City of Heretics

by Heath Lowrance

  “You sure that’s such a good idea?”

  He sneered. “Yeah, I’m sure. Why the hell wouldn’t I be sure?”

  “Considering the way we ran into each other today—you know, you with a needle in your arm and all—I just thought it might not be such a great idea.”

  “That has nothing to do with anything. Like I said, I’m straight right now. I can arrest you, bring you in, and it has nothing to do with anything else.”

  “If you say so. It’s just that…” Crowe shrugged again.

  “It’s just that what?”

  “Well, if I start talking about what you were doing in that bathroom stall, they may want to give you a drug test. You think you’d pass it? I mean, a lot of your fellow cops know you shoot smack, yeah? What would happen if they had something to substantiate it? How do you think you’d stand?”

  Rad said, “They wouldn’t do that,” but he looked a little uncertain. “They wouldn’t make me do a drug test, just on the word of some scumbag murderer.”

  “You’re probably right,” Crowe said. “Odds are, they won’t even listen to me. I figure, what… about a twenty percent chance? You’re probably safe. Yeah. You should just arrest me. It’s worth the risk, isn’t it?”

  His face twisted, but the gun barrel didn’t move from Crowe’s jaw.

  He said, very quietly, “I know something that’s even less risky. You could wind up dead, resisting arrest.”

  Crowe frowned. “Yeah. There’s always that.”

  “I saw you in front of the Walgreen’s. I tried to arrest you. You shot at me. And I had no choice, I had to gun you down.”

  “That sounds pretty good.”

  He nodded. “Get out of the car,” he said.

  Crowe laughed. “No.”

  “Get out of the goddamn car, Crowe!”

  “If you’re gonna shoot me, Rad, you’ll have to do it right here. Right in your passenger seat.”

  He said, “You dirty sonofabitch, get out of—“

  Crowe jerked his head back, out of the line of fire, grabbed Rad’s wrist with his right, and hit him in the nose with his left. The space was too close so there wasn’t much power in the punch, but it managed to bring blood. Rad made a startled grunting noise, hitting the back of his head on the driver’s side window, and his gun went off.

  The front windshield cracked into spider-webs on the passenger side as the bullet plowed through it. Crowe twisted his wrist hard, and the gun fell to the floorboards. Not letting go, he elbowed Rad hard in the throat, grabbed the back of his neck with his left, and slammed his face into the steering wheel.

  Nose cartilage cracked, blood spattered on the dashboard. Crowe smashed his face against the steering wheel twice more, just to be certain, and let him go.

  Rad slumped back against his seat and his head tilted and came to rest against the window. He was out.

  Amazingly, the gunshot hadn’t attracted any attention. The parking lot had been mercifully empty when the gun went off. And in this part of Memphis, guns going off weren’t exactly big news anyway.

  That didn’t mean it was time to take it easy. After a few seconds of catching his breath, Crowe picked up Rad’s .45, shoved it in his coat pocket, and stepped out of the Pontiac. He went around to the driver’s side, and pushed Rad’s limp body out of the way until he was half on the seat and half on the floorboards on the passenger side. Crowe climbed in and shut the door behind him. The engine had been running the whole time, and the car was almost too warm now. The smell of gunpowder and fresh blood was overwhelming.

  Crowe’s cell phone buzzed in his coat pocket. He pulled it out and looked at it. Vitower again. He put it away.

  The windshield was only cracked and spider-webbed on the passenger side, so he had no problem seeing through it. He drove away from the parking lot.

  They were just north of the industrial section. He drove until they were in the heart of a particularly dank industrial park, pulled around behind a gray and lifeless warehouse, and got out of the car. He opened the passenger door and Rad almost fell out. Crowe righted him and got a grip under his armpits and pulled him out. There was a pick-up truck by the Dumpsters, so he hauled Rad over to it and dumped him in the truck’s bed.

  He would be stiff and cold as hell in the morning, but the temperature wasn’t expected to drop too low so Crowe felt sure he’d survive the night. He checked his pockets to make sure he still had his heroin kit on him; he did. That made Crowe laugh a little. If the cops found him before he woke up, he’d have some serious explaining to do. It might even mean the end of his career.

  Good luck, Rad. Crowe got back in the car and checked his watch. Eight-thirty. The night was still young, and he still had a lot to do.

  The timing couldn’t have been better. The mall’s shops closed at nine o’clock; by nine-thirty even the latest of stragglers was gone and by a quarter to ten only the employees were left, ragged and weary after a long day of forced smiles and brittle politeness.

  At nine-thirty, Crowe pulled in near the employee parking area on the lower level of the concrete parking structure. Her car was a sporty dark blue GTO. It was parked near the entrance to the mall’s anchor department store. He parked a few empty spaces down, turned off the ignition, and waited.

  She came out a few minutes later. A mall security guard wished her a good evening and locked the mall employee door behind her. Crowe half-expected him to offer to walk her to her car, but he didn’t. Probably she’d said no enough times that he didn’t bother with it anymore.

  Her heels clicked on the concrete as she bee-lined for the GTO. He got out of the Pontiac and started toward her. She was so focused on getting out of the cold that she didn’t even notice him. She had her key in the lock when he said, “Dallas.”

  She jumped, dropped her keys, whirled to face him, looking like a cornered animal about to attack. It struck him again, that strangely feral look she had, with her dark eye make-up and red mouth and wild red hair. When she saw who it was she relaxed and said, “Jesus Christ, you scared the shit out of me!”

  He kept walking toward her.

  “What the hell are you doing here? Christ! You don’t just creep up on someone like that.”

  They were alone on this level of the parking structure. From above, a car engine revved, and a faulty suspension squealed, and whoever it was pulled out and drove away.

  When he was right in front of her he grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her back against the door of the GTO. She said, “Hey—“ and he shook her, hard, his fingers digging into her shoulders.

  “Crowe, what are you—“

  “Shut up,” he said. “You’ll talk when I ask you a question.”

  “Crowe—“

  Holding her against the car, he ripped open her coat, started pulling her blouse out of her skirt. She said, “Jesus, Crowe, no,” and started struggling to get away from him. “Please don’t do this.”

  What she was thinking hadn’t even occurred to him, and when it finally did it just irritated him. He said, “Knock it off,” and continued pulling up the blouse until her midriff was bare.

  He took a step back, one hand still holding her shoulder, and looked down to see the tattoo on her stomach, right next to her belly button. He’d only caught a glimpse of it before, up at Dr. Maggie’s farmhouse, when she’d stood up and stretched.

  A small cross, arms descending, crowned by a simple heart.

  She saw her chance and took it. The second he looked away from her eyes, she swung at him with her right, nailing him good in the jaw. He stumbled back a step and she turned to run, back toward the mall entrance. He grabbed her arm and spun her around.

  “The tattoo,” he said.

  She tried to jerk her arm away, and then tried to punch him again. He caught her fist with his other hand and pushed it down to her side. “Let go of me!” she said.

  “The tattoo,” he said again. “What is it?”

  “You sonofabitch, let me go!”

&n
bsp; “Dallas, don’t think I won’t hurt you. I’m going to ask you one more time. What is that goddamn tattoo?”

  She snarled and glared like a wild animal, but stopped struggling. “What do you care what my tattoo is? Have you lost your goddamn mind?”

  He put some pressure on the arm he was holding, and she winced.

  “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe I’m a complete raving lunatic. And maybe that means you should answer my question before I break your arm.”

  “It’s just a tattoo, Christ!”

  “When did you get it?”

  “I don’t know. About… about three years ago, I guess.”

  “Where?”

  “At a goddamn tattoo parlor, Jesus!”

  “What is it? What does it mean?”

  “Crowe, it’s just a tattoo.”

  He twisted her arm a little more, pressing up against her, and she hissed painfully through her teeth. “Don’t lie,” he said. “Or the next sound your body makes will be a snap. Do you understand me?”

  Her breath came hard and ragged, and she nodded.

  He said, “Do you know how many have died already? Do you know how many corpses have that same symbol on them? Exactly the same, but not in ink.”

  “What are you talk—“

  “Not in ink, but in blood, Dallas. Carved, right into their flesh.”

  “Jesus,” she said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

  He let go of her, and she slumped against the GTO, rubbing her shoulder and glaring. He said, “You told me, a few weeks ago, that you got religion for a while, but that it didn’t take. You remember you telling me that?”

  She nodded sullenly.

  “You gave it a go, but decided it wasn’t for you. That’s when you got the tattoo, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. So what?”

  “What does it mean?”

  She said, “It’s just a symbol, is all. A sign of faith.”

  “For the Society of Christ the Fisher?”

  She blinked, surprised. “How do you…”

  “Is that the church you went to?”

  She nodded. “Yes, but how did you—“

  He said, “It’s no ordinary church, is it?”

  “What do you mean? Of course it’s an ordinary church.”

  “People are dead, Dallas. People are dead, and that symbol you have tattooed on your stomach is carved right into them.”

  She didn’t say anything for a moment, only looked at him blankly. Her eyes were wide and dead-looking. When she finally spoke, her voice was a whisper. She said, “Carved.”

  “With a razor blade.”

  Her lower lip quivered, very slightly, and her dead eyes went watery. “With a razor…” she said. And then, “You… you’re all over the news, you know that? They’re saying you killed a woman.”

  “You think that’s true?”

  “I don’t know. No, I don’t think it is.”

  “Her name was Faith. She was a friend of mine.”

  “A good friend?”

  For a beat longer than it should have taken, he hesitated. He said, “No.”

  Dallas nodded. Behind them, the mall employee entrance opened again, and two men came out, laughing and carrying on.

  “Come on,” one said to the other. “I’ll buy ya a beer.”

  “Naw, I gotta get home. Wife’ll be pissed if I show up late tonight.”

  “Jeez, who wears the pants in your house?”

  They both laughed and, walking past them, nodded. One said, “How ya doin’?” He got no answer, shrugged, and the two of them walked on to their cars.

  When they’d pulled out and left, Crowe said, “Tell me about the Society.”

  Dallas shook her head, said, “They’re an ordinary church. Completely. Except…”

  “Except what?”

  “Except that, well… there’s a select group of them, some of the longtime members, or the ones with money. The hierarchy, I guess you’d call them. A church within the church. They have a more… specific… agenda.”

  “What is it?”

  “They… sorta play dirty, if you know what I mean. They expose, in the press, anyone they judge to be sinners.” She laughed, without humor. “And that’s a lot of people, you know.”

  “How did you get involved with them?”

  She said, “Through Jezzie. She… she and Marco were members.”

  “Was Chester involved, too?”

  She shook her head. “No. They didn’t tell him about it. Just me. I think… well, they sorta… wanted me.”

  “Wanted you?”

  “You know, for… well, they liked to swing on occasion. And I think Jezzie had me pegged.”

  “Wait a minute,” Crowe said. “That’s not exactly behavior suiting someone in that group, is it?”

  “I suppose not. But Marco Vitower sort of fails that test on quite a few levels, doesn’t he? They only reason they were members was because of the influence the group has. Why do you think Vitower is practically untouchable? They have a lot of members, Crowe, and some of them are pretty well-placed.”

  “What are they called?”

  She said, “They don’t really have a name. But, amongst themselves, it’s a little different. Jezzie told me once that, in the past, their ideas were considered heretical, and so that’s what they call themselves. The Heretics.”

  “The Heretics,” Crowe said. “Goddamnit.”

  “They mean it ironically, of course. As far as they’re concerned, it’s everyone else who are heretics, not them.”

  Crowe said, “Why did you leave the group?”

  She shrugged. “It started feeling… weird. Especially after Jezzie was killed. Fletcher seemed almost—“

  “Fletcher? Fletcher Welling?”

  “Yes. He seemed almost glad Jezzie was dead. He and Vitower had an argument about it, and Vitower left the group. It was just me then, and the only reason I was there to begin with was because of Jezzie. I left the same day Vitower did.”

  “Dallas, the Heretics killed Jezzie.”

  She shook her head. “No. They never killed anyone. They just did things like… exposing people in the media. You know? Calling them out. In a way, I kinda like that part of it, even though the whole God-bothering part started seeming more and more ridiculous to me. The stuff where they would call out the bad guys, reveal their cheating or lying or stealing, I really liked that part. They really let a lot of bad guys have it right in the ass.”

  “Right,” Crowe said. “All the bad guys, except the ones who were members.”

  “Well, I guess you can’t nail everyone.”

  “You can’t be that blind, Dallas. Jezzie was killed because she was a sinner. A fornicator.”

  “Fornicator? Oh, for God’s sake—“

  “And Patricia Welling was killed because she was a drug addict. Or maybe it was because she didn’t respect her parents. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter why. They were both murdered by the Heretics.”

  An icy wind cut through the structure, flailing at their coats, messing up her already crazy hair. She stiffened against the cold and shook her head. “No, that’s not true. It was Murke who killed them. Peter Murke.”

  “Murke is one of them.”

  “That’s insane.”

  “Both of them have that symbol, Dallas, carved right into their flesh. The symbol of the Heretics.”

  She was still shaking her head. “No,” she said. “No, that can’t be true. It can’t.”

  Crowe laughed. “Christ, Dallas. Only you. Only you could be a member of a secret society and not even know it. A bunch of lunatics masquerading as a religious group, its numbers filled up with the rich and powerful. Meeting in secret. Getting tattoos. Are you that naïve?”

  “It’s not a secret society,” she said. “For God’s sake, you make it sound like some sort of conspiracy or something.”

  “It is a conspiracy, you stupid bitch.”

  “No,” she said, although she didn’t s
ound quite as certain anymore. “No, Crowe. It’s nothing at all.”

  “Right,” he said. “Nothing at all. Just ritual murder.”

  She said, “Are you telling me that Fletcher Welling had his own daughter killed, Crowe? Do you realize how crazy that sounds?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m telling you. And Patricia’s murder was the one they screwed up on. Murke left too many clues behind, and they finally caught up with him. The Heretics had to scramble to cover their tracks. They’re the ones who sprung him.”

  She looked at him, doubt playing across her face, her eyes blinking rapidly. She said, “If you’re quite done, I’m leaving now. I think I’ve heard all I need to about this.”

  He stepped away from her. There was no reason to stop her from going, but he felt a strange sense of disappointment. What had he been hoping for? An ally? Someone who could help? But that was ridiculous, of course. He was in this alone.

  She opened her car door, making sure to keep one eye on him in case he went spontaneously psychotic. She slid into the car, started it. Before she closed the door, she said, “You should never have come back to Memphis.”

  He said, “Don’t talk to anyone from the Society.”

  She shook her head, slammed the door shut, and backed out.

  He watched her drive off. The wind funneled through the parking structure, and little cold fingers clawed at his face and hands and plucked at his coat.

  The sound of her engine died away, and the structure was quiet except for the plaintive moaning of the icy wind. The naked yellow lights flickered. Somewhere in another part of the structure, a chain was banging against the concrete, and it echoed dimly through the empty levels.

  He stood there for a long minute, letting the cold work its way into his bones. Dallas. She always did exactly what he expected her to do, and yet, every time, he was disappointed.

  He sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets and turned to walk back to the Pontiac.

  There were four of them, all standing in front of the car, waiting for him very patiently.

  There were no other vehicles on this level, and he hadn’t heard them approaching. Sneaky bastards. The two guys dressed like businessmen from the ‘70’s stood smiling at him, flanked on the right by the muscular James Dean wannabe, wearing his jeans and tee-shirt and a leather jacket, and on the left by the older man with the red cowboy hat.