#2 White Sheets

by H. D. Gordon

  Climbing behind the wheel and starting the engine was harder than I wanted to admit. It had hardly been six weeks since the shooting, since I’d taken the life of a crazy young man named Daniel Deaton, since Daniel Deaton had killed a good friend of mine and two others before I could stop him. I could keep up the bravado about having to try in my head, but the way my hands were gripping the steering wheel, the way my throat was tightening, told me I wasn’t ready for this. All I had to do was think the name Daniel Deaton and my pulse would start skipping. I just wasn’t ready.

  The old, raspy voice of my good friend and neighbor, Mr. Landry, went through my head then.

  And you ain’t never gonna be ready, neither, soldier. How does whining about it help?

  I held onto the imagined sound of the old man’s voice and pulled my visor down to look at myself in the mirror. Silver-blue eyes stared back at me, wide and scared, images of small things under white sheets flashing invisibly behind them, the bangs of phantom gun shots ringing in my ears. My jaw clenched and I snapped the visor back up. I put the car in drive and began the three hour trek home to Peculiar, Missouri. This would normally be the part where I broke down and cried over the pure unfairness of my life, all by myself and free to do so sans a drop of judgment—which is the best way to cry, in my opinion. In fact, normally, I would have cried the whole way home.

  But as the sun rose in the sky behind me, filling my rearview with blinding light, not a single tear fell from my eyes, and I didn’t care to contemplate just what that said about me. I didn’t care to contemplate what that said about how I had changed, or about how I would be changing again, for better or worse, no matter how this current nightmare ended.

  And by change, I meant the fundamental kind.

  ***

  When I got back to my apartment it was still early morning. I shut off the Camino’s ignition and put it in neutral, pulling into my parking spot as quietly as possible and putting it into park. Stuffing the keys in my pocket so they wouldn’t jingle, I opened the car door slowly and grabbed my suitcase. Then I shut the door gently and began tip-toeing up the stairs to my apartment door.

  I was just turning the key in the lock when the door adjacent to mine opened, and a voice I knew well sounded over my shoulder.

  “Look at you sneaking in like a teenager past curfew,” Mr. Landry said. “Leave for damn near two months and don’t think you should say hello to an old man when you get back?”

  I turned on my heel to face him, putting the most natural smile I could manage on my face. “Hi, sir,” I said, pleased when the two words came out fluently. I tend to stutter more when I’m nervous, and being that I intended to keep what I knew from Mr. Landry, I was pretty nervous. It’s not easy keeping things from the old man. Like me, he’s…different. I can see the future, and he can read minds. With my speech impediment, this was usually a gift I was grateful he had; it made it easier to communicate. When I was trying to keep him from getting involved in something he would insist on getting involved in if he knew about it, not so much.

  Mr. Landry stared me for a moment. I smiled wider and told myself to think nothing, think nothing, THINK NOTHING. “Huh-huh-how have you buh-been, sir,” I asked, when the silence went on too long.

  His blue eyes narrowed a fraction. “I been good,” he said. “What about you? You find what you needed down at that cabin?”

  Think nothing, think nothing, think nothing. “I-I’m okay, sir,” I said. Mr. Landry knew all about the shooting six weeks ago. He knew more about me than anyone, actually.

  Silence followed again, and the old man continued studying me. I was just about to tell him I was tired and make my exit when his wide shoulders tensed a fraction and his head tipped back. Understanding flashed behind his eyes, and even before he spoke the words, I knew he knew.

  “What did you see, Joe?” he asked, his voice suddenly low and as serious as a sergeant’s.

  I let out a frustrated puff of air, and spoke to him silently, because it was easier for both of us. “I thought you said you do your best to stay out of other people’s heads,” I said.

  A smirk pulled up his lips, a rare gesture from the old man, who hardly ever smiled. “Well, what do you expect when you keep screaming, ‘think nothing, think nothing, think nothing’? Doesn’t take a rocket scientist, girl.”

  My shoulders slumped. I tried one last time, though I knew it was in vain. “I’d rather keep it to myself, sir. It’s something small. I can handle it fine on my own, really,” I said.

  Mr. Landry gave me a dubious look. He turned and began heading into his apartment. For a fraction of a second, I thought he was actually going to let it go. Then, over his shoulder, he said, “Go put your stuff away. I’ll put some tea on and leave the door unlocked.” When I just stood there, he added, “Go on. It’s rude to keep your elders waiting,” and closed the door.

  I turned back to my own door and twisted the key in the lock. Tossing my suitcase inside, I headed over to Mr. Landry’s. Letting out a deep sigh, I had to admit, at least to myself, that I was a little bit relieved to be able to unload some of my most recent burden. I didn’t like to think about what that said about me, either.

  Mr. Landry was putting a pot of water on the stove when I entered, and he gestured to a chair at the table. I sat down and pulled the drawing of the disaster out of my pocket. Leaving it folded, the terrible scene hidden for now, I looked up at Mr. Landry.

  He spoke before I could. “Save it,” he said.

  My brow furrowed. “Save what, sir?” I asked silently.

  Mr. Landry made his way slowly over to the chair across the table from mine and sat down in the careful way that only older people have, as if he could feel each creaking movement of his bones.

  “All your bullshit about how you don’t want me involved and how I could get hurt and how it’s your problem and not mine,” he said. “You might as well just save it, cuz if you’re involved, I’m involved, and that’s all there is to it.” His eyes met mine. “I don’t suppose you’re considering not getting involved?”

  I just looked at him. We both knew the answer to this.

  He let out a raspy breath and ran a wrinkled hand over his short, silver hair, cut in the same military style they’d given him in the service long ago. I recognized this as a nervous habit of his. His only tell, actually. His eyes went to the folded sheet of paper in the center of the table, and the curiosity behind them could not be hidden.

  “That it?” he asked, nodding toward the paper.

  I nodded and swallowed. Though I trusted Mr. Landry whole-heartedly, I was somehow nervous, my palms a bit moist, my heart rate a touch fast. This would be the first time eyes other than mine had ever seen one of my predictive drawings. It was oddly like showing someone red-painted fingers, unfurling a fist that I’d so long kept clenched and close to my body.

  A moment of silence passed between us, during which it became clear that Mr. Landry was apprehensive about seeing the drawing as well. Being that he’d had to hide his ability for over eighty years, he must have understood how monumental this was for me.

  He picked the folded paper up off the table and paused before opening it. Without looking up, he asked, “How bad is it?”

  I swallowed and spoke out loud, deciding there was no point in lying. “The wuh-wuh-worst I’ve eh-ever seen, sir,” I said.

  Mr. Landry’s blue eyes came up to mine then, and there was such a mixture of emotion there I had to look away. I stared down at my hands as he unfolded the paper and smoothed it out on the small table between us. To his credit, he didn’t gasp or curse. At least, not out loud.

  Instead, he bent over the paper, pulled his reading glasses from his shirt pocket and put them on, his eyes never leaving the drawing. “There’s no blood,” he said, and looked up at me.

  I nodded, then shrugged. His focus went back to the paper. “No bullet holes, nothing burning…no struggle, not that we can see anyway.”

  Again, I nodded.


  Mr. Landry pointed to the center of the paper, where the man in the middle was propped above the dead, all those people covered in white sheets. A disgusted look came over his face, and I didn’t miss it when he rubbed his hand over his short, silver hair, but his voice was as strong and steady as always when he spoke. “I guess we better get to the business of finding out who this fella is,” he said.

  My eyes went down to the picture, to the half-shadowed, handsome face and terrible small grin on the lips of the man in the center of it all. The man who was my newest opponent. The monster who would somehow be responsible for all those impending deaths, for the loss of all those poor people and innocent children.

  Unless I could stop him. Unless I could stop the Middle Man.

  The designation made a shiver race through my body, and I had to swallow hard before I could speak. “I-I guess we better,” I said.

  Chapter 3

  Middle Man

  They were on to him. Somehow, he knew they were. They could be anywhere, like cockroaches, like dirty flies clinging to the walls, recording things with their dirty little fly ears. They didn’t think he knew, didn’t think he was smart enough to have figured it out, but they were wrong. And they would regret their underestimation of him if they kept on. They didn’t have any idea who they were dealing with.

  Jealous, that’s what they were. They wanted what he had. They wanted it so badly they were willing to steal to get it. Fools. Sinners. They must have had devil-worshiping parents, the whole lot of them, because they obviously had never heard the words thou shalt not steal. And the Lord would make them pay if they tried to take from him what he worked so hard to obtain. The Lord would protect him, and the Lord would make them pay.

  He bent his head down to the desk top in front of him, plugged his right nostril with his right thumb, and sucked up the line of white powder there. A wonderful explosion, a sensational sensation, erupted through his head, chasing away the bad thoughts. Everything was fine. No one was out to get him. Everyone loved him. They trusted him. Everything was going to be fine. Paranoid. The word disgusted him, but it was better than the alternative.

  And there was work to be done. He couldn’t afford to entertain such worthless thoughts because there was always work to be done. The sheep needed tending, herding, and tomorrow night posed the potential to add impressively to his already impressive flock. Taking the Good Book from his desk drawer, he flipped through the pages and began composing on the notebook he always kept with him.

  His thick fingers flew across the page, and less than thirty minutes later, the whole thing was written. A few minutes following that, his high was gone, and the bad thoughts made their creeping way back in. The past came back to him, and when it came like this, it became nearly impossible to separate the now from the then. It became too hard to remember that things were no longer as they once were. It was at times like these when he would be forced to go to The Closet.

  Replacing the Good Book in his desk drawer, he stood and began unbuttoning his shirt. He removed it and the wife beater underneath it and folded them neatly atop his desk. He was not aware of it (he was hardly aware of anything anymore in these particular moments, which seemed to be coming more frequently as of late) but his hands were clenched into fists and his jaw was so tight that a single blue vein stood out on his forehead.

  He made his way over to The Closet, sliding the key he always kept hanging around his neck over his head and into the lock. A click sounded as the lock disengaged and he stepped into the small, dark space, the smells of iron and disinfectant filling his nose, calming him with their familiarity.

  It was here where he bled out sins. He did not see the act as vulgar, though he kept it hidden from the others, for the simple fact they already knew all they needed to know. But he thought if they were to find out, that would not be such a big deal, because they would see that he was not suffering for his sins, but for theirs, and they would surely be rightfully grateful.

  These were the thoughts these sessions in The Closet always began with, a specific, controlled mantra he would repeat to himself before the real business of The Closet began, and he lost control over his thoughts altogether.

  He was doing this for them. They were beyond grateful for it, even if they didn’t know. They worshipped him for it, as they should, because he was doing it all for them.

  There were five things in The Closet; a small rug, a cross with the Savior on the wall directly ahead, two white, half-used candles that had to be replaced every so often, and the instrument. The instrument hung on the wall to the left on a single nail. It was just a small piece of wood, shaped into a handle and wrapped around with worn, brown leather. Brown leather strips hung from one end of it, stiff with years of use. He had fashioned it himself, and was sure to stroke it lovingly before each use.

  He knelt to the floor, his knees cushioned by the thin rug, lit the two white candles with a silver lighter from his pants pocket, and began.

  Gripping the instrument in his right hand, he swung the leather strips over his back with all the force he had. They made a terrible thwack! sound as they met the scarred skin of his bare back. Glorious pain erupted there, a purging as potent as fire. A half groan, half moan escaped his mouth, salty tears burning his eyes.

  He struck himself again. Thwack! And again. Thwak! Thwack! And so on and so on until all the bad thoughts, all the sins had been bled right out of him.

  For them, of course. It was all for them, and they were damn lucky they had him. Damn lucky indeed.

  Chapter 4

  Christine

  She was so lucky to have found this place. If she hadn’t, Christine Mattock wasn’t sure where she would have gone or what she would have done. Her plan had gone only so far as getting out, as getting away from him, but beyond that, she hadn’t had any clue. It was clear to her now, now that she could rest easy for a bit and just think, how foolish that had been, especially with Maddie only being six years old and in need of all the care that six-year-olds require.

  But they were safe now, and that was all that mattered. It had been a much-needed stroke of luck, meeting the nice woman, Missus Dorie, in the parking lot of the Stop n’ Go. Missus Dorie must have seen the desperation leaking out of her, because she told Christine she and Maddie were welcome to stay on the ranch as long as they needed, as long as Christine didn’t mind pitching in with the housework, and attending service once a week when the Father gave his sermons.

  Christine was more than willing to do her share of the housework, as she was no stranger to it. He—the one she had escaped from—used to demand she keep an immaculate house, would always find something unsatisfactory no matter what pains she went through to keep things clean and in order. In fact, that was one of the many reasons he would take his hard hands to her. She had to shake these thoughts away. She was safe now. She would do all the housework Missus Dorie required of her, attend services every day, if that’s what it took. No matter what, she would never go back to him. Even if she didn’t deserve better, Maddie certainly did.

  She wasn’t really the religious type, though her mother and father had done their best to make her one. Christine just had a hard time believing in the existence of a God when there was so much evil that took place every day in the world. Also, her parents’ beliefs had certainly played a role in them kicking her out at fifteen when she’d gotten pregnant with Madison, so one could see why she had even further reservations about the whole thing. For being only twenty-one in age, Christine Mattock’s short life had been a rough go, regardless of the fact that a lot of it had been her fault.

  But these people didn’t need to know that. She knew the bible, the hymns and passages well enough, and if it gave her and her child a place to stay and food to eat, she would raise her hands to the heavens and shout hallelujah! right along with the rest of them until she could get on her own feet. They didn’t need to know she pretty much thought it was all bullshit. She was an uneducated, young mother on the run from
her child’s abusive father, with no family or close friends to fall back on. She had thirty dollars to her name, a single suitcase of clothes and a few other small things worthless save for the memories they represented. She’d been dropped off in this nothing little town by a bus headed to nowhere, and would have kept on going if fate hadn’t delivered her Missus Dorie. To put it shortly, she was in a bit of a desperate position.

  However, despite her opposition to pretty much the whole institution of religion, she had to admit she was looking forward to her first service, which was being held tomorrow night at the big white house across the lake. Up until now, she had only seen the place from afar, but she knew from what the others told her that the big white house was where service was held, and where the one they called Father lived.