by Mike Monson
He kept his right hand steady on the steering wheel. He made sure that Logan was occupied talking to Miranda and fished his phone out of his pants with his left hand. This wasn’t easy because his back was still very stiff on that side. He kept the phone near the seat, hidden from Logan by his lap. It took him a while to read the message, because he had to make sure he was steering straight down the freeway and that Logan wasn’t watching.
It was from Scott Love:
Pisko and Rincon breaking into the heroin business big. Tina a partner and an addict like Mark. Logan and Miranda rumored to trying to make a large buy from them.
That made sense. He kept the phone in his hand and watched the road. Logan was still talking. The phone vibrated again:
Clyde called MPD re your abduction with a description of Logan’s truck including license plate.
He put the phone back in his pocket and his left hand back on the wheel. Logan got off the phone.
Shit, the police might be along any time now. That should be interesting.
THIRTY-SIX
Fagan drove to the address Mavis gave him for Clyde Pike and Scott Love. As he turned onto Bangs Road, he received word that Mr. Love reported that Logan Swift had taken Paul from the house while brandishing a sawed-off shotgun. Fagan wrote down the license plate number, then called officer Plant and told him to drop everything and assist him in locating the vehicle.
He turned around and went to McHenry and turned right, toward downtown Modesto. He pulled into a parking spot at a gas station and store on the corner of Bowen, next to Safeway. He went inside and got a liter of ginger ale from the well-stocked cold box. Took it to the counter, where the gorgeous Indian woman owner—flanked in the tiny space by her homely husband and hip-hop gangster-looking teenage son—took down a pint of Jim Beam from the shelf behind her and set it on the counter next to Fagan’s ginger ale. The woman didn’t smile as she rang up the purchase, took Fagan’s twenty-dollar bill, gave him his change, then handed him the key to the restroom.
While taking a long shit, he opened the soda, poured half of it into the toilet between his legs. He set that bottle down on the floor to his right and opened the Beam. He took a long pull of the whiskey, and poured the remainder into the ginger ale bottle. For next twenty minutes, he slowly drank his cocktail while finishing up his bowel movement.
After wiping, pulling up his pants, and fastening his belt, he bent over to grab the bottle on the floor and the liter bottle of cocktail he’d left on the ledge of the toilet bowl. He lost his balance and fell, hitting his forehead on the steel flush handle. He passed out for a moment and fell into the water face-first, which woke him up immediately. Startled, he jerked his head up and snagged his ear on the same handle.
He gripped the toilet seat, gathered himself to get some kind of balance. He threw up into the toilet. Inexplicably, this made him cry. When he was done vomiting and crying, he managed to get the balance needed to stand up and go to the sink. He looked in the dirty mirror. His forehead and ear were bleeding all over his face, shirt, and tie. He started to cry again. He threw the empty whiskey bottle into the trash, finished the ginger ale/Jim Beam concoction and threw that into the trash too.
He cried and cried, thought of Mavis Love and Paul Dunn as he ran the water, trying to clean himself of blood. The blood kept flowing. Took another hour before it all stopped and he could walk out the door to his car.
He knew he looked horrible. His cell phone was on the seat and there were many texts and messages. He tried to listen to the messages first.
It started with a frantic message from Assistant DA Adams. He wanted an update on what Fagan had learned at the Love house and on his efforts to locate and apprehend Paul Dunn.
Many messages from Adams followed on the same subject, each one more frantic.
Shit. Fagan was so drunk. All he could think about was Mavis Love’s hair and face and tits, and how obvious it was that her son was no murderer. He had a really bad feeling that the guy wasn’t going to live out the day.
Then there was a text from an unknown number that had a YouTube video attached. He clicked on the video. It was called “The murder of Mark Pisko and Tina Dunn.” It was confusing and hard to follow, at first.
It began with the close-up of the face of a short-haired military-looking man in his mid-forties. Superimposed on the bottom of the screen: “The Reverend Peter Fish.” Then, there was a pretty, dark-haired woman about the same age as the man: “Bethany Fish.”
The camera panned to the faces of Mark Pisko and Tina Dunn. The filmmaker didn’t feel a need to identify those two.
“Why should we do business with you?” Mark said. The man looked high. His eyes were almost closed and he had a sly smile on his face.
“Let’s at least hear them out, baby,” Tina said. She appeared slightly drugged as well—and sniffled like she had a cold.
“I don’t trust them,” Mark said, “besides, there are plenty of people who want this shit.”
The camera went black for a minute, then seemed to show the ceiling of the room. It cut to Reverend Fish’s face again, then went down his torso as he opened up his button-down shirt to reveal a snubnose revolver in his waistband.
“Why the fuck did you bring a gun?” This was Mark, but the camera stayed on Pete Fish, then quickly showed a picture of a hand holding a sawed-off shotgun, then back to both Mark and Tina, from the waist up this time. They had their palms out and were slowly backing up.
“Sonofabitch!” Mark said. After that, there was high-pitched female laughter off-camera. Presumably, it came from Ms. Fish.
“You aren’t getting our dope, man,” Pisko said. “Shit’s worth millions of fucking dollars.”
For the next thirty seconds both Mark and Tina screamed and pled for their lives before both of them were shot in their chests. The gunshots were unmistakably shotgun blasts. The camera panned back and forth on the two as they quickly died, examining both of their gory wounds before the movie ended.
Shit. Wow.
Fagan, feeling slightly more sober, called ADA Adams.
“I just saw a YouTube video of the murders,” he said. “Looks like the perps were someone named—”
“I know, I know,” Adams said. “The video is all over. It’s fucking viral. The killers are Paul Dunn’s sister Bethany and her husband Reverend Pete Fish. They’re bankrupt real estate agents and he has a storefront church over by Murphy’s bar on Sylvan.”
“And they’re Miranda Fish’s parents?”
“You got it.”
“Not really, it doesn’t make much sense. Why would the Fishes kill two people and steal their heroin? It’s too weird.”
“In this economy everyone is acting crazy, you know that. They were probably in horrible debt. We’ll figure it out. Anyway, whatever, while you were out of commission doing what-ever-the-fuck, Logan Swift’s truck was spotted. Dunn is driving and passenger Swift is holding a shotgun. In the middle seat is Miranda Fish. Plant is following them now and waiting for instructions from you.”
“And, according to Dunn, Mr. Swift has all the dope, dude sent me a video. Fucking smart phones, jeez.”
“Please just get with Plant and peacefully apprehend and detain Swift, Paul Dunn, and Miranda Fish, okay? We got people going to the church to arrest the Reverend and his wife.”
Adams hung up.
Fagan went back into store. He didn’t bother with the ginger ale or restroom key. He just got another pint of Jim Beam and walked back to his Ford sedan. He drank three quarters of the whiskey in four long swallows as he watched the video again. Then, he passed out.
THIRTY-SEVEN
After seeing the video, Rincon proceeded to The Church of God’s True Word. Everything made sense now. Of course Paul Dunn hadn’t done it—they’d framed the guy to get him to murder him. Why? He had no idea. Didn’t matter. Time to do some killing, get the dope back, save his own ass.
The Reverend Phillip Michael Polk was nearly to Modesto. He w
as on the 99, in the middle of Turlock fifteen miles south. He was on his way to meet that dumbass Reverend Peter Fish. Jesus Christ, what an idiot this guy was. A true believer or some such shit, believed in the boogey-man.
Lucky for him, people like Fish existed. They made him rich as fuck.
Sure, he’d show up tonight at the pathetic store-front church just like the dozens of others he visited every week all over the Valley, the suburbs of Southern California, and in rural and suburban Arizona and Nevada. He’d look over their rag-tag militia, be fake-impressed, give an inspirational talk about God and guns, the need for good white Christian heterosexual men to take back the country. That would get the yokels to come inside their camo pants. He’d hand out some hate-filled, anti-government, anti-black, anti-immigrant, anti-gay apocalyptic literature, grab the shitload of drugs, and get his ass back to Costa Mesa as soon as possible.
He was impressed that Fish got his hands on all that heroin. That was quite a feat. Polk had half a million dollars in twenties, fifties, and hundreds in a couple of duffle bags in the back of his black Mercedes GL 550. He’d take what the guy had, cut it up, and with the help of his gang ministry in East LA and Santa Ana, turn it into several million dollars in about six months.
Fish thought they were financing a revolution, a fucking government overthrow when, in reality, Polk liked things just like they were. As soon as Fish and his little militia called too much attention to themselves, and as soon as he’d made enough money off of them, he’d spread word through his contacts in the Bureau and the DEA (he was a long-time confidential informant) about their drug dealing and anti-government paramilitary activities. That would get their stupid little army shut down.
Vernon Sanders, Eric Minor, and Steven Harris were early. They wore mismatched camo pants, shirts, jackets, and hats. Vernon wore black official army-issue paratrooper boots he’d gotten at Bi-Rite thrift shop for twenty dollars. This footwear laced up so high and had so many eye-holes that he’d given up half way through, and he kept tripping over the long remaining laces. Eric had on leather boat shoes, which were the most serious, utilitarian shoes he could find in his closet. Steven, a long-time Boy Scout leader, wore expensive leather hiking boots.
All three carried military assault rifles they’d obtained illegally from Reverend Fish, who’d gotten them for way below wholesale from Rincon. All three had full clips of ammunition in the guns and several extras in the pockets of their jackets. Vernon and Steven had automatic pistols in holsters around their waists.
They stood at attention in front of the Reverend Fish against the wall next to the deserted, dark parking lot behind the Church of God’s True Word, Murhpy’s Bar, and The Hole in the Wall. All three were horribly overdressed for the ninety-five-degree Modesto June night. Sweat poured down their faces. Reverend Fish was in khaki cargo shorts and a camo tank-top. He had a small Uzi in his right hand. Behind him, Bethany leaned against her Mercedes, checking emails on her phone. Inside her Louis Vuitton purse was a Berretta Tomcat, an eight-shot, compact automatic pistol.
Of the five, only Pete had any real experience or expertise in using firearms.
“First,” he said. “My daughter Miranda will arrive with a man named Logan Swift. We believe they will be in a White 2008 Ford F150 pickup. We know that Mr. Swift will be armed with one or more firearms, most likely a shotgun at the very minimum. The purpose of their visit is to drop off a bag containing some very valuable material. You do not need to know the contents of the bag to complete your mission tonight and please do not ask. All you need to know is that this material is vital to our holy cause.
“We have reason to believe that Miranda and Mr. Swift may try to cheat us in some way or, even, to do us harm. So, as soon as they pull up, I will need all of you to quickly approach the vehicle, cover both occupants with your rifles and demand that they keep their hands up and away from any weapons. Bethany and I will then disarm Mr. Swift and Miranda if applicable, and take the bag.
“If they give you or either of us any trouble or, if we find that we have been cheated or shortchanged on the merchandise, your orders are to shoot to kill. Any questions?”
Steven Harris raised his hand. “Sir?” he said.
“Yes, Brother Harris?”
“Does that include your daughter?”
“Does what include my daughter?”
Uncomfortable, Harris shifted back and forth and wiped the sweat from his eyes.
“I think what Brother Harris is asking, Reverend Fish,” Vernon said, “is, does the shoot to kill order pertain to just this Logan Swift guy or to Miranda as well?”
“That’s right,” said Harris.
Reverend Fish walked up very close to the three. He put his face up to each of their faces and studied their eyes for several minutes. Each did their best to meet his gaze.
He stepped back and looked over at Bethany, who was still working her phone.
“Mrs. Fish,” he said. “Perhaps I have miscalculated the commitment of these three, or made an ill-formed choice? Maybe I misheard God’s message, which told me that these three were the right men?”
Bethany looked up. She sighed. “What? I wasn’t listening.”
Pete ignored his wife, turned back to the men.
“Let me make this clear,” he said. “We are white, Christian, American men and we are on the side of right and good. We alone on this earth represent and hold sacred God’s True Word. Anyone else is in league with the devil and does not deserve our mercy, do you understand?”
He watched as each man nodded their heads affirmatively. But he did not continue until each said “Yes, sir.”
“These two about to arrive here are not Christians,” he continued. “They are not on our side. They are pure sinners and are in league with Satan. So, again, I repeat, if either one of them gives us any trouble, shoot to kill.”
“Now,” he said, “the Reverend Polk will be arriving shortly after this transaction. He is nearby and I will contact him when we are ready. He is going to give us a large sum of cash for a portion of what is in that bag. The rest we will keep for other buyers. This money will be used to finance our church and our Militia. It will buy more guns and ammunition. It will pay for improvements to our modest facility here and provide the seed money to buy property to build a new building for the glory of God.
“When Reverend Polk is here, I need each of you to do me proud. You will stand at attention and he will conduct an insp—”
Just then, from the east end of the lot, from the direction of Murphy’s bar, they heard the sound of screeching tires as a car pulled into the area from Oakdale Road.
Bethany ran and hid behind her car. Vernon, Eric, and Steven stood still, but put their hands on the triggers of their rifles. They were nervous. They knew what Reverend Polk looked like from all his YouTube videos they’d watched over and over, and the Hispanic man approaching in the tricked-out red Mitsubishi wasn’t him. He looked angry.
Seeing that it was Rincon, Reverend Fish was not too concerned, but he needed to get him out of there somehow. Rincon was obviously looking for Paul Dunn.
Rincon parked about twenty feet away. He got out of his car and walked quickly toward them. He didn’t show any concern about the men with guns against the wall to his right.
Just as he put his hand behind his back to pull out a pistol, another vehicle came into the lot.
Rincon pointed the gun at Reverend Fish.
Bethany stood from behind the back of the Mercedes. She reached into her purse to get her gun.
A Modesto Police Department patrol car stopped and two uniformed officers jumped out, guns aimed.
Rincon kept walking and shot Pete Fish in the forehead.
Vernon, Eric, and Steven approached Rincon with guns pointed. Rincon ignored the three and watched as Fish went down hard on his back before continuing toward Bethany.
“All of you, put down your weapons now!” the police officers shouted.
Startled, the three Chr
istian soldiers turned toward the policeman with their guns still pointed. The two policeman fired five rounds each. The bullets hit all three men in the chests. Vernon was also shot twice in the neck. Steven was hit by a bullet that went through his ear before penetrating his skull and entering his brain. Eric was shot the most: five times in his upper body. All men went down and were still.
Rincon shot Bethany once in the torso and once in her face. She fell, and he turned toward the other end of the alley with his gun pointed toward the policemen. Another squad car had arrived and both cops had their pistols ready. They shot at Rincon and one of the bullets went through his heart.
Officer Plant had parked in the shadows behind a small business park located diagonally across the intersection from The Church of God’s True Word. He had a clear view of the Del Taco where Logan, Miranda, and Paul were parked after purchasing food. He watched as the three ate while staring toward the direction of the church and the bar and the Galano club. He’d followed Logan’s truck for hours as the three circled Modesto. Finally, they had stopped. The policeman wondered about why they were so interested in that particular intersection. He kept trying to get in touch with Detective Fagan but he wasn’t responding.
When he heard the approaching sirens and the call for backup behind the Hole in the Wall, he tried one more time to reach Fagan. Again, he didn’t respond by radio or cell phone. He dropped his surveillance and went to the crime scene.
Miranda and Logan stared out the windshield. They each had a chicken Quesadilla. They’d bought Uncle Paul a cheeseburger. They watched Rincon race by on Sylvan, turn right onto Oakdale, and quickly turn left into the back parking lot of the strip mall. They saw one, then two MPD patrol cars turn into the lot. Their windows were open—they heard the gunshots and sirens coming from downtown.
“Cool,” Miranda said.
