The Paladin's Message

by Richard Crofton

  “Well, if you wish, I’m sure you have friends in Homicide who would be willing to share the report about Mr. Summers with you. You should find my statement in it. If you ask me though, I’d say you’re wasting precious time.” The psychiatrist checked her watch. “Speaking of which,” she continued, “I’m now running late.”

  The woman brushed past Harrison, who stepped aside. He had no right to detain her, and they both knew it. She unlocked the driver’s door of her Mercedes with a remote on her car key, opened it, and slipped inside. She turned her head toward him as she started the ignition. “A young man and woman have gone missing, Detective Harrison. I suggest you focus on that… before they run out of time. Good day to you.” With that, she shut the car door, pulled out of the driveway, and drove off.

  Harrison calmly placed his Steno pad and pen back into the same jacket pocket where he kept his phone, and retreated to his own vehicle. The mystery surrounding Sonny Williams was still just that for him. Nothing new was revealed from this encounter. He had already known that the pastor at St. Elizabeth’s was apparently the last person who had had contact with the missing girl’s boyfriend, the day after Megan’s disappearance. His partner had already questioned the priest a second time, noting that there was no deviation from the man’s first statement.

  Harrison was striking out in that field. His next option would be the grueling task of trying to track down all the needy who had been utilizing the Outreach Program at that church, and begin his questioning of the large number of possible witnesses; a chore that he had not been looking forward to. He had to admit that his visit with Dr. Palmer this morning may have been his subconscious effort to stall himself from that venture. But at this point, it was all that was left. For now.

  He decided he would have to investigate Dr. Palmer at a later time, when he was off duty of course. The conversation hadn’t been a complete waste. One interesting factor that played again and again in his mind gave him some thought to pursue…

  Why would he run off? the woman had said. Sonny couldn’t be involved!

  He had never said anything about Sonny being involved, or running off for that matter. The woman was good, he had decided. But even the best dancers trip over their own feet every now and then.

  Chapter XVII

  The prepaid phone vibrated on top of the plastic table on Moonie’s back porch; the same time late in the evening as the last received call, during his same ritualistic enjoyment of a beer and cigarette. He answered the phone exactly as he had before; waiting for one full ring, answering without giving a greeting, only listening.

  The voice on the other end held the same voice as before, with the same introduction of, “It’s me, shithead,” yet again. All Moonie could do was smile as he exhaled carbon monoxide from the depths of his lungs.

  “Still smoking, Roger?” his friend on the line asked, clearly hearing the exaggerated release of breath.

  “One smoke a day keeps the crazy away,” Moonie answered lightheartedly. “Except with everything going on, it’s more like five.”

  “How are the kids?”

  “Doing just fine. Took them to the park today. Don’t worry; I’m keeping them up with their schoolwork and all.”

  “They giving you any trouble?”

  “Not at all, man. You got a couple of well-trained monkeys here. They’re adjusting quite well.”

  “Good. Hope you’ve adjusted too.”

  Moonie grimaced. “Not like I’ve had to cancel any bootie calls. Don’t get many of those anymore. It’s kinda nice having a little life in the place for once.”

  “Yeah. You should consider starting a permanent daycare service,” his friend replied.

  Moonie shook his head, raising his eyes to heaven. There was nothing so discordant like a serious and dry voice attempting a joke. “Nah. We’re having too much fun with our major league careers, Mickey. Speaking of which, you still stuck at second base with your date?”

  “Pretty much. You still pitching?”

  “Yep. Still here.”

  “Good, because I’ve got an update. We got our signals straight?”

  Moonie took the phone from his ear and opened up the menu from the screen. When he had first purchased the temporary pre-paid wireless, he made some of his own modifications to the device; one of his specialties. Going through a list of options that he manually programmed, he checked the condition of the scrambler he had installed, which would almost guarantee that their conversation would remain private, even from the most advanced surveillance systems in existence. He never doubted his own unique talents in the field of technology, but experiences in the past consistently reminded him that the “check and recheck” method was pertinent. In this case, he checked a third time. “Signals are good, Mantle,” he confirmed. Even with such a secure line, he and his close friend made a strict personal rule to never use their real names during a conversation. “What’ve you got?”

  “Okay,” the voice on the line started. “The catcher will be paying you a visit at the mound.”

  “Really? What for?”

  “I’ve got him a little nervous. I need you to keep him confident. Can’t have him trying to pick me off. Let him know you’ve got the inning under control; that he shouldn’t worry about me until I’m heading for home plate.”

  “When should I expect him?”

  “Tomorrow. Afternoon, probably. Could even be in the morning.”

  Moonie restrained a groan. “Gee, glad this isn’t too ‘last-minute.’ I’m taking it that the catcher’s a new hire?”

  “Yeah. And his head’s not on straight. We can’t afford him to cause an error.”

  Moonie understood most of the conversation, but their extended metaphor had him slightly unclear. If he was to expect a visit, he would need the talk to get a little more specific. “Mick, I just checked again. Signals are fresh and good. No one’s gonna call our shots right now. Who’s the catcher?”

  His friend, also confident in Moonie’s special talents, replied with only the slightest hesitation: “The girl’s father.”

  It was Moonie now who hesitated before responding. Finally, he let out a sigh as he spoke: “Yeah, gonna need more smokes tonight.”

  ****

  Senior Arnett was nearly finished with his glass of Pinot Noir in his study as he enjoyed his nightly reading before retiring for the night. Tonight, he indulged himself in the work of Milton’s Paradise Lost. It was not the first time he had read the book, but when he felt the need to shut his mind down and relax, he found it better to do so through literature with which he was already familiar. And epic poetry was a style he delighted in.

  Everything had been going according to plan so well, and whenever a new factor came into play, he had no trouble whatsoever improvising and using each and every unpredicted situation to his advantage. He almost welcomed the challenge of adapting to new incidents; ones that others within the Inner Circles might see as a problem, but he saw as an asset. When Chief Biddle had informed him that Sonny Williams, their loose cannon, had taken it upon himself to murder two of Megan Panco’s friends without permission, he immediately figured how to make that work for his plan; how to improve his plan. It was too easy, and he took pride in the fact that he had such adaptability that the others seemed to lack. It only proved his superiority.

  The others, besides Sonny, followed the plan to a tee, which he couldn’t criticize them for, but they apparently lacked imagination. It was evident; they always came to him for the answer. He always had one. Truly, he was in complete control of every situation. And he could field any play. He was certain it was why the Master had appointed him the position of Senior of the Primary Circle.

  Because of this, he was also certain, that when the Cycle would be completed, he would reap more benefit than the others.

  The false priest was about to take one final sip of his wine when his cell phone vibrated upon his desk. He eyed the screen and recognized the number immediately as Bill Biddle’s. Once a
gain, they look to me to show them how a situation that concerns them actually plays out in our favor.

  With no sense of urgency, Senior Arnett placed his bookmark securely inside the page he was currently reading; it was a cream colored, decorative item with a gold barrier around the edges and inscribed with a popular prayer referred to as “An Irish Blessing.” He closed the copy of Paradise Lost, placed it in his desk drawer, and answered the phone.

  “Yes Bill,” he answered with an arrogant sigh, “how can I be of assistance?”

  “I’ve got a few updates you might want to know about, Father,” Bill replied.

  “Very well, Chief. Go ahead.”

  “The girl’s father left town this morning.”

  “Did he now?” the priest said with no concern.

  “He called Detective Harrison last night, apparently after seeing the two murders on the news. He was suspicious of our young errand boy. Suspicious of you too, from what he said.”

  Father Paul chuckled. “In his desperate state of mind, I’m sure he’s ready to accuse anyone he talks to about his poor daughter.”

  “Yes sir. Anyway, Harrison advised him that he was emotionally compromised and that he needed to steer clear of the investigation.”

  “And the man actually took the detective’s advice?”

  “We intercepted the call this morning. He told Harrison he was heading home. He also checked out of his motel room. That was the last signal we received because he did his laundry before he departed. The bug you placed on his shirt is most likely damaged. We won’t have ears on him anymore.”

  “It hardly matters now that he’s out of the picture anyway, Chief,” the priest answered casually. “Besides, the bug was only a precaution. He was never deemed a problem; just a despairing, old man hoping to hear news of his missing daughter.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “This is hardly anything to fret over, Chief.”

  “There’s more, Father. Nothing to fret over, I agree. Just thought it important to keep you informed.”

  “Understood.”

  “When Mr. Panco spoke with Harrison last night, he mentioned to him what you told him about his daughter being involved in the Outreach Program.”

  “Which is according to plan as it will further enforce the detective’s priority of searching for our vagabond.”

  “True, but instead he paid a visit to Diana this morning.”

  “Did he?” The priest raised an eyebrow.

  “She called me earlier about it. He questioned her about two particular people: Sonny Williams… and George Summers.”

  Father Paul did not respond for a few seconds. He was pondering the situation with more care than before. The detective was not following the lead they had intended for him, and if he was inquiring Diana about her late patient, as well as Sonny, then clearly he was getting dangerously close to uncovering more than what would be good for him. All the same, Bill Biddle had warned Diana and Sonny that their actions in town could bring unwanted attention. And now he looked to his superior to give instructions on how to clean up everyone else’s mess.

  “Should I have him dealt with, Father?”

  “No,” the priest finally replied. “Right now, it’s better that we have him focus his work on finding Cliff. I’m sure you can persuade him to do so, can’t you Chief?”

  “I believe so, sir. Seeing as how George Summers is not tied to his case, a slight reprimand should remind him of that.”

  “I agree. There are two possible outcomes for Detective Harrison. Either he finds our intended suspect, unfortunately too late to save the girl, but it will bring him your congratulations, as well as a promotion. Then such events will bring you his loyalty, which will make him more malleable. He will become our ally in time as he is tempted by the success that can follow his solving this case. Or, if he doesn’t cooperate, he will meet his untimely end. But not now. The timing needs to be perfect. If the poor detective’s life should end, it needs to happen at a time when our intended suspect, Cliff, can be blamed for it. For now, it’s too early.”

  “I’ll handle it, Father,” Biddle answered.

  “In the meantime,” Cunningham added, “please inform Dr. Palmer to refrain from making any more waves until things settle. We shouldn’t have to worry about young Williams causing any more disturbances, now that he’s left for his next assignment.”

  Chief Biddle thanked the priest before terminating the call. The priest calmly placed his phone back on his desk. Though he felt he was still completely in control, the conversation had left him feeling more awake than he was previously. He decided, therefore, to fill his glass halfway with more wine, and pull John Milton’s epic from the drawer to read a little further. It would not take long for him to return to a relaxed state. Whatever would they do without me? he wondered with a snicker.

  Chapter XVIII

  Driving in a southeast direction in his old, blue pickup, Jim Panco remained in utter silence. Though he commonly enjoyed pleasant country music playing softly through his speakers, he never bothered to turn on the radio and find a station to his liking. Too much garbage was floating around in his mind, and the more he tried to make sense of his situation, the more confused he became. Most of his functioning brain was focused on attempting to understand why he was following the instructions of a probable lunatic. The rest was set aside for driving safely.

  When he wasn’t cruising along an interstate highway, his determined course brought him through small towns with unattended, uneven roads that were typical for Pennsylvania, where the state’s Department of Transportation was severely criticized for having the worst maintenance standards along the east coast. During these lengths of his trip, Jim would take the opportunity at every traffic light to study the index card handed to him by the mysterious messenger two nights before.

  An address was printed on the front side. That was his destination. He understood that. On the opposite side was rubbish. It seemed to be some sort of code talk. A dialogue of some sort that seemed completely ridiculous. Every other line in the short dialogue was highlighted in blue. He was informed that these were his lines to recite when he reached the address on the front. He understood that as well. What he didn’t understand was how any of the instructions he received had anything to do with getting his daughter back.

  They’re screwing with me, he decided. These people, whoever they are, are putting me through a freaking circus. For what? To keep me occupied? Frustration boiled up Jim’s insides. His rational side wanted to turn his truck around, head back for Lancaster County, call the police, and have the fruitcake found and followed. But either instinct… or fear… kept his rationality in check.

  If you inform the police, or anyone else about me or our meeting, your daughter will die. It was the first comment Fruitcake had said to him before giving his instructions.

  If you fail to follow my instructions exactly how I explained them, you will most likely never see her again. And this was one of the last things he had said before he casually strolled off into the night.

  Jim repeatedly replayed the conversation in his mind. So far, based on the sincerity of the man’s first and final ultimatums, he had done what he was told regardless of the ludicrousness of it. First, he had reentered his motel room, saying nothing aloud, and making no further phone calls. Instead, he had turned on the television to a random channel that brought no interest to him, and left it as he prepared for another night of what would be a restless sleep. He had then laid in the soft, queen-sized bed and used the television’s remote to program the “sleep” option, which would cause it to automatically shut off within one hour. Though it had taken him much longer than this to fall asleep, he had remained in bed with his eyes open, staring at the digital display of the alarm clock on his night stand; its brightness augmented within the darkness of the room, only getting up when nature prompted him to relieve himself. Finally, sometime in the middle of the night, or early morning, he had dozed off.

 
When his alarm had sounded at 7:30 in the morning, he awoke feeling as if he had only shut his eyes moments ago. He had arisen from the bed, had been quick to go through his normal, morning routine consisting of a shit, shower, and shave, along with brushing his teeth and taking his daily vitamin and prescriptions that were usually mandated to men of his age. Then, per the instructions, he had placed the call to Detective Harrison, informing him that he would be leaving town. After the call, he had packed his things and turned his key in to the front desk. According to further instructions, which he did not understand, he had politely asked the clerk, a nice elderly woman named Ruth, where the laundry facility was, informing her that he preferred to wash his clothes before he left, so he wouldn’t have to bother with it when he got back home.

  “Why is this important?” he had asked Fruitcake the night before? “Why should you or your people care when or where I do my laundry?”

  The man had hesitated before answering. “It’s possible,” he said softly, “that during your encounters with the few residents here in Lancaster, one of them may have placed a uniquely sophisticated device on one of your articles of clothing.”

  “Really,” Jim had answered, doubting this very much, but scanning the front of his shirt and jeans.

  “Really,” the man had answered with a serious tone. “You won’t find it on the clothes you’re wearing now.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Because, as I’ve said, I’ve been following you. The last person you met with was the priest this morning at Mass, and you’ve changed your outfit since then. If there is such a device on one of your clothing items, then every sound in your motel room can be monitored. It’s why I’ve chosen for us to meet outside. The device can also give away your exact location.”

  “To who?” Jim had found this all highly improbable, but he had to admit he had been intrigued. “Who would want to monitor me?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” the man had replied shortly. “The only thing you need to know is that you can’t trust anyone.”