*****
One week after Deacon’s first nightmare, it came again. The second time was more vivid. The frequency of its visits increased during the following month until it came almost every night. Driven to total despair, he climbed inside a bottle and hid from the demons. Jack Daniels quickly became Deacon Jones’s best friend. His work suffered. Doc begged him to get help. His friends staged an intervention, but he was too drunk to care.
*****
The plan crept slowly, surreptitiously, into the Reverend’s mind. It evolved by installments over a number of years. As the plan took shape, it became a driving compulsion. It germinated in the soil of his cerebral garden. Lying dormant at first, then through the cold winter of realization, it found its true beginning. He would compensate for all of the low points of his meager and miserable life. Fiercely, he cried out, “and it is good.” In the court of God, and humankind, he would have his moment of retribution, which would lead to contentment, even if he had to create it himself.
*****
The nightmares convinced Star that it was time for the next phase; she thirsted for vengeance.
O’Connell, probably an alias, was an ex-IRS accountant laundering money for the mob. With his help, Star transferred nearly all of her assets to offshore banks. He assured her that it was fully accessible, and completely untraceable.
*****
Reverend Jones was secretly pleased when he realized that he was improving much faster than the doctor’s prognosis. He was able to speak, walk, and even see with almost no impairment. However, in the presence of Mrs. Jones, he continued to play the part of an invalid.
He returned to the church. He sat through the majority of each service, standing only to deliver the sermon. His personal stock, with the congregation, rose as word of his devotion, in the face of adversity, spread. He stood in good stead with his wife and the church. Somewhat helpless worked to his advantage. Behind the guise of an invalid, he could implement his plan in secret.
Locating James will be the hard part, he thought. The Reverend had saved a little cash every payday for many years. He would need it to pay a private investigator. In the back of a magazine, he found his first bit of good luck. For one hundred dollars, the advertiser could find anyone, anywhere, guaranteed. Two weeks later, he had a phone number and an address. James David was close by, living in Kirkwood, a suburb of St. Louis. The next challenge was to get there without Mrs. Jones knowing. When she did leave him alone, she took their only car.
In the lobby of the nursing home, he found a two-day-old weekly paper from a small-town thirty miles away. Locked in a stall of the men’s room, he anxiously flipped to the classifieds.
*****
Bridget Luna was excited with the cocktail party invitation, which arrived with her name elegantly inscribed on the expensive, cream-colored linen envelope. Star, displeased by the distraction, said it was impossible. She was obsessed with the complete erasure of Bridget Luna’s existence, their escape from California, and the circle of the sun.
Bridget, who did not agree with her own erasure, argued that her absence would cause too many questions. Star saw the logic in her words and agreed. Enjoy yourself, this is the last time, she said coldly. We are leaving here in four weeks, and we’ll all be ready, no matter what.
“Who cares,” Bridget, with hands on her hips, said indignantly to Star, whose image looked back at her from the mirror in the deserted hotel restroom. “I know you make more money, and you found Estrella before me, but that doesn’t mean I’m less important. This party is a perfect example. Some self-important woman has invited me here because she thinks my presence will make her more popular.”
The conversation was unusual because Bridget, Star, and Estrella did not usually speak aloud to one another. Tensions ran high among the three. The stress of the move, the intensity of Star’s plan, and her obsessive control of their life was all taking its toll. Estrella cowered nervously inside, listening to the too-public argument.
“Stupid sluts,” Star laughed at Bridget, “Both of you, what our hostess doesn’t know, and what you seem to have conveniently forgotten, is they all want this body; not for the houses you sell, but for the pleasure I bring. Hell, how ironic, the woman who desperately wanted us to come, and is so excited to see us, has no idea how excited her husband gets when he’s inside me. I wonder what she would say if she knew, her loyal mate gives me three thousand every week for an hour in my bed.
“You’re going to this party. Just don’t think for a minute that you’re the lead. You can watch, but I’ll do the talking. We’ll do this my way. I’ll show you how to take advantage of your marks.” Star chuckled and finished painting Bridget’s deep-red lips.
Talk around the hotel pool was a mixture of gossip and business, laced with hidden meanings and double entendres. Out of habit, Star sized up the starlet who only a few months before had received a best supporting actress nomination.
The tall, finely chiseled thespian seemed distracted as she made small talk with Bridget. Star recognized the look in her eyes. They were secretly screaming; take me, lick me, drive me crazy, I want you. Star correctly interpreted the signals, and sent her answer in the same, nonverbal, code. She was effective. The young woman squirmed. A welcome feeling of power and control swept through Star. See, I told you, she whispered to Bridget. Like a starving vampire, Star moved in for the kill.
“Do you know all of these people?” Star casually asked with a sweeping glance at the A-list gathering.
“Hardly anyone, at least not personally,” the woman answered in a discrete voice. “I was only invited because of my nomination.” She paused. “Do you—do you know them all?”
“Yes, I know everyone here.” Star let Bridget answer while she admired the girl’s alabaster complexion. “I know them well enough to say you’re probably right about why you were invited. There’s really no such thing as friendship here.”
The actress seemed to hang on every word. The hook was set; the starlet was Star’s prize to reel in at her leisure. She could do whatever she wished, and when the mark went beyond all previous comprehension of ecstasy, at exactly the right moment, Star would offhandedly mention some exorbitant sum. The naïve woman would gladly open her purse and produce the money. She would think of it as a gift, something special for her lover. She would never say she had slept with a prostitute, or that she had paid for anything, especially not sex.
“Why don’t we get out of he…” Before Star could finish, she caught a glimpse of a tall African-American man in a shiny black linen suit threading his way through the guests. From across the pool, she saw the look of anger and contempt in his eyes. Fear swept over her. Garvin Brown was a pimp from East LA. He was the younger brother of Star’s ex-pimp who the police found with his head smashed in almost ten years before, the day after they found Lupe, and the same day Star disappeared.
“Sorry,” Star gasped, “I don’t feel well; I have to go!” Before the young woman could answer, Star disappeared through the shrubs.
She slapped a one-hundred-dollar bill in the valet’s hand and ordered him to run for her car. “I’ll wait around the corner.” She pointed to the place.
If he found me here, she reasoned, he could know where I live. She threw a few personal items, including her ledgers and journals, into the dark-green Jaguar and abandoned the rest.
One day later at a used car lot in a small town in Arizona, she traded the Jag for an older-model red Chevy Camaro. The Jag was worth ten Chevys, but she traded even. The salesman, also the owner and a part-time barber, pulled his mouth up in a big toothless grin as Star sped away.
The back roads felt safe; it took nearly three days more to get to St. Louis. Star envisioned her deserted war room, and drew a mental chalk line through a corresponding number on her To Do list.
EIGHT
The newspaper ad described the van as perfect condition, 100,000 miles, priced to sell, and the color as black. It sounded ideal, exactly what the Revere
nd wanted, something innocuous. High-mileage meant a low price, and he did not intend to drive it far. He concealed the torn ad in his wallet, and buried the paper in the trashcan.
“It’s a cherry Ford van,” the man on the telephone convincingly told the Reverend. “But I can’t drive thirty miles to show it to you. If you don’t buy it, I’ll be out the trip.” He complained.
“It’s exactly what I am looking for,” the Reverend argued, “there’s just no way I can get there to look at it. Come to my home this Thursday morning, precisely at ten, and if it’s everything you say, we’ll have a deal. I give you my word.”
“I don’t know, mister. I’ve already been burned a couple a times by agreeing to meet someone who didn’t show.”
“But, I’m asking you to come to my home. I promise you; I’ll be waiting.”
“I just can’t do it, not thirty-miles, sorry, mister.”
“Wait a minute. Don’t hang up!” The Reverend was desperate to make a deal. “Tell you what, today is Monday, I’ll put a fifty-dollar bill in the mail today. You’ll have it by Wednesday. You drive over here on Thursday. If I don’t show, you keep the fifty for your trouble. Otherwise, you put the money against the price. Okay?”
“Make it a hundred bucks and you’ve got yourself a deal.” The man bargained.
“Okay, a hundred bucks, but be here Thursday at ten; don’t be late.” The Reverend sternly cautioned the man.
Reverend Jones sat nervously at the well-worn kitchen table. Across from him, Mrs. Jones, apparently deep in thought, quietly sipped coffee from a big china mug. Guardedly, the Reverend glanced at the wall clock. The minute hand shuddered reluctantly, and then snapped to dead center on the twelve. It was exactly nine o’clock Thursday morning.
“Grace,” he began, “I think I’m out of my medicine, and it’s time for a dose. Can you check?”
She glanced up from the steaming cup, shook her head, and left the kitchen without a word. Minutes later, she returned. “Reverend,” her tone was slightly agitated, “why didn’t you tell me sooner that you were out?”
“I don’t know how I missed it. I’m sorry.” He tried to sound remorseful. Earlier, he had secretly emptied the remaining few tablets into a plastic bag, locked them in his desk, and left the empty pill bottle on the bathroom vanity.
“All right,” the disdain gone from her voice, “I’ll go to the pharmacy as soon as I finish my coffee.” She sat back down.
He glanced again at the clock; it was fifteen minutes past nine. “You know, I’m supposed to take my medicine every twelve hours,” he hinted. Mrs. Jones continued to sip her coffee. “Don’t you think you should go now?”
“I’m going, I’m going. You aren’t going to die if you pop one of those pills at one minute past eleven, you know!”
“I know, but I worry less when I take my medicine on time. I want to get better.”
Mrs. Jones, moving at a relaxed pace, thoughtfully chose a dress and shoes. He agonized as she searched for her purse. Finally, at precisely 9:53 a.m., the door snapped shut behind her. The Reverend exhaled a deep sigh of relief, and sat down in his chair to wait.
He gasped when the door sprang open; she was back. ”What—what happened?” he asked with incredulity. “Aren’t you going?”
“Of course, I’m going; I forgot my car keys, that’s all. What’s the matter with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Nothing—nothing, I’m fine; just anxious for my medicine.”
“Too bad you’ve never worried about the well-being of others as much as you now worry about yourself,” she said, peeved, as she scooped up her keys and slammed the screen door behind her.
“You have no idea,” he began with pride of conviction to the closed door, “what you are saying, or to whom you are speaking, woman. I’ll show you soon enough. I’ll show everyone the real strength of the Reverend John Jones.”
Less than a mile from her own driveway, Grace met the black van and the woman in the car that followed. They caught her attention because the car tailgated the van so closely that it looked like they were connected.
She returned with the prescription at eleven o’clock. The van, parked in the driveway of the vacant lot next door, beside a wooden skeleton of charred remains, was a surprise. No one had parked there since the house burned to the ground.
“Where’d the van come from?” Grace asked as she handed over the small white pharmaceutical sack.
“Is it a van?” He asked trying to sound surprised.
“Yes, a black van.”
“A man came to the door and told me that he had car trouble, and had rolled in over there. He asked me if I thought he could leave it until he could come back with help. I told him, I didn’t think it would make any difference to anyone.”
“Where’s the man now?”
“He asked to use the phone, called someone, and got picked him up within just a few minutes. Why all the questions, do you think I was wrong to tell him it was okay to park there?”
“No, I don’t suppose it matters. I just don’t want it to turn into a junkyard.”
“I’m sure we have nothing to worry about.” He said feeling his way along the wall to the kitchen for a glass of water.
The Reverend began with short excursions through the countryside. He always wore dark glasses and a wide-brimmed black fedora pulled down to his ears. The trips were nerve-wracking because the brevity of Mrs. Jones’s errands limited him.
*****
When the Reverend suggested that Grace volunteer at the hospital, she was relieved. For a long time, beginning shortly after his stroke, she felt trapped. He had always discouraged her from any kind of volunteer work, saying her place was in the home. His unexpected change in attitude was a startling, but welcome, revelation. She immediately made the call; the hospital scheduled her for work the next day.
*****
Everything is perfect; he thought when she told him the news. At last, I’m free to make it all happen. He was careful not to let her see him smile.
*****
Deacon Jones was barely twenty-nine years old when he stumbled into the alley and tripped over the two halves of a black man’s body. He lay in a pile of garbage, convulsing. Just before he passed out, overcome with terror, he had a vision. The image so vivid, he was sure it was real.
His father, the Reverend, towered over him; he had not aged. In his arms was a small yellow dog. His booming voice was unchanged; he spoke with authority and absolute conviction. Very well, young man, remember King Solomon…
A dense black shroud enveloped Deacon’s mind; its weight overpowered him, and his knowing disappeared.
Deacon awoke to a throbbing headache, bewildered and queasy. Where am I? A narrow shaft of sunlight found its way through mauve curtains and bisected the half-light. Two floral-papered walls contrasted two bone white walls. The door was ajar, open just a few inches. Deacon, struggling to recollect what had happened, squirmed in search of a position that would bring relief to relentless, full-body pain.
A woman entered. Her short blonde-streaked hair and lithe frame were a welcome sight; Deacon breathed a sigh of relief. “Kat, I’m so glad to see you. How did I get here?”
“Take it easy, James.” She sat on the edge of the bed and helped him settle back. “You’ve had quite a time. You need to rest.”
“Katherine, how did I get here?” He asked again. “Where have I been?” “Perhaps you know more than I do, James. Edward said he found you passed out in an alley on The Landing. He brought you here, and we put you to bed. But, James, there must be a lot more to it than that. When Edward brought you home, he was shaking. I have never seen him so terrified. All he would tell me was that it was ghastly. He wouldn’t say what. Did you see what Edward saw, James, do you remember what happened? Were you involved in something?”
Her rapid-fire questions were too complicated for Deacon’s whiskey-muddled mind. “How long have I been here?” He feared the answer.
; “Since about daylight, morning before last. You’ve been fitfully unconscious and puked until I thought you would dehydrate. It wasn’t until early this morning that you settled down and seemed to rest.”
“My bike, where’s Widow…”
She cut him off. “Don’t worry about your motorcycle. Some of the guys took it to the shop.”
“Thanks, thanks for everything, but I’ve gotta get outta here. I’ve gotta get to work. Where’re my clothes?” He tried to sit up, but his stomach growled loudly and cramped. He dropped his bedraggled mop on the pillow.
“You’re not going anywhere, mister, except maybe to take a bath.” She pressed her finger against her nose. “You’ve really done it this time. Just lay right here and get well. Then, you, Edward, and I are going to sit down and have a long talk. We love you, James; you’re our partner and a member of our family. We want to help you, and based on what I’ve seen, you need a lot of help. Now, rest and I’ll bring you some soup.”
*****
After their first dance, during the fall of their high school senior year, Edward and Katherine parted only once when Edward went off to attend a state university, one hundred miles away. It was a miserable, lonely year for them both. The following spring, Edward dropped out of college, and they were married.
The first several years were difficult. Katherine’s father cut her off, and Edward worked evenings, driving a forktruck in a warehouse. He earned extra money by repairing motorcycles for his friends during the day. Katherine attended beauty school, and after graduation, she rented a chair in a popular shop.
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