City of Heretics

by Heath Lowrance

  “Mr. Crowe,” one of the businessmen said. “It would probably be in your best interests to go along with Mrs. Paine in this matter.”

  Crowe didn’t say anything.

  The businessman said, “It’s good to see that you’re recovering from your wounds.”

  Crowe felt the metal of the gun in his pocket. Could he take out all four of them before they got him? Not likely; there was only a distance of about ten feet between them, and he’d seen how fast these bastards were with their knives.

  The other businessman said, “I hope someone is taking notes regarding Mrs. Paine. I consider this reasonable evidence that she’s an adulteress.”

  His partner said, “Why, Stone? Because she talked to Mr. Crowe here?”

  “And, last night, yes? He showed up at her home very late and stayed until morning.”

  “It bears looking into.”

  Crowe said, “You people killed Faith.”

  “No, that wasn’t us. It was Peter. He… he was there to see you, of course, but you were nowhere around. So he took out his frustration on your female.”

  “What do you want?”

  They didn’t seem to be armed at the moment—or at least they didn’t have their weapons in their hands. The thinner of the two businessmen said, “My name’s Eckstine. And this is my associate, Stone.”

  The other businessman nodded and straightened his tie.

  “The hooligan in the leather jacket,” Eckstine said, “is Nick. And this is Larry.”

  The cowboy said, “Howdy, Crowe.”

  “Well,” Crowe said. “Now that we’re all friends. What can I do for you?”

  “You can start,” Stone said, “by removing your hand from your pocket. Removing it without the gun in it.”

  Crowe let go of the gun and pulled his hand out.

  Eckstine said, “We’re not here to kill you, Mr. Crowe. Not this time.”

  The ‘hooligan’ called Nick said, “That’s a fuckin’ shame, too. I voted for slicing you into little tiny pieces.”

  “Me too,” said the cowboy, Larry. “Nothin’ personal-like, mind ya. It just woulda been a helluva lot easier. Path of least resistance, and all that.”

  “See,” Eckstine said. “It’s like this, Mr. Crowe. You really shouldn’t even be here. You know? You’ve sort of found yourself involved in matters that don’t really concern you directly. Mr. Vitower can’t seem to find the wherewithal to fight his own battles—which I personally find rather cowardly—and so he’s sent someone he doesn’t mind seeing die.”

  “Vitower just wants Murke,” Crowe said.

  “Yes, that’s true. Really, he should know better. He had a complete falling-out, you see, with some of our associates. It goes way beyond a spat between him and Peter.”

  “A spat,” Crowe said. “Funny.”

  Eckstine nodded. “Funny, yes. I guess so, depending on one’s sense of humor. Yes, I guess I can see the humor in it. But honestly, I wasn’t trying to be funny.”

  Stone, losing patience with his partner, said, “The point is, none of this really involves you, Mr. Crowe. A council was held, and killing you was voted down. They just don’t know enough about you to determine whether or not you would qualify as being sanctified.”

  “Sanctified?”

  “Well, despite the differences of opinion amongst our brethren of late, we can’t just go around killing whoever we want to, can we? That’s what got Peter into such trouble. We have to be careful. And let’s be honest—you’re not long for freedom anyway, are you? The police are going to catch up to you very soon, and take the burden out of our hands.”

  “Who are you people, exactly?”

  Nick said, “That don’t concern you.”

  Crowe nodded. “Let me guess. Basically, you’re all a bunch of psychos. Yeah? A bunch of nut-cases who, for whatever reason, are particularly susceptible to religious conversion. The Society gathered you all up from various pits around the country, gave you some sort of purpose, made you feel like you were part of something bigger and better. Am I on the right track?”

  The businessmen just smiled patiently. Larry the cowboy turned his head and spat on the concrete. Nick glared.

  Crowe said, “You all hooked up with a group of fanatics who think that the only way to save the world is through… what? Killing sinners? Or rather, they have you lot kill them. Because, really, only a bunch of raving lunatics would think that’s a good idea.”

  Nick said, “We ain’t raving lunatics, motherfucker. We’re Sacred Executioners.”

  Stone said, “Shut up, Nick.”

  Crowe laughed. “Sacred Executioners. Well, that’s something, isn’t it?”

  Nick said, “I don’t have to stand here and listen to this cocksucker insult me. I’ve cut men’s heads off for less than that.”

  “Nick. Shut it.”

  Nick shut it, but a long exotic-looking blade, about twelve inches, had appeared in his fist, and he looked ready at that moment to give up his religious conversion entirely just to see Crowe’s blood.

  Crowe said, “So you Sacred Executioners can’t kill me? Unless I’m sanctified?”

  Eckstine said, “I wouldn’t put it into those exact words, Mr. Crowe. We are authorized to kill you if you display an unwillingness to let this matter rest. Which, if you don’t mind me saying so, you seem to be doing. But it would be a regrettable situation.”

  “I don’t think your boy Nick there would regret it.”

  Nick said, “Not one bit.”

  Stone said, “Enough of this. Are you going to drop this matter, Mr. Crowe?”

  “You’ll kill me if I don’t?”

  Stone said, “You’ll be… sacrificed.”

  Crowe nodded. “Okay, then. I’ll drop it.”

  “And leave Memphis?”

  “And leave Memphis.”

  Larry the Cowboy chuckled. “Well, that was just too easy, wasn’t it? Fellas, I think maybe ole’ Crowe ain’t bein’ straight here.”

  “You boys have orders not to kill me if I tell you I’m going to drop the whole thing. Yeah?”

  Eckstine frowned. “Yes. That’s right.”

  “Okay then. Consider it dropped. I’ll see you around.”

  He waited for them to move away from the car. They didn’t. He took a step toward them and another, fishing the keys out of his pocket. When he was right in front of Eckstine, Crowe looked at him and said, “Anything else?”

  Eckstine said, very quietly, “You’re lying. You have no intention of dropping this.”

  Crowe shrugged.

  Nick said, “This is fucking stupid. We should just kill him. He refused to back off. He tried to put up a fight, said he’d give up over his dead body.”

  Larry rubbed his jaw. “That sounds about right. The fella just don’t have the sense God gave a monkey. He pulled out his gun, was fixin’ to shoot one of us. We didn’t have no choice but to kill him.”

  Eckstine eyed Crowe, but spoke to the others. “Is that the way it happened?” he said.

  “I reckon so,” Larry said.

  “That’s what happened,” Nick said.

  Eckstine glanced at Stone. Stone looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. He said, “Regrettably, yes. We had to kill him.”

  Eckstine said, “What a shame,” and pulled his machete out from inside his coat.

  Crowe had his keys gripped in his fist, protruding through his fingers like claws. Before Eckstine’s machete had cleared, Crowe lunged at him with the keys, gouging him in his right eye. He grunted in pain and fell back against the hood of the G6. Stone was next closest—he already had his knives out, one in each hand.

  Larry was just pulling a revolver out of a holster under his jacket. Nick was moving in from the left with his blade.

  With his right Crowe yanked the .45 out of his pocket, and with his left grabbed Eckstine by the hair and pulled him up and threw him stumbling into Larry. Stone’s knives flashed, and one sharp edge sliced through Crowe’s coat sleev
e as he stepped back and raised the gun.

  Larry had pushed Eckstine out of his way and had his revolver cocked and ready to shoot. Crowe fired first, and got him in the wrist. The shot echoed through the parking structure like an explosion.

  Larry said, “Arrrh!”—more pirate than cowboy—and his gun flew out of his hand. It was a goddamn impressive shot, or would’ve been if Crowe had actually meant to do it.

  While Larry grabbed his shattered wrist and dropped to his knees, Stone had taken another lunge at Crowe, cutting him along the top of the left hand. Crowe tried to elbow him in the throat, but he sidestepped and the blow skittered along Stone’s shoulder. He slashed again with the knife in his right hand, cutting straight down through Crowe’s coat and almost snagging the blade on the seams.

  Crowe took advantage of the second-long hang-up and punched him in the face. The knife came free and Stone stumbled back a step or two.

  All of this had taken something like five seconds. Crowe knew it would be a miracle if he survived another five.

  From the corner of his eye he saw Nick moving in, his exotic blade flashing in the yellow light, and threw himself back against Eckstine. Nick’s lunge missed by about a foot. From the hood of the car, Crowe kicked out blindly and caught him in the stomach. Nick huffed air but didn’t drop his knife.

  Crowe swung his gun around and shot Nick in the chest. It was at such close range that it literally knocked him right off his feet, and he flew back a good distance before his lifeless body hit the concrete.

  Stone was coming up on him again, but Crowe swung the gun in his direction and fired blind. Stone dove out of the way, and Crowe fired again, kicking up concrete inches away from his shoe.

  Stone ran, making it around the corner to the level below just ahead of another bullet.

  Eckstine was on the concrete in front of the G6, clutching his face and moaning. Blood poured out from between his fingers. Crowe glanced around. Larry was gone.

  “My eye…” Eckstine said. “My eye, oh Christ.”

  Crowe frowned at him. “Hurts, doesn’t it?” I said.

  “Oh, Jesus, help me. Sweet Jesus in Heaven…”

  Crowe pointed the .45 at his head, and Eckstine’s one good eye grew wide between his fingers. He said, “Crowe, you don’t… you don’t have to kill me. I’m no threat to you now. Please. I’ll go… I’ll go away and you’ll never see… see me again…”

  Crowe was in no mood for mercy at the moment. He shot Eckstine in the head.

  It took ten minutes to get to Germantown from the mall. If Bartlett was where the middle-to upper class working stiffs of Memphis went at the end of the day, Germantown was the place they never left. It had a reputation for being lily-white and completely removed from the city. That reputation wasn’t entirely true, but it was true enough.

  Brinkley Drive was a short block, maybe six or eight houses on each side. Mostly Colonials with large front lawns and well-tended landscaping, the occasional ranch. Crowe drove up and down it five or six times but didn’t spot Garay’s Grand Prix. Finally he parked at the end of the block where he had a good view of the whole street and waited.

  He was tired, dizzy, and in a lot of pain, and it was all he could do to keep from falling asleep in the cold. There was only one streetlamp, way down at the other end of the street, and the spot he’d parked in was pitch dark. He put a new clip in the .45, checked the action, and stuck it in his waistband, under the coat.

  He waited.

  It was a quiet street. For over half an hour, not a single car came through. Some lights came on in the upstairs window of a house on the left side, then went off again. In the house next to it, he saw the shadows of people moving around, but they too disappeared after a moment.

  He fell asleep, but woke up when a car rumbled past, its headlights cutting a slice out of the darkness. Heavy bass thumped dully from inside the car, loud enough that Crowe could hear the dashboard rattling. It was Garay.

  The Grand Prix pulled into the driveway of one of the ranch houses, about halfway up the street. The porch light came on. Garay cut the engine and the rumbling bass stopped. He got out of the car and trotted up to the house.

  Crowe could see another figure in the doorway, waiting for him—his mother. Faith’s mother. Crowe wondered if they knew about her already. How could they not? If it was already on the news, the cops were obligated to tell the immediate family first. But he didn’t know if they’d released the victim’s name yet. Should’ve been listening to the radio, Crowe thought. Again, he was going into something unprepared.

  One thing was for certain: if they knew Faith was dead, then they knew Crowe was the one the cops liked for it.

  Another thing he was certain of: Garay knew full-well Crowe didn’t kill his sister. He had the tattoo, the mark of the Heretics. He knew.

  When the porch light went off Crowe got out of the car and walked to the house. His head spun. His back and shoulder screamed for mercy. He ignored it all and kept walking.

  He came up the driveway, half-expecting the porch light to come on, but it didn’t. He tried the knob. The door was unlocked. Typical Germantown behavior, forgetting to lock the goddamn door.

  He wondered if Garay’s crew knew he lived in a nice house on a nice street, away from the squalor and degradation of Memphis. He wondered how they’d feel about it, if they knew. It couldn’t be good for his cred, living in a neighborhood where you didn’t even bother to lock the door.

  The foyer was dark, the only light coming from the far end of the hall. Crowe closed the door gently behind him and, without moving, gave it a quick look-over. There was a sitting room immediately to the right, filled with the kind of over-stuffed furniture that no one sits in and a walnut Grandfather clock that ticked away the seconds of life with all the compassion of a killer. To the left, a carpeted staircase leading up to the second floor.

  Straight ahead, where the light came from, shadows moved and someone sobbed very softly. Garay was saying, “It’s okay, Mama. It’s gonna be okay,” and the sobbing broke off a little, just long enough for her to say, “Oh my baby, my poor baby,” before starting up again.

  There was a door just under the staircase. Crowe moved quietly along the carpeted foyer, opened it. Linoleum-lined steps led down to a pitch-black basement. He stepped down onto the first stair and closed the door behind him, leaving it open only a fraction of an inch.

  “Why?” the woman cried. “Why would somebody kill my baby? She never hurt no one.”

  “I don’t know, Mama. I don’t know.”

  “Oh God, oh God, my poor baby girl…”

  “Shh, shh, Mama. I came as soon as I heard. I’m here now, Mama.”

  It felt strange, listening in on their grief, muted through the basement door. It made Faith’s death more real, somehow. More real even than seeing her mutilated corpse. Crowe don’t know why. Something like regret surged through him, and his body sagged a little.

  Faith, he thought. I’m sorry.

  He pushed it out.

  It went on for a few more minutes, the old woman’s crying getting softer and softer, and Garay doing his best to sooth her. Finally, Garay, “C’mon, Mama, let me help you upstairs. You gotta get some rest, okay?”

  “No, I don’t wanna sleep, I can’t sleep.”

  “You need to, Mama, okay? Let me help you upstairs.”

  Crowe heard them shifting, standing up, and then moving toward the foyer. They passed the basement door, inches away, the woman stifling now. Her feet shuffled on the carpet.

  The stairs groaned above as they went up, and then Crowe couldn’t hear anything.

  He waited. About ten minutes went by.

  The stairs groaned again, softer this time, and he heard Garay pause at the foot of the stairs. He sighed, muttered to himself, “Christ. Jesus Christ.” The front door knob rattled briefly as he locked the door, and then he was moving through the foyer again, back toward the rear of the house. Peeking through the crack in the door, Crowe
saw his shadow on the wall. He pulled the gun out of his waistband.

  He opened the door just as Garary was passing it and placed the barrel against his temple.

  “Not a sound,” Crowe said. “Unless you want to involve your mama in this.”

  To his credit, Garay didn’t jump or even flinch. He went stock-still, and, without even looking at him, said, “Crowe. You sonofabitch. You come into my goddamn home, you sonofabitch—“

  “Shut up,” Crowe said. Then, “Downstairs.”

  He flipped on the light switch and got behind Garay as the kid led the way down the steps. He was wearing a Chicago Bulls jersey, faded loose-fitting jeans and a pair of well-tended Timberland’s. He kept his hands out, where Crowe could see them, doing the drill like an old pro.

  The basement was partially finished, with an old well-used sofa facing a 52-inch flat screen and a fairly impressive sound system. There was a mini-fridge next to the sofa. On the far side of the basement was a workbench with all the tools carefully displayed on the wall. There was a length of heavy twine next to a box of nails.

  They stopped in the middle of the basement and Garay said, “Well?”

  Crowe motioned to a wooden chair near the workbench. “Sit down”

  He did, looked up at Crowe with a pretty good impression of impatience. He said, “My sister died today. But you probably already know that.”

  “Reach over and grab that twine on the workbench.”

  Garay looked at it, and then back at Crowe. He actually smiled. “You gonna tie me up? How you plan on doing that? You’ll have to lower your gun, and the second you do that, motherfucker, I’m gonna be all over you.”

  “That’s a good point, Garay,” Crowe said. As a solution, he took a step toward him and whacked the gun hard against his temple.

  Garay slumped out of the chair, out cold.

  He was awake five minutes later. By then, Crowe had him back in the chair, tied securely with twine, his wrists tied to arms of the chair and his ankles bound tight. After he was tied, Crowe pulled up his jersey to get a look at the tattoo on his abs; it was still there, of course. A simple black cross, topped with a slightly misshapen blood-red heart.