he reached his hands in and removed her intestines. He carried them behind the altar and began to smear them on the wall. At first Father John couldn’t tell what he was doing, but as he stepped back, he could see the number 6 with what looked like an upside down peace sign in it. What the heck did it mean? And then the killer let out a sinister laugh that woke Father John who was standing in front of the mirror in his bathroom, naked with blood running from his nose.
chapter 10
MIKE BLINKED HIS crusty eyes as he tried to focus. It took him a lost moment to realize that he was lying on the leather sofa in his living room, dressed in his jeans and button down shirt. In his drunken stupor, he managed to kick his cowboy boots off, which, as he unsteadily sat up, he saw were strewn next to the couch on the hardwood floor. He didn’t remember anything about getting home.
His dad’s nickel plated Colt .45 was lying on the coffee table next to a crumpled pack of cigarettes, a full ashtray and half a quart of Jack Daniels. His dad purchased a matching set of the guns and gave Mike one as a present before he went to Iraq. It was the same gun his dad used to kill himself.
Mike was in the habit of pulling it out when he was fucked up and imagining what his dad’s last minutes were like before he blew his brains out. Even though he didn’t remember, it didn’t surprise him that the gun was there. Why did he keep doing this to himself?
He rubbed his eyes and searched the recesses of his groggy mind for memories from the night before. He looked at the clock on the DVD player in his entertainment center. 6:36. He considered himself lucky to have woken up in his house instead of in a hospital bed or dead. He often thought that waking up after a black out was like coming back from the dead because he had no idea what happened while he was gone. If he died while he was in a black out, he would never even know. It was a cold and lonely feeling. When was this going to end?
He wearily got up and stretched with a grumble. His mouth tasted like a cat box. He ran his hand through his thick hair. The last thing he could remember was being at The Precinct Bar and Grill, but that was early in the evening. That left a lot of unaccounted for hours. What the fuck happened to him? He hoped he didn’t do or say anything that he would regret. He was trying to remember how he got home when he was struck with a flash of panic. Where the fuck was his car?
He shuffled over to the doorway of the kitchen and looked into the galley. His badge and gun were strewn on the counter next to an open bottle of Heineken, a pack of smokes, chips and salsa. He approached the counter and chuckled. It looked like more of the chips and salsa made it onto the counter than into his mouth.
As the cob-webs subsided, he felt the front pockets of his jeans. He pulled out his money clip and checked it. Everything was there and there was even a little cash. He shook his head with a grimace. He checked his cell phone’s call history. There weren’t any calls later than 6:03 the previous night. He let out a sigh.
He got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as he remembered his car. Did he drive it home or would it be smashed up with a dead body stuck in the windshield? It was like an out of body experience.
As he spun the rod on the blinds, he saw his Mustang sitting in the u-shaped driveway. He shook his head as he let out a sigh. Trying to remember what happened was like being a game show contestant. He didn’t know what to expect to find behind the curtain. He was acutely aware that the prize could be a coma, but that wasn’t enough to make him stop.
Mike lit a cigarette and exhaled his demons. He grabbed the Heineken and examined it. With a shrug of his shoulders, he took a gulp. What a fucking mess his life was. He sat at the counter as the morning light illuminating threads of smoke from his crooked cigarette. As he gazed blankly at the counter, he realized he was only a mirage of his former self.
He wasn’t always this dark and hopeless. In high school, he was a popular and handsome academic All-American quarterback, but his life changed after serving in the Gulf Wars and Afghanistan. That is when he began to experience symptoms of posttraumatic stress disorder.
When Mike returned from Afghanistan, he didn’t trust anyone besides Big Pete. Even now, he met everyone with a scowl on his face as he sized them up and assessed their weaknesses and strengths as well as their motives. This guy is a candy-ass douche bag. Was the type of thing that rolled through Mike’s head upon meeting someone.
He was always worried someone was going to sneak up behind him so he was constantly looking over his shoulder in spite of the fact that he was trained to kill and there were very few people who could actually pose a threat to him.
His hands shook and he took medication for anxiety, but he didn’t like the way it made him feel so he drank excessively instead.
He wasn’t afraid of dying. He didn’t have anything to live for. His head was so messed up that dying might be the only way to put it at ease. He didn’t believe in the afterlife so if he died, he would never know it. It wasn’t like he would be in the afterlife regretting that he was dead. It wasn’t some story that he could go back and change the ending after it happened. As he snuffed his cigarette out in the beer bottle, he wondered how close to death he came the night before.
He got up from his stool and wearily stumbled over to where his dad’s gun laid glimmering in the morning light. He held it in his hand. It was cold and tormenting. There was only one reason he kept the gun and he knew eventually that he would use it on himself, but not before he had his affairs in order. There was still the case of Nurse Nancy that needed to be solved. It was his only unsolved homicide and he wasn’t going anywhere until he figured out who killed her and why.
As he admired the power of the gun he wondered if he would have the courage to pull the trigger or was the thought of a searing bullet, tearing through the top of his mouth, shredding his brain as it exploded out the back of his head, too much? Would that split second be the most painful moment of his life or would it happen so fast that he wouldn’t feel anything?
The gun was a constant reminder of the weakness that existed in his genetic makeup. Suicide was in his genes and he had an unrelenting suspicion that it was only a matter of time until he took his shame too far and in an act of callous drunkenness, would pull the trigger. He needed to find something to give him a purpose to live before it was too late.
chapter 11
IT WAS AROUND 8:30 am when Mike let himself into Big Pete’s country style house and strutted through the hallway between the living room and dining room. As he entered the kitchen, he found Big Pete at the island reading the paper and drinking a steaming cup of coffee.
Big Pete was a bear of a man at 6’6” and 320 pounds. At 6’4”, 230 pounds, Mike was built like a steel cable, but Big Pete dwarfed him. During his playing days, he was known for being a mean mother-fucker on the field and a big smoothie off of it.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” Big Pete said as he looked up. “What happened to you?”
“If I was a horse, they’d shoot me,” Mike replied as he grabbed a Gatorade from the refrigerator.
“If you keep doing this to yourself you’re going to die.”
“We’re all going to die one day,” Mike said as he snatched the sports’ page from Big Pete and sat down. “I’m just going to die on my terms.”
“That’s what you said in college.”
It was true. Mike got addicted to painkillers and was drinking heavily after he blew his knee out and eventually he graduated to cocaine. He was on a three day bender when Big Pete showed up at his apartment. Mike was sitting on his couch with his leg in a brace watching TV in a comatose haze. There was a pile of cocaine and a water bong on the coffee table.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Big Pete bellowed.
“What the fuck does it look like I’m doing?” Mike slurred with red, half-mast eyes.
“It looks like you’re trying to kill yourself.”
“What the fuck do you know?”
“I know this shit isn’t going to help you.”
“Who asked you?”
“I’m not going to let you do this to yourself,” Big Pete said as threw the table against the wall.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Mike asked as he wobbled to his feet.
“I’m taking you to get help.”
“Like hell you are.”
“You think you can stop me Mikey? Look at you. You’re a fucking mess.”
“Fuck you,” Mike grumbled as he took a flailing swing and tumbled over.
“Look how pathetic you are.”
“I wouldn’t be like this if you didn’t miss your block,” Mike said as he rolled over against the foot of the couch.
“That’s bullshit. You’re using your injury as an excuse.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You never played quarterback. You’re only a fucking lineman and a shitty one at that.”
“I know you don’t mean that Mikey.”
“You don’t know what it’s like to be the leader and have your team taken away from you.”
“I know it sucks, but there is life outside of football.”
“Oh really? Football was my life and now I’ve got nothing.”
“That’s not true. Everything comes easy for you. You just have to get yourself clean.”
At first Mike resisted, but then reluctantly agreed to allow Big Pete to drive him to a drug and alcohol treatment clinic. Mike didn’t buy into their twelve step program or belief in a “higher power” and was in denial. Then he met Gunnery Sergeant Baker who was also getting treatment for drug and alcohol abuse and he changed Mike’s life.
