The Messenger (2011 reformat)

by Edward Lee

  Another voice cut in, somebody else overdubbing. "Here is wisdom. Let he who hath understanding count the number of the beast, for it is the number of a man, and that number is six-hundred, three score, and six."

  The long-haired man was facing the camera now. He looked intense, if a bit wild, with the hair and a long gray-streaked beard. A final cut showed the ambulances loading body bags in front of the school.

  Steve's eyes were wide. He seemed miles away.

  "You," he said. "My God, it's you."

  Jane peered at him. "Steve, you know this man?"

  "Oh, I know him, all right, the evil son of a bitch."

  "Who is he?"

  "His name's Dhevic." He held his hand out to the television. "And get of load of this crap. They took some footage from one of his old documentaries and spliced it up with a new interview about the murders here. They're putting it on the local news, for God's sake. Yeah, that's just what people need to see. Talk about hokey."

  "I don't understand. What's the deal with this man?"

  Steve dismissed it with a smirk. "It's a long story. I won't bother you with it."

  Now Jane was genuinely flustered. At first she thought he was going to get up and leave, but then she saw that he was reaching for the remote control.

  He flicked the TV off.

  "What-"she began to say.

  He was kissing her again, more intently this time. Jane responded with the same intensity. Something about the TV clip had wound him up-at least she thought that's what it must be. Steve was more intense now, more deliberate and focused on her. Jane felt exhilarated but behind that an unmistakable feeling of alarm wavered. She was almost afraid.

  But of what?

  His arms slipped around her more tightly. Now his kisses were nearly desperate. Jane didn't know what to do. I can't go to bed with this man. Or... I can, but I know I shouldn't. It wasn't her style. And what would he think of her afterward? These points made sense to her but when they collided with the sudden surge of her desire.

  She wasn't sure.

  One hand was on her side now, and it began to inch upward. Here was her opportunity to say no.

  A rap sounded on the door. Jane and Steve flinched, tried to haphazardly right themselves. "Yes?" Jane said in a rush.

  Jennifer stuck her head in, smiling. "I just wanted to let you know that we're going to bed now. Good night, Mom. Good night, Chief Steve."

  Jane hoped her face wasn't flushed. "Good night, honey."

  "Good night, Jen," Steve said.

  Jennifer's smile retreated back out, and the door closed with a click.

  "Talk about bad timing," Jane said.

  Steve laughed. "At least my beeper or cell phone hasn't gone off."

  He took her hand again, leaned close. "Look, I'm sorry. I know I'm making this too fast for you. I didn't mean to do that."

  That's when Jane knew.

  "It's not too fast for me. Let's go to my bedroom."

  II

  Yeah, smooth as fuckin’ silk, Martin thought sourly. He took two good hits off the flask in the bathroom, popped a mint strip, and nodded. He was deceiving himself, telling himself that he felt better now than he had yesterday. The booze never really helped anything, though. Sometimes it would make him forget, but later the memories would return and they'd be worse.

  His hatred raged.

  Martin was disappointed in himself, and he knew that someone else was, too. He wasn't sure who that other person was yet, but he would soon enough.

  God, I was all ready. I was ready to do it, and I know it's what I'm supposed to do. But-

  Last night Martin had simply chickened out.

  That other thing-or other person-that was coming in and out of his heart for the past day began to rage along with Martin's own hatred.

  What's wrong with my head?

  Yes. Last night. He'd been right there. After work, he'd had a couple of shots at Jill's Thrills, his favorite strip joint. The way Martin saw it, the lower in class the better, 'cuz that's what it was really all about. Lot of the chicks in there tricked. Fifty bucks and they'd come in the car with you for a fast one. A hundred and they'd give you an hour in a motel room. Martin had done it before-plenty of times-but he knew something was changing in him now.

  Some other thing, or some other person, was directing him, showing him his real purpose. More and more he felt as though he were becoming stronger through this other voice that had found its way into his soul. He felt comforted. He felt as though he had a true meaning for the first time in his life.

  He understood now that there were messages to be delivered, and he was to help deliver them.

  The girl from the bar was one of his favorites, an urchin-like little stick of a thing named Cindy. She was pale and lean, with inordinately pink nipples. Tattoos looked like branding marks on her white skin, and her eyes were huge and empty. Martin liked the look-it turned him on-that hollow soul-dead cast of resigned desperation. Crack or crystal meth, Martin wasn't sure what her jones was, but she was always happy to come out to the car with him for a few minutes after her dance set. She was fast and effective, her talent-he was sure-honed by sheer experience. When they'd finished, Martin was all ready, all ready to send the message. Under the seat he'd stashed his old K-Bar knife from the Marine Corps, and when she was putting her top back on, her face momentarily covered, he knew that was the perfect time. They'd taught him how to do it in the Corps: just ram the knife's tip right into the little hollow below the Adam's apple. It severed the larynx so they couldn't scream.

  Now. Now! the other voice was telling him.

  But Martin lost his nerve. Cinny pulled her top back on, smiled wanly and said "Thanks. See ya next time," and she was out of the car and scurrying back into the bar.

  He'd been thinking too much. They know me here, they saw me leave with her, they see me leave with dancers all the time. When she didn't come back, they'd know it was me.

  Don't you understand?, the other voice asked him.

  "No!" Martin sobbed.

  It doesn't matter. The message is all that matters.

  Martin drove off, greedy for the opportunity to redeem himself to his new guide. But, no, more failure. First, the girl at the massage parlor, a pretty Korean woman. He got so far as to actually grip the knife hidden in the bag he'd brought, but then he remembered that several other guys had been sitting in the waiting room beside the door with the bell on it. They'd be able to give the police a description maybe...

  It doesn't matter, the voice inside scolded him.

  One more try, this time with the hooker he'd picked up on the main drag. No one had seen him, and no one could've possibly seen her get in the car. Martin was gunned up by now. He knew he could do it. Cut her vocal cords and then peel her like a banana. She was even wobbly in the car seat, eyelids drooping, half whacked out on dope. Too easy.

  But Martin simply lost his nerve.

  He could sense his guide's disappointment. One more chance, one more chance, he begged, hitting on his flask as he drove. Please, give me one more chance and I'll prove to you that I'm worthy. Tell me where to go and I'll do it. Guide me.

  Next thing Martin knew, he was parked at a corner behind some hedges. Nice suburban neighborhood. Quiet. Still. A little after midnight and not a sound could be heard. He was getting out, stalking through backyards, before he even realized exactly where the Messenger had taken him.

  A back bedroom. A window.

  Dark inside but he could see enough.

  A man and woman lay naked together, cuddling. Moonlight painted the edges of their bodies like some surreal erotic art. They were having a little quiet time in between rounds, he guessed. The window was open; he couldn't hear exactly what they were saying but they were talking, whispering, pillow talk in the afterglow. Martin's eyes felt pasted to the woman's body like an image in seedy pornography. Her skin and contours looked gritty in the tinseled darkness. He could see the details of her nipples, her navel, and her pub
is too, when the pillow talk faltered and she dragged the sheets off her lower body. The dude was all over her again in a heartbeat, licking lines with his tongue from her nipples, down her flat stomach, to her.

  Martin spent the next half hour, watching in utter silence, engrossed and aroused. He relieved what he could of his own sexual angst right there on the side of the house, almost blowing it, almost gasping aloud, in which case he surely would've been heard and then he would've screwed up again, wouldn't he? He would've disappointed the Messenger yet again. If he charged in there right now, though-easy because the window was open-he might be able to take them both out. The guy looked pretty fit, and Martin himself wasn't fit at all, but he'd have the darkness and the element of surprise on his side, wouldn't he? Go in there and just go caveman on them. Go for the guy first, get some lower-body stabs with the knife before he knew what hit him, and then start to work on the woman. But...

  No. It's better this way, my son, he was told. Just...wait.

  Martin waited as instructed. It was as though his guide had known what would happen next. Inside, the dude and woman had gone at it like banshees, a real down-and-dirty show. Then they were lying on the bed, talking. They talked for a long time. And then...

  Perfect. Here's my best chance of the night, Martin thought.

  The guy was leaving. Put on his duds, gave her a long last kiss, and was out of there. In a moment, Martin could hear a car start around front and drive away.

  And now the woman was in there all alone. She was sitting naked on the edge of the bed. What a brick shit house, Martin thought. She was lying down again, spread-eagled on top of the sheets. Martin drunk up the sight of that body and thought that she'd look even better after he cut her up. The Messenger would like that, the Messenger expected it. For a minute, Martin thought she was going to masturbate, the way she was lying there on the sheets with her legs wide open. It looked like she'd actually brought her hands close to her groin ... but then she rolled over. Yeah, perfect. She's going back to sleep. That was great and there was something he'd just noticed-when he could see her face for the first time-that made it all even more perfect.

  I just can't believe it. Nobody gets this lucky. Maybe it was the Messenger himself who'd effected this situation; he'd brought Martin here, hadn't he? He must know. Martin got out the K-Bar. Oh, what he would do to her with it. Now his hatred was all sparked up by the most irresistible lust. Because in those last few minutes when she'd been lying there on her back, Martin had finally been able to see the woman's face oh so clearly.

  It was Jane Ryan.

  Martin prepared to go in.

  "Hey, peeping tom!" a voice rang out like a gunshot from behind.

  Martin nearly had a coronary.

  "I'm calling the cops, you pervert!"

  Martin couldn't move. He'd been seen! Impulse flooded him: the impulse to run away as fast as he could, but...

  Be still.

  Martin stood and stared.

  My son, your redemption is upon you. Take it.

  Martin knew what the Messenger meant, because he'd actually said it before, hadn't he? In Martin's head?

  The guide had told him, It doesn't matter. The message is all that matters.

  Martin, as drunk and as unsophisticated as he might have been, understood the implication. The act was all that mattered. It didn't matter that he'd be caught. It didn't matter that he'd be tried and sentenced to death. Death was eternal, and Martin welcomed that new eternity in the domain of the Messenger.

  Go in there now, my son. And deliver my message.

  Martin trembled. He tried and tried and tried, but he couldn't force himself to go in that window. Inside, the light had switched on; the bitch, no doubt, had heard the neighbor yelling. She'd pulled on a robe, was putting down the phone, and now she was coming to the window, and if Martin stayed even for another few seconds, Jane Ryan would see him.

  Martin ran away.

  The Messenger had stopped talking to him after that. The memory of last night's unmitigated failure reminded him of his entire life. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. It you spend your whole life never taking a risk, you never really have a life because you never get anything, and Martin knew this: without the Messenger, he had nothing. For the last day he'd felt absolutely alive. Martin needed that feeling back.

  Please come back into my heart, he pleaded.

  He had the knife in a sheath in his belt. He was wearing his shirttail out so no one could see it. Martin was going to prove himself to the Messenger. Today. Right here in the post office.

  He'd wait until lunch. The carriers, who were mostly men, would all be on the road, and half the clerks and handlers would be gone. He'd go office to office, carving up as many as he could, and then he'd gut himself and let the Messenger send him on to a better place where he would finally be rewarded for something.

  And he knew which office he'd be starting at-Jane Ryan's.

  "Martin-there you are." The stern tone assailed him the second he stepped out of the bathroom. It was Jane Ryan, in her tight top and postal shorts, frowning at him in the hall. "Are you finished with the two-foot trays and the Jacksonville drop?"

  "Yes," Martin said.

  "Good. I'll give you one more chance. You can still have the promotion to DPS foreman if you want it."

  Martin stood still. The hall was empty; he could do it now, couldn't he? One hard thwack with the K-Bar and he could have her head half off. He'd cut her clothes off right there on the floor while she gargled blood. His rage seethed. I don't need one more chance from you, you big-tit bitch. I need it from someone else, and I'm gonna get it. Look for me around lunchtime.

  "No, Ms. Ryan, I don't."

  "Okay." She turned around, pointed to the foot of her office door where two small boxes sat. "See those two boxes? It's a maintenance delivery, spare parts for the new collators, pinion replacement rods or something."

  "What about them?" Martin asked.

  "Take them down to the basement, will you?" Then she turned and walked off to the front service cove.

  Martin smiled. Sure, Ms. Ryan. I'll take 'em down. And then at lunch, I'll take YOU down.

  "Oh, and Martin?" She'd stopped at the door. "Put your shirttail in. It's against post-office policy. They call it a uniform for a reason. So that all staff look uniform." Then she was through the door and gone.

  Martin didn't put his shirttail in. He was excited already, sexually. Oh, yeah. This is gonna be sweet.

  He picked up the boxes and took them down into the basement. There was no one else down there. It was nice and cool and quiet. He took a hit off the flask and relaxed. No one to bother him here. Martin could think.

  He could think about what he was going to do for the Messenger.

  "How come your shirttail's out?"

  Martin jumped. Who the hell is down here?

  She'd been standing right there all along. Sarah Something-Woolery, Willoughby, something like that. Martin had seen her around, didn't like her. Of course, he didn't like anybody he worked with, or anybody at all for that matter, but this bitch he disliked more than most. She was young, mid-twenties, blond, a looker. Another snooty Florida beach ditz who thought she was better than everyone else just because she'd been born attractive. Always turning her nose up at me, Martin reminded himself. He'd like to strangle her. He'd like to whip out his K-Bar right now and start cutting chunks off.

  "Then why don't you?" she said.

  Martin stared.

  "I know about you," she said. "The Messenger told me about you."

  "He...did?"

  "The Messenger told me that you're taking his blessing for granted. You're selfish and afraid. You're not strong enough to make the sacrifice."

  Martin was suddenly sweating. "That's not true! I've got everything planned!"

  "You're weak. You must prove your strength."

  "I will! I'm going to kill her during the lunch break."

  Her eyes fluttered. "You're going to kill her n
ow. Don't be weak anymore. Don't put things off. You know that it's a very special time and that some very important messages must be delivered." She stood feet apart, hip cocked. Her work blouse was unbuttoned a few notches, showing cleavage. She licked her lips. Her hands briefly caressed her breasts.

  "Do it and you can have me."

  Martin didn't want her. He was jealous now. Who was she to the Messenger? Martin wanted to be the priority but here she was telling him what to do. He didn't like it. He knew that he had to get back into the good graces of his guide.

  "Now's your chance, Martin," she cooed.

  "What?"

  "She's coming."

  "What, down here?"

  She nodded slyly, ran her tongue over her lower lip. "Um-hmm."

  "Right now?"

  "Um-hmm."

  This is bullshit. How can she predict something like that? but then the upstairs door clicked open and footsteps were heard coming down.

  Sarah quickly picked up some boxes, to appear busy. Jane Ryan stepped in.

  "I think that's it for those boxes of replacement parts, Jane," Sarah said. She set the boxes back down. "Martin and I brought them all down."

  "Thanks." Jane seemed distracted. "Where is Martin, by the way?"

  "Right here," Martin said.

  Jane immediately frowned. "Martin, I thought I told you to tuck your shirttail in, and-" She leaned forward, squinting in disbelief. "Is that a flask in your hand?"

  Fuck! Martin was caught cold. He was still holding the flask full of whiskey. He wilted. He didn't even bother responding.

  "Jesus, Martin!" Sarah exclaimed. "Is that what you've been doing down here?" She turned to Jane. "Jane, I swear, I didn't know he was down here drinking."

  "I understand," Jane replied. "It's been an ongoing problem." To Martin, she said, "I've given you every chance in the book but it's just not working out. I've got no choice but to suspend you, pending a termination hearing. Do you understand?"

  All Martin understood was that he was being screwed over by another

  woman. It was always a woman. Treacherous. Back-stabbing. Self-serving. He was seething now. He was shaking. He wanted to reach under his shirt and grab the knife.