by Roger Hayden
“Well… they were going to be my second guess,” Theo said with mock confidence.
Mary smiled, looking past the hall, alert. “Let’s check the rest of the house.”
They moved around a fallen bookcase and into the hallway, across from an adjacent office. Inside, papers were lying everywhere. Drawers had been pulled out from a large desk, their contents poured onto the floor. They continued down the hallway, passing more rooms, all in similar disarray. Nothing of value, it seemed, had been stolen; computers and other electronics remained. It was no ordinary burglary. Mary was sure of it.
“Sense anything yet?” she asked Theo.
Theo examined the startling holes in the wall next to him. Shattered glass from a broken picture frame lay at his feet. “It’s hard to say, but I think you’re on to something here. I don’t think that our perpetrators found what they were looking for.”
Picking their way across the hardwood floors, they emerged from the office hallway and entered the front of the house and a large family room. It was situated at the bottom of a wide, old-fashioned staircase with stained-wood risers. The family room, like all the others, was trashed—couch flipped over and gutted, lamps thrown, and desk drawers lying about and emptied. There were even holes in the wall.
“What a horrible thing to do to a pastor’s home,” Mary said as they reached the bottom of the staircase.
Theo motioned for her to go upstairs with him when she noticed something peculiar on a small, undisturbed coffee table near the foyer. She walked past Theo and approached the table, her misgivings intensified. On the coffee table lay a .45 caliber pistol.
Theo was already halfway up the stairs when she called him back.
“What is it?” he asked, rushing down the stairs, approaching her.
“Look,” she said and pointed to the pistol.
Theo was stunned; they both knew the pistol did not belong to Phil. He reached for it when suddenly a black Bronco with large wheels and tinted windows came down the road and pulled up directly behind Mary’s SUV. Panic gripped her chest as the Bronco skidded to a halt and the doors swung open and three men jumped out. A fourth was in the driver’s seat. Theo snatched the pistol and took Mary’s arm.
“Come on. We have to get out of here.”
“Where are we going to go?” she asked. “They know we’re here.”
She stared out the window near the foyer. Its thin white curtain barely concealed her as the men surrounded her SUV, looking inside and taking down the license plate number. She could see them better. The man on the right side of her vehicle was none other than Garret Taylor, scar visible on his cheek even from a distance, and his brothers. After realizing that no one was inside the SUV, Garret whipped his head around and glared toward the house. Theo pulled Mary down as they ducked out of sight.
“One of them must have forgotten this!” Theo said, holding the pistol. “We need to get out of here or hide.”
Mary rose slightly as her breathing increased with her growing panic. The Taylor brothers ran toward the house and up the front lawn with their pistols drawn and their eyes steely. They were wasting no time.
“Run!” Theo said, pulling Mary up. “Let’s go!”
With a sudden jolting kick to the front door, the men were only a few feet away. Mary sprinted off with Theo back down the hall just as Taylor brothers stormed inside.
To avoid being seen, Theo yanked Mary inside the first room to their left, where they took refuge in the corner of the room, hunched down and hiding on the other side of a bed. As Mary crouched down lower, she knew they had made a mistake in trying to hide. They were trapped, with their only escape being a nearby window that was closed with the blinds drawn. Footsteps sounded down the hall. They had company.
Secrets & Lies
Curtis watched Bob Deckers’s office from afar, sipping warm green tea in a corner booth of the coffee shop. He had been waiting for nearly thirty minutes while growing more doubtful that Deckers would indeed turn up. His cell phone lay flat on the table as he scrolled through the screen, feeling hopeful that Bob would either call or show. He could hear the faint sounds of the festival blocks away. There was no one in the dimly lit coffee shop, save for a twenty-something female barista and an elderly man at the counter. Curtis sat in one of the five booths at the front window, staring out.
The longer he sat waiting, the more he began to doubt the entire operation. Was he expecting Bob Deckers to simply confess to the murder of Pastor Phil? Curtis thought long and hard about what he was to do. They should have gotten the police involved from the beginning, he believed, but Mary didn’t currently trust the police—or most people in town, for that matter.
He finished his second cup of tea and turned back to the building across the street, surprised to see a man walking toward it. He was carrying a briefcase and wearing slacks, a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a tie swaying around his neck. His slicked-back gray hair shifted in the breeze and he had a slight five o’clock shadow on his tan face.
It was Bob Deckers. Curtis could recognize his hurried walk anywhere. Curtis rose from the booth and tossed a five on the table. He grabbed his cell phone and jacket, waved to the barista, and walked out of the coffee shop, watching Bob unlock his front office door and slip inside. Curtis gave it a moment. He certainly didn’t want to come barging in moments after Bob’s arrival. He wanted Bob to settle in and get comfortable—then he would confront him.
He leaned against one of the pillars holding up the canopy above the front door and waited. For the first time that day, Curtis began to feel a little nervous. He would be confronting Bob Deckers for the first time since Mary had accused the man of murdering Pastor Phil.
Curtis pulled his cell phone out and sent Mary a text message telling her Bob had just arrived at his office and that he was going in. After waiting a minute or so, and getting no response, he wondered what she was doing.
Had they found anything, or was the entire thing a wild goose chase?
Curtis looked at his phone again. It was ten after two. The downtown festival was kicking into high gear. He could smell barbecue in the air, which made his stomach growl, but could stall no longer. He still hadn’t heard back from Mary and decided to call her. Several rings later, the call went to her voice mail.
“Just calling to get a status,” he said after the beep. “Our guy just walked in, and I’m going to have a talk with him. Call me back as soon as you can. Love you, bye.”
He hung up and put the phone back in his pocket. He walked toward the road and looked both ways. There were no cars going in either direction. The block resembled a ghost town. Curtis crossed the four empty lanes and made his way to the other side, where old buildings lined the street. There was little doubt that Bob could see him coming if he was anywhere near his window. Most windows along the first floor of the buildings were heavily tinted. Next to Bob’s corner office, there was an empty parking lot to one side and a pizza joint on the other called “Bricklayers Pizza.” Curtis hadn’t eaten there yet, but the aroma he had smelled last time had been tempting. This time, however, Bricklayers was closed, like many of the shops on the block.
He thought of knocking on Bob’s door, but then decided to be bold, just walk in if possible, maybe take him off guard and gain the upper hand. He pushed against the door carefully, fully expecting it to be locked, but it wasn’t. He opened it only as far as necessary and slipped inside the darkened lobby that had empty desks at both sides of the room, like some telemarketing office, closed for the day.
The blinds were all shut, and Curtis realized that he had been safe from exposure the entire time—unless of course, Bob had been peering outside through them like some paranoid nut job. So far, that didn’t seem to be the case.
A lone light illuminated the office, coming from Bob’s private office at the end of the room. His was separated by glass and a door, while every other desk sat out in the open. Curtis, to that day, hadn’t seen a single other Realtor in the office, an
d had thought it too invasive to ask.
He walked across the gray carpet, between the lines of desks on both sides, and approached the lone office at the end where Bob sat, head looking down and scribbling onto some papers, seemingly unaware of Curtis’s advancing presence.
Curtis approached the open door and gave it a knock. Bob’s head jolted up.
“Curtis!” he said, startled and clutching his chest. “I didn’t even hear you come in…” He set his pen down and was quick to cover his notebook. On his forehead were beads of sweat, and he looked exhausted. His surprised expression faded easily as he smiled at Curtis and welcomed him in. “Yes, I’m sorry. You called me earlier and told me you’d be stopping by. It’s just, a lot is going on right now, and I forgot.”
“No problem,” Curtis said, entering the office. He took a seat in one of the two green vinyl chairs in front of Bob’s desk.
Bob closed his notebook, and then looked back at Curtis with heightened enthusiasm. “Oh. I talked to that leasing office downtown, and they’re willing to let that unit on Sixth Street go at a great rate.”
“Wonderful,” Curtis said with a smile while clasping his hands together. Under normal circumstances, he would be ecstatic hearing such news, but he was far too distracted to talk business. Despite this, Curtis kept his tone and demeanor friendly and receptive. Bob’s worn face, thin five o’clock shadow, and wild eyes showed a man already on edge. Curtis didn’t want to push him.
Bob leaned back in his chair in a confident manner with his head cocked back and proceeded to get on with their meeting. “I figured you and Mary would be at the festival today. What can I do for you today, Curtis?”
Curtis looked down, laughing to himself. “Yeah…Mary’s out and about. We’re planning to spend the rest of the day out in the crowd.”
“Sure is a nice day for it,” Bob said. He opened the briefcase resting on his desk and looked inside as if checking the contents, but didn’t take anything out.
“Are you planning to join the festivities?” Curtis asked. “I hope to catch that band again later today.”
In response, Bob pulled a flask and two Dixie cups from the briefcase resting atop his desk. He quickly poured an amber liquid into the cups and looked at Curtis with a devilish smirk. “How about something to get the party started?”
Curtis fanned his hand and politely declined.
“What? Oh, come on, Curtis. Let it go. It’s the weekend.” He held Curtis’s cup up, his eyes gleaming. “You can’t turn down Irish Whisky. It’s against the law. You should know that.”
A thought suddenly came to Curtis, something about the old adage: loose lips sink ships.
“Sure, Bob,” he said, taking the cup. “Why not?”
He tipped the drink back, swigging the warm whiskey, which burned his throat and sent his eyes watering. It was pretty strong stuff. Bob tipped his back as well and exhaled with satisfaction. He was already pouring his second cup before Curtis had even set his down. He seemed distracted and antsy, and Curtis could definitely tell that something was on his mind.
“Are you all right?” Curtis asked.
Bob paused for a moment, cup in hand, feigning surprise at the question. “Yes. Yes, of course. Just long hours, you know?”
Curtis turned his head and glanced at all the empty desks outside Bob’s office. “You should outsource some work to your staff,” he said with a chuckle. He turned back just as Bob took a sip from his cup.
“Yeah. What staff?” he said, eyes watering from the drink.
Curtis laughed. “I just assumed they’ve been on sabbatical.”
Bob nodded with a vacant stare, looking beyond Curtis’s shoulder. “That’s nice of you to say, Curtis. Truth is, I had to downsize a few months ago. Economy has been in the crapper, real estate has taken a hit, and we all have to do our part.”
Curtis leaned forward with a serious expression and spoke with an equally serious tone. “I wanted to ask you a few questions, Bob. If you don’t mind.”
Bob looked up, beaming with intrigue. “Oh yeah? Like what?”
“Nothing really work related, but I was hoping we could talk about my house.”
Bob’s enthusiastic expression faded with his sigh. “Great, I knew it,” he said, smacking his hands together. “You want to put it back on the market, don’t you?” Curtis tried to speak, but Bob cut him off. “It’s okay. You wouldn’t be the first.”
“We don’t want to move,” Curtis said curtly. “This is about something else.”
Bob cocked his head, confused. “Well… what then? Spit it out.”
The familiar hum of the air conditioner sounded overhead as Curtis gathered his thoughts. It was strange to think of all the activity taking place only a few blocks away as they sat in the nearly vacant Realtor’s office, staring at each other.
“I want to know if you’re really being honest with us,” Curtis began.
He noticed Bob’s friendly demeanor immediately change to something guarded and suspicious.
“You assured us that nothing is wrong with that house, but that has not been the case. You know me, Bob. I’m a practical, literal person. I don’t put any stock in curses and ghosts and psychics, but I believe you know plenty more about the Bechdel property than you say you do. And I want to know your involvement.”
A silence fell over the two men as Bob shifted in his chair; he placed his palms flat on the desk and eyed Curtis intently. “Involvement with what?” he asked in a slow, quiet tone. His eyes narrowed, and for the first time, Curtis could sense a sinister side in Bob that he hadn’t seen before.
“With everything,” he answered, with his arms held out in an all-encompassing way.
Bob laughed to himself, looking down, and took another sip of whiskey. “Looks like that shot went straight to your head there, Curtis, because I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“How well did you know Pastor Phil?” Curtis asked, searching for any nervous giveaways in Bob’s movements or statements. Bob was already acting strangely enough for Curtis to at least point the authorities in Bob’s direction. He could make an anonymous tip or just go to the police himself. Or was he being carried away, going overboard? He needed more than just a hunch. He wanted to see how convincing a liar Bob fancied himself to be.
Bob answered his question about Phil with little hesitation. “I knew him well enough. Everyone did. Heck, he was the town pastor.”
Curtis folded his hands together as Bob poured more whiskey into his cup. Curtis declined again, this time meaning it.
“Suit yourself,” Bob said.
“I understand that many people knew Pastor Phil, but I’m more curious about you. Were you friends?”
Bob’s confident posture and steely, attentive focus suddenly diminished as his hands gripped the front of his desk, fingers tapping, his voice with an edge now. “Sure. We were friends. What’s your point?”
Curtis took a long breath, knowing that the moment of truth was nearing. Bob already appeared shaken, and Curtis wasn’t certain how far he could go without blowing his intent. “My point is that there is clearly something wrong with our house. No past owners have stayed in the house more than a few weeks. Some of them even died, I heard. You never told that to me or Mary.”
Bob finished his cup off and sighed again while growing increasingly agitated. “What is this, Curtis?” he snapped. “You’re all over the place. First, it’s Pastor Phil, then it’s your haunted house. Where are you going with all of this?”
Curtis could already see two important signs. Bob was being evasive and deliberately ill-informed. It wouldn’t take much to rile him up further, but Curtis knew he’d have to be careful. “Trust me, there’s a connection,” he said. “Pastor Phil came to our house the other night when I wasn’t there. In fact, I was with you and those other guys at the pub. Apparently, he came to warn Mary of a dark, supernatural presence in our home.”
Bob looked at Curtis blankly, then his face twitched and his li
ps moved upward into an uncontrollable smile. “Are you serious?” he said with a guffaw.
“That’s what she told me,” Curtis answered. “She also told me that she had a dream about you. Apparently, you were with Phil the night he passed away.” Curtis pulled the glove from his front pocket and held the bag up for Bob to see. “We also found this on Phil’s property. Looks a little too big for Phil’s hand. Do you know who this might belong to?” He expected more evasiveness from Bob, maybe a nervous laugh or some half-baked excuse, but what Bob did next truly shocked him. He reached into his briefcase and pulled a 9mm pistol out, aiming it at Curtis.
“What are you doing?” Curtis asked, frozen to his chair.
“Quiet,” Bob said. “I’ve heard about enough from you, Curtis. Now toss that over here.”
Curtis tossed him the bagged glove, saying nothing more. He wondered if the pistol was really loaded, and if so, would Bob actually shoot him in the back if he tried to flee?
Bob continued, full of hostility. “Here’s what’s going to happen. Call Mary and tell her to meet us here. I want to hear about these dreams she’s having.”
Curtis looked around the office and then behind him on the off chance that someone might walk in and help save him. “I… My cell phone is on the fritz. I haven’t been able to make any calls this entire day.”
“Bullshit,” Bob said, on his feet and approaching Curtis. “You get her here in the next five minutes, or I’m going shoot you where it hurts.”
As the pistol got closer to his face, Curtis resisted the urge to flinch. He had never seen this side of Bob before, and it became suddenly clear to him that Mary was right all along. Bob undoubtedly had something to do with Phil’s death. He could have been the main bad actor all along.
As Curtis sat in Bob’s office, pistol aimed at his face, he knew that he perhaps had said too much. He had expected a reaction from Bob, probably outright denial, but he hadn’t expected this.
“You’d really shoot me?” Curtis asked in disbelief.
“That all depends, Curtis. I get no satisfaction out of this, but you’ve left me no choice. And now… I want to know what your wife knows too.”
