by J. S. Bailey
Lupe gave no indication she had heard him.
He wanted to rush up and untie her but sensed he should wait since Graham had not yet chosen to show his face. “I’m here now, Graham,” he said. “Are you going to come out?”
He thought about his options. He could try to negotiate his and Lupe’s freedom or, if Graham became violent, Randy could try to injure Graham so that Randy and Lupe could escape with their lives intact. After all, harming another in self-defense did not constitute murder.
For a second he thought he heard something creaking up in the loft, but no reply came. Rats, he decided. The place might be full of them.
Without warning, the barn door rolled shut with a loud thump.
He whirled around to see who had joined him, but the unexpected change in lighting hadn’t given his eyes a chance to adjust. Someone stood by the door just a few yards away from him. “Stay right there,” he said.
Randy obeyed, and the man approached him with maddening slowness. His features came into view as he passed through the light coming in through one of the windows. Randy recognized him as the gunman from Father Laubisch’s house.
He wondered if Father Laubisch was here, too. The priest could have been one of the rats up in the loft.
“Who are you?” Randy asked.
“First things first,” the gunman said, flashing him an arrogant grin. He dropped the cigarette he’d been holding and ground it into the dirt with his foot. “Put your hands behind your back.”
Randy’s grip tightened around the knife’s handle. “No.”
“No? I see you’re not familiar with my rules. If you don’t set your knife on the floor and do as I ask, the girl dies. And don’t even think of rushing me. If you think killing me is going to guarantee her safety, you’re sorely wrong.”
Randy bit his lip. He could easily overtake the gunman and pin him to the ground, but because he didn’t know how many people Graham may have enlisted as backup, he refrained from doing so for Lupe’s sake.
“Very well,” he said, and prayed for additional strength as he gently set the knife in the dirt.
Randy turned so his back faced the man and immediately regretted his decision when metal cuffs fastened around his wrists with an ominous click.
“Excellent,” the gunman said. “The old man seems to have been right about you. Now come over here and lean your back against this post.”
Before Randy could disable the gunman with an unexpected kick, the man grabbed his arm and jerked him toward the supporting post closest to the door. Randy sat and allowed himself to be tied to the pole with a length of rope just like Lupe on the other side of the barn.
She still hadn’t moved. Wake up, he prayed. Please wake up.
When the younger man finished securing the rope so tightly that Randy could feel the fibers cutting into his arms, he took a few steps back and placed his hands on his hips, assessing him as one would a specimen in a zoo. “And to think I didn’t believe him when he said you probably wouldn’t put up a fight if your girl got involved. I guess you’re a holier man than I thought.”
“Who are you?” Randy repeated. The same cloud-like aura he’d picked up in his mind at the priest’s house had returned, indicating that the gunman was not possessed by evil spirits but lived in friendly accord with them.
Such a person could not be cleansed by a Servant or any clergyman skilled with the ability to drive out spirits, which was perhaps one of the greatest tragedies of all.
“My name is John,” the gunman said, “but everybody calls me Jack.”
Knowing his name didn’t quite answer Randy’s question. “How did you get involved in all of this? What am I to you?”
Jack smiled. “A project.”
“How do you know Graham?”
“Ah. About that.” Jack paused as if collecting his thoughts. Then his eyes made an involuntary glance toward the loft. “You see, the old man had a daughter named Stephanie. I see you’ve heard of her. When she was eighteen her ever-understanding mother caught her in bed with a nice young man from church and threw her out of the house. She’s been living in California ever since. She’s got a couple of kids now but never bothered to marry either of their fathers. I’m her oldest.
“All my life I knew something was missing. No father, no family other than Mom and my sister. She told me all about the argument she’d had with her mother. She said that one thing she longed to do was see her daddy again since she didn’t get the chance to tell him goodbye. When I heard his name in the news a year ago, I knew it was time to go find him. I wanted to meet him before he got too old and dropped dead.”
“I still don’t understand why you’ve gotten involved in all of this.”
The young man shrugged. “Because I wanted to.”
A cold voice whispered in Randy’s ear. Mind your own business, Servant. He’s ours, not yours.
Jack grinned at him as if he’d heard the voice too, and Randy had the sudden impression that the guy’s mouth was full of fangs.
Randy cleared his throat. “Where’s Graham now?”
“Oh, somewhere,” Jack said evasively. “He had to run out and grab a few things before he got started. I think he’s beginning to slip a little in his old age.” He winked. “I like talking to you, Randy. I’ve been spying on you and your girlfriend now for months, and it’s nice to finally meet you face to face. It’s funny, though. You don’t look like someone who could be a servant of God.”
“Are we supposed to look a certain way?” Now Randy’s hands were going to sleep. He flexed them to keep his circulation going.
Jack cocked his head to one side. “I don’t know. A little less rough around the edges, maybe. You look like someone who could do well in a fight. Has anyone ever punched you in the face?”
Before Randy could reply that yes, he had indeed been punched and preferred not to relive the experience, Jack’s fist slammed into Randy’s jaw so hard that the bone made a sickening pop. His stomach gave a lurch and tears welled up in his eyes, though he refused to let any fall.
“What?” Jack asked in a tone of false innocence. “Aren’t you going to defend yourself? You must not really be tough at all.”
Randy closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the pole. He had already learned the answers he’d sought the most, so it was no use continuing to speak.
But Jack wasn’t finished. A sharp kick in the shin sent Randy’s eyes flying open. “No time for that, sleepyhead,” Jack taunted. “We’ve got to keep you awake for the fun.”
Yes. Because tying innocent people to poles and torturing them was just a barrel of laughs.
“What?” Jack asked again. “You mean you aren’t having a good time? I’m surprised you haven’t asked me anything about her yet.” Jack jerked his head toward Lupe. “She’s just sleeping, you know. Nothing the old girl can’t handle.”
Randy began to strain against the rope in the hope it would break, but he might as well have been bound with steel cable.
“What did you do to her?” he asked in a low voice, fearing that if he spoke any louder his emotions might betray him.
“I could ask you the same thing.” Jack’s eyes glimmered, and Randy didn’t like it. Never in his life had he felt so mocked, so used; except for all the times when . . .
No. He wouldn’t even think of it.
He said, “I’m not the one who hurt her.”
“Sure you are. Graham told me all about the two of you. You made her feel like a sinner with your false piety. Poor girl’s come close to suicide more times than you could count, and it’s all your fault.”
Randy felt his blood come close to boiling. “False piety?”
Jack began to pace leisurely back and forth across Randy’s field of vision. “I know what happened to you when you were a little boy. Graham said that’s why you grew up in foster care. I for one think you enjoyed it. Maybe you’re even the one who brought it all on. You just tattled so you could get attention and everyone could
know what you’d done. And now you try to act like you’re some holy man. I know better, though. Inside you’re as full of sick desires as your good old daddy.”
Randy’s vision narrowed to the point where all he could see was Jack’s gloating face, and he could feel the rope fibers cutting into his arms as he tugged against his bindings. His face burned with both shame and rage, and he knew that if he really was able to untie himself, he would beat Jack with his bare hands until he killed him.
Jack paused, still wearing that little smile. “I can see I’m getting to you. Mother always said I had a way with words. As I was saying, you made the woman you were supposed to love feel like killing herself because you convinced her that the things she did as a teenager were evil, when really all she was doing was following her female instincts.”
Lies. They were all lies. Lupe had already been full of remorse when they met, and it was Randy who had reassured her that she would be forgiven if she gave her heart and soul over to God.
He closed his eyes and let out a long breath. Jack was undoubtedly part of Graham’s plan. He knew his daughter’s child was as warped as he was—maybe even more so, considering his demonic partnership—and had decided to use Jack to try to break his spirit before Graham came along to break his body.
“Where is Graham, really?” he asked. “I’d like to talk to him.”
Jack took one step in reverse and crossed his arms. “Don’t you like this little chat we’re having? I think it’s quite fun. I’ve learned more about you since you walked through that door than I ever could have learned by following you around.” He placed a finger on his chin and pretended to study him. “You’re a very angry man, did you know that? You hate me because you think I’m the polar opposite of everything you could ever have hoped to be.”
Yes, Randy was angry right now, but the righteous anger he felt toward this impossible human being was far from being a sin.
It was what he might do with that anger that could potentially condemn him.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he said, struggling to keep his tone even.
Jack laughed. “I already told you he isn’t here yet. He’ll arrive when he arrives.”
The soft creak he’d heard earlier sounded again from the loft. Randy narrowed his eyes. “I think he’s here already.”
The Spirit murmured an affirmation inside of him. Randy was right. Graham Willard, his surrogate grandfather and former friend, was hiding up on the second floor of the barn because he was too afraid of Randy to confront him.
Choosing to ignore Jack for the moment, Randy turned his head in the direction of the sound and called out. “Graham, get down here. You need to come look me in the eye yourself.”
A cough issued through the boards that were his ceiling and Graham’s floor.
Jack’s grin broadened. Randy wondered what other lies he’d been spouting for the last few minutes. Maybe nothing he’d said was true at all.
The movement upstairs ceased.
“Come on, Graham. Be a man.”
Still, nothing. Jack let out a snicker.
“At least tell me why all of this had to happen.”
At first Randy thought that Graham would continue to ignore him, but then, ever so softly, the sound of shoes scuffing against floorboards issued from above at a sound barely above a whisper. Randy’s eyes were drawn to a set of rickety wooden stairs in the back corner of the barn. A stooping figure appeared on them moments later.
Graham paused on the bottom step as if waiting for some signal to continue his approach. Could Graham really be that afraid of him? What exactly did he fear?
Jack turned toward the new arrival. “Aren’t you going to do what the man says, Grandpa? He wants to talk to you.”
Graham took one more step. Now he was standing on the barn’s dirt floor. He held something in one hand but Randy couldn’t see what it was. A weapon of some sort, he supposed. But with Graham acting so skittish, Randy began to suspect that Jack would be the one to ultimately kill him if things came to that.
Father, protect us.
“Graham,” Randy said, “earlier today somebody told me you’ve killed at least sixty-three people. He might have been lying, for all I know, but I just wondered why you chose that path. I know you used to have a pure heart. If you didn’t, God never would have chosen you as one of his Servants.”
He fell silent to see if Graham would object to anything he’d just said. Graham’s silence seemed to indicate that the things Father Laubisch told him were at least somewhat true.
Randy continued. “The person who told me about your murders said the first person you killed died in an accident. He said you became addicted to killing people. I just wondered how you progressed from one to the other, because as much as I think about it, I still can’t understand why anyone would do that.”
Graham took a couple of steps closer and stuffed whatever he was holding into one of his back pockets. The shuffle that Randy always associated with his walk had vanished. “I don’t know that you could.”
This was more progress than Randy had expected to make. “Do you understand?”
Another few beats of silence. “Yes.”
“How did it happen? Who did you kill the second time?”
Now Jack himself appeared intrigued. Looked like good old Grandpa hadn’t given him his full life story, either.
Graham cleared his throat. His eyes darted between the two of them, uncertain. “It was my grandmother. She was dying of cancer. I wanted to bring her comfort. I wanted to know what she’d see as she was dying. I was afraid that death wouldn’t be as glorifying as I’d hoped.”
To Randy’s surprise, Jack’s face paled a shade or two. “You killed your grandmother?”
“Yes, Jack, my grandmother.” A biting edge filled Graham’s voice. “If you’d seen her, you wouldn’t have wanted her to suffer anymore, either. Most of my family couldn’t even stand to look at her at that point, much less help her. And don’t keep looking at me like that. I helped her overdose on pain pills. She was all too willing, and when the family found out what happened they assumed she’d done it herself. I’d wanted to smother her with a pillow but realized I wouldn’t have been able to ask her about anything she might be seeing.”
Jack wrinkled his nose. Funny how the murder of a distant grandmother of his could have this reaction in him. “And just what did she see?”
“I don’t know. She started seizing, and all I heard was the word ‘shadows.’ Not very helpful, I’m afraid. But I was able to find peace within myself knowing she was no longer in pain.”
“Can you find peace knowing you’ve murdered so many others?” Randy asked as he forced bile back down his throat. He had lived in Graham’s house for years. The man had opened his doors for him and welcomed him in like a member of his own family since Randy had none of his own. They’d had parties together and worshiped together and had many long conversations sitting on the back patio in the evenings talking about theology and philosophy while Graham drank his Bloody Marys and Randy sipped on red wine, yet at the same time Graham had harbored this secret monster within him.
Maybe Graham didn’t think he had done anything wrong.
Graham was slow to respond. “I was always at peace, Randy. Until I met you.”
“What are you talking about?”
The old man’s legs carried him away from the bottom of the stairs, past the unconscious Lupe, and finally halted about six feet away from Randy.
Randy’s heart nearly stopped when he looked at his old friend’s face.
Tears filled the old man’s eyes. Graham Willard, the man who wanted to murder him, was crying.
BOBBY WATCHED as Phil pulled up an Oregon property search webpage and typed “upton david” into the search bar. Bobby crossed his fingers and held his breath.
A list of six properties came up on the screen when Phil hit enter. One was owned by a “David P. Upton” and another David had the middle initial F, but the rest
of the houses, which were all in or not far from Autumn Ridge, had owners with no middle initial at all.
“I’m going to ignore these,” Phil said, pointing out the first two.
Of the remaining four properties owned by men with that name, one was a certain bungalow on a certain Fir Street. “That’s me,” Bobby said, feeling queasy. If Graham had a penchant for killing people, why had Bobby and Caleb been spared? Had Graham just not gotten around to doing them in yet?
But wait a minute. Caleb had disappeared. Could Graham have forced him to write the note left on the refrigerator door so Bobby would think he was still alive?
It still didn’t explain why Caleb’s place of employment claimed he had never worked there, or how there had been no furniture indentations in Caleb’s bedroom carpet.
Unless Caleb and Graham were working together. Graham might have sent the college student off on some mission that had required him to move.
But Bobby refused to allow himself to believe that. Caleb may have been aloof at times, but he would never willingly assist a murderer.
“Look here,” Phil said, his attention focused on the screen. “One of them is on a Hidden Valley Road. I think I know where that is.” He opened a new tab and pulled up Google Maps. He copied the Hidden Valley address and pasted it into the directions search. A green pin appeared on the map, and Phil zoomed in with a few clicks of the mouse. “And that road meets up with Route 89. This has to be where Graham told Randy to go.”
Bobby stared at the thin threads of roads squiggling across the satellite image. Something didn’t sit right with him. “Go back to the property page,” he said as the brief glance he’d taken of the address list swam in his mind’s eye. “I thought I saw something.”
Phil did as he requested and muttered a soft curse when the four potential addresses appeared on the screen a second time.
One of Graham’s other properties was listed as being on Route 89 itself. Phil copied and pasted that address into the directions search. The green pin jumped to a higher point on the screen. “It’s just a few miles northeast of the other one.”
