City of Heretics

by Heath Lowrance

  He paused to sip his beer, and push his glasses back up on his nose. They seemed to keep sliding. He continued, “But we never went away. We continued our work. And we found others… lost souls. And we saved them and honed them to use their natural gifts for a greater purpose.”

  “Lost souls,” Crowe said. “I assume you mean psychopathic killers.”

  “What is a psychopath? He’s merely a candle without a flame. A vessel waiting to be filled with glory and purpose. And as far as the… less savory types we are forced to deal with—like your Vitower, or Bad Luck, Inc—well, I’m sure you understand that sometimes one has to bend in order not to break. It’s an unfortunate but sad truth of this corrupt world.”

  “You’re absolutely breaking my heart, Welling.”

  “I wish, Mr. Crowe, that I could make you see things my way. I’d love to count you among my friends.” Then, “I believe you’d fit right in with us.”

  That got under Crowe’s skin. He snarled, “Welling, I’ll see you dead before this is over.”

  Welling looked slightly taken aback by that, blinked behind his lenses. Then he sighed and finished his beer. He stood up, said, “Well, I suppose you’re going to make your mistakes, no matter what I say to you. I hate it, Mr. Crowe, I really do. But ultimately, you’re responsible for your own actions.”

  He started away from Crowe, but stopped very suddenly and faced him again. He said, “Oh, and Mr. Crowe, about my daughter?”

  Crowe looked at him, waited.

  “I miss her every day. My wife never recovered from it, you know, and I don’t suppose I ever will either. But we all must make sacrifices to glorify His name, and my daughter in her childish zeal lost her way.” He paused, smiling sadly. “Suffer the children, as the Good Book says. Suffer the children.”

  And then he turned and walked out of the bar. As if that explained everything.

  It was full-on dark when Crowe left the bar, and so cold it bit straight through his coat like a razor blade. He stopped just outside the door, half-expecting to be ambushed before he’d taken three steps, but no one was around.

  Whatever. It was going to happen tonight, he was sure of that. This dancing around they’d been doing with each other had to end, and they all knew it.

  He walked back up the road, being careful to stay in the shadows as much as possible. Every sound he heard from the woods was a legion of murderous nut-jobs, every branch shifting in the woods a guy with a machete.

  He had a pretty bad case of nerves going, which was a strange and foreign feeling. He played it through his head, examining it, wondering where it came from and why.

  But then it dawned on him: he’d had bad nerves all along, ever since he’d come back to Memphis. It had been in his guts, seething around impatiently. In the day, before prison, he’d never experienced nerves because he had no expectations, no anxieties.

  Now, though, now that he had a clear goal in mind, the nerves had been eating away at him without him even realizing it. He’d heard someone, a Buddhist maybe, say that expectation is the source of all misery. Peace of mind could only come with letting go of all that. Like the junkies at Jimmy the Hink’s place, human dregs who’d abandoned all ambition and with it all anxiety.

  Now that he understood where the nerves were coming from, he told himself he felt better about it and kept walking.

  He was on his guard to the point of being jumpy, so how they managed to get the drop on him was a mystery for the ages. It happened fast. He heard a noise in the woods off to his left, dry wood cracking, and as he stopped, eyes peeled in that direction, a blob of shadow swooped onto the road from the other side. He spun to face it, caught a glimpse of a yellow parka, a baseball bat swinging.

  He raised his arm to block the blow, but too late. The bat hit him along the side of the head, and he fell to his knees. He couldn’t see anything but shuffling shadows. Heard nothing but roaring air and ringing in his ears.

  The second blow from the baseball bat hardly registered, but it was enough to drop him far, far down into a red-tinged night.

  First, a vague, purple-y mist and it started to shift and change to a dark, dark red, and at the same time he began to feel and hear a tremendous pounding at his temples. Blood shooting through his brain, reviving, torturing.

  He was aware, peripherally, that he was coming out of it, but he didn’t want to. He wanted to stay in the dark. He wanted to bury himself in the cold dirt, away from the burgeoning pain of consciousness. But it insisted. It pulled him up, up and out of the blood-red mist and into a world of bright agony and pinpoints of sharp light.

  He could hear voices, but couldn’t understand what was being said. He didn’t care. He squeezed his eyes shut and his head throbbed and he felt horribly sick. The voices kept talking, though, and he began to catch words here and there that he understood but that didn’t have any real context.

  His eyes opened and he saw a single dim florescent light, buried in the ceiling. It wasn’t bright, but it still hurt to look at it and he turned away. Moving his head made the sickness come rushing up and out of him and he vomited all over himself.

  Someone said, “Oh man, that’s gross!” and then laughed.

  He forced his head around to look at the speaker. It was Cowboy Larry. He was grinning down at him.

  Down at him. Crowe was lying on a cot, in a cold dank room.

  Next to Larry, another figure took form and said, “Get a wet towel and clean him up.”

  Larry said, “What? Why me? I’m not the fucking janitor.”

  “Just do it, Larry. Show a little respect for the man.”

  It was Welling. He smiled down at Crowe, like Crowe was a loved one just coming out of a long illness and Welling was overjoyed to see he was feeling better. Larry grumbled and left the room.

  “Glad you’re back,” Welling said. “Do you need anything? Some water, maybe?”

  Crowe couldn’t answer him yet. Welling yelled over his shoulder, “And Larry, some water as well!” and then, “For a while there, I was sort of worried we’d hit you too hard.”

  “Fuck… off…” Crowe croaked at him.

  He ignored that, said, “I want to make absolutely certain you recover, you know. We have a great deal to talk about.”

  Crowe turned away from him, looked at the bare wall that the cot was pushed up against. He wasn’t tied or bound-- conceivably, he could jump Welling right now and escape. But the thought of even moving-- let alone jumping-- was far too daunting.

  They’d stripped him down to under-shorts and tee-shirt and the room was freezing. The only furniture was the cot and a beat-up wooden chair. Above the bed there was a small casement window, closed and locked tight.

  Larry came back with a wet towel, tossed it on Crowe’s chest. The cold of it shocked him into a sharper degree of awareness and he flinched. Larry said, “There’s his stupid wet towel. He can clean his own self off.”

  Welling frowned but didn’t argue.

  Slowly, Crowe sat up, placed his bare feet on the cold floor, and began gingerly cleaning the filth off. When he was as clean as possible, he tossed the soiled towel in the middle of the room and looked up at them. “How about that water?” he said.

  Welling said, “Larry, would you mind?”

  “Hell yes I would mind! You want him to have water, you get it yourself. You seen what this fucker did to me.” He held up his right arm, showing the bulky cast around the wrist.

  Crowe laughed, although he was still too weak to put much into it.

  Larry scowled angrily.

  From a doorway behind them, someone said, “You got off lucky, Larry.” He came into the room carrying a plastic jug of water. Stone, the businessman. “Our Mr. Crowe killed Nick. And… my associate, Mr. Eckstine.”

  There didn’t seem to be any malice in his voice. He handed Crowe the jug. Crowe swigged a huge gulp of water, felt his stomach consider rebelling against it before settling down. He set the jug carefully on the floor between his feet, cl
osed his eyes, took a deep breath. The throbbing in his head relented a little bit.

  When he opened his eyes again, the three of them were standing there staring at him-- Welling with studied kindness, Larry red-faced and furious, and Stone completely impassive. Crowe managed a grin, said, “So. The Whole Sick Crew. Except… except Metal Face. And the guy who bashed me with a baseball bat… Parka Kid.”

  Welling said, “They’re around, don’t you worry about that.”

  “Oh, and Murke. Where’s Murke, Welling?”

  Welling didn’t answer. The others looked at him with more than a little disdain, and it was obvious trouble had been brewing in the ranks, like Garay had said. Welling was dangerously close to losing control of his God-bothering psychos. Crowe wondered if he knew that.

  Welling said, “Larry, Stone… would you mind leaving me alone with Mr. Crowe for a moment?”

  They started out, and Stone said, “We’ll be just on the other side of the door, Mr. Welling. I’d advise you to watch him very carefully.”

  “No worries. Mr. Crowe isn’t in much shape to do much damage. And I think he knows that. Right, Mr. Crowe?”

  Crowe didn’t answer.

  Stone and Larry shut the door behind them, and Welling pulled up the wooden chair and sat facing him. The room was close and cold. The light in the ceiling cast a dim glow that felt sickly and surreal. It bathed Welling’s face piss yellow and colored the lenses of his glasses.

  “You see, Mr. Crowe?” he said. “We could’ve killed you any time in these last two hours. Believe me, they all wanted to, and it was all I could do to stay their wrath. But you’re alive. What does that tell you?”

  “That you’re an idiot.”

  He shook his head. “No. I’m not an idiot. I’m merciful. Don’t you get it? The Church is not what you think it is. Earlier, in the bar, you said that you’d see me dead before you’d consider my position. Or something to that effect. But I really believe that, if you hear me out, you’ll come around to my point of view.”

  Crowe picked up the water jug and had another swig. He set it back down, looked at Welling. Welling’s face was so earnest, so benevolent, Crowe had to laugh.

  “Welling,” Crowe said. “Pay close attention this time, will you? I’ll try to spell it all out very carefully, so that even your pathetic mind can grasp it, okay?”

  “Mr. Crowe--”

  “Shut up and listen. It’s like this. Those mental deviants you have doing your dirty work? The only reason you’ve snagged them away from their true calling of being stupid sick fucks is that they’re weak-minded. You get it? They have no will of their own. Probably never did. Hell, that’s probably why they became crazy to begin with-- lack of any real… what?… personalities of their own? They were all powerless little shits, afraid of their own shadows, and so they picked up guns or knives or machetes and started killing the things that scared them. They’re pathetic. Don’t you see that?”

  Welling started to interrupt, but Crowe said, “Wait, I’m not done. They’re scared little boys, looking for meaning. And so you show up in their lives and tell them that God Himself thinks they’re special. God Himself has a plan for them. And they behaved exactly like any armchair psychiatrist could’ve predicted. They came running to your side. And now, instead of acknowledging that somewhere deep down inside they’re actually sub-human scum, they get to pretend that they’re---” Crowe started laughing, “-- Sacred Executioners.”

  The little speech had tired him out, and the laughing didn’t help. Welling watched him, the benevolence on his face tightening into barely suppressed anger, and Crowe grabbed up the jug again and drank.

  Welling stood up very quickly and slapped the jug out of Crowe’s hands and across the room.

  Crowe looked at him dully.

  Welling’s fingers were balled into fists and his face was red. In a clipped tone, he said, “And you, Mr. Crowe? Just how are you any different from them?”

  Crowe said, “I’m not afraid.”

  “Everybody is afraid, eventually.”

  “Maybe. But…” and he laughed again, “… I’m not there yet.”

  Welling struggled to control his temper, said, “All I have to do, Mr. Crowe, is call out for Larry, or Stone, or anyone of them, and they’ll come running in here to kill you. They’d love to do that.”

  “So why don’t you?”

  He licked his lips. With forced calm, he sat back down, adjusted his trouser legs. He said, “Because I’m trying to save you. I’m a man of God. And I see such… potential in you.”

  Crowe sighed and lay back down on the little cot. He was tired and hungry and cold as hell.

  Welling said, “Those men you dismiss so easily are much more than you think they are. Stone, for instance? He and his partner, Eckstine, once cut a swath of blood and vengeance through the Pacific Northwest, back in the ‘70’s, that would amaze you. They were corporate executives, once, before losing their jobs and… losing their way. Individually, they committed murders of no importance or imagination, but once they met-- quite by accident, actually-- they realized they had a bond, and the friendship they formed was remarkable. Together, they killed over sixty people. Just… random people. Until the Church of Christ the Fisher found them, about ten years ago.”

  “Now they kill sinners,” Crowe said, looking at the wall.

  “Exactly. They serve a divine purpose. You can imagine how lost Stone feels, now that his friend and confidante is dead. And Larry? He worked in the Southwest. Was a hired killer, much like you, for many years. Reliable and steady. Until he began losing sight of his motivation-- which was profit, initially-- and began killing because it made him feel better. The Church found him about four years ago, and turned him into an instrument of God.”

  His voice was making Crowe sleepy. Crowe closed his eyes.

  “And the same is true of Nick, poor tortured Nick, who you killed. And also Kondrashev and Nathan.”

  Crowe mumbled, “Who?”

  “Kondrashev, the one you referred to as Metal Face. And Nathan is the young man in the parka.”

  “The one who hit me with the baseball bat. Gonna have to remember that.”

  “And, of course, there’s Peter,” Welling said.

  Crowe opened his eyes, turned his head to look at Welling. He said, “Peter. You know, Murke is all I want from you. You realize that, yeah? You give me Murke and this could all be over.”

  Welling shook his head.

  Crowe forced himself back up, sat on the edge of the cot. Welling watched him very carefully. Crowe was feeling better, stronger, with each passing minute, but made a point of still seeming weak and sick.

  He said, “If it was Larry I wanted, or Nathan, or Metal Face--”

  “Kondrashev.”

  “--you’d hand them over, wouldn’t you? Just to get rid of me. But not Peter Murke.”

  “I wouldn’t betray any of them.”

  Crowe smiled. “Yeah, Welling, you would. But not Murke. He’s the only one still completely loyal to you, isn’t he? The others are losing confidence in you, they don’t like the way you’re handling things in Memphis, and they’re ready to jump ship. But not Murke. He still worships you, doesn’t he? And you can’t let that go.”

  “They are all my flock,” he said. “I love them all. None of them are more important or more valuable than any other one.”

  “Has it really come to that, Welling? Are you really that ridiculous and insecure?”

  The anger in him flared again. “You want ridiculous and insecure, Crowe? You want to see how ridiculous and insecure I am? I’m going to have Larry come in here right now and slit your fucking throat.”

  “Sure, call Larry.”

  He jumped up. “Better yet, I’ll do it myself!”

  Crowe looked up at him. “Sure,” he said. “But you can’t. You’ve never killed anyone in your whole life. You’ve had your ’flock’ do it for you. You don’t have the guts to kill me, Welling.”

  W
elling glared, trembling, and Crowe knew he was right. He decided to press it home a little more.

  He said, “God’s wrath is… well, it’s just too big a job for a little man like you.”

  For a long moment, Welling stared, eyes bulging behind his glasses, and then he spun on his heel and stormed for the door. He jerked it open, barked, “Larry!”

  Larry was waiting. “Kill him?” he said.

  Welling glanced back at him, seething. He struggled with himself for a second, and said, “No. But… hurt him. Hurt the cocksucker,” and was gone.

  Larry rushed into the room, swinging his good fist, and clocked Crowe in the right temple. Crowe dropped back onto the cot and was out.

  Again.

  Natural light was streaming in through the little casement window when he came to. His head and his eyes ached, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as the first time. He wondered if he was getting used to being knocked fucking senseless.

  Peter Murke was sitting on the edge of my cot, watching him.

  They stared at each other for long seconds, Crowe baffled and Murke shy or something.

  Finally, in his croaking sick voice, Crowe said, “What… the fuck… are you doing?”

  Murke’s fishy face turned pink with embarrassment, and he said, “Wha? Nothing. I ain’t doing nothing. I’m just sitting here, man, that’s all.” His voice was nasal and whiny and strangely child-like.

  Crowe managed to push himself up and slightly away, toward the wall. “Well,” he said. “Back the fuck off a little, will you?”

  Murke stood up and took a step away from the cot. “I didn’t mean nothing. I’m not gay or nothing like that. I was just, you know, sitting there.”

  Crowe rubbed his right temple, felt dried blood caked there. He felt awful, but at least he was fully aware of his surroundings and didn’t feel like throwing up.

  It was still cold in the room, and he was still in his underwear and tee-shirt. A fresh jug of water was on the wooden chair. He slid over to reach it, had a long drink, while Murke watched uneasily.