The Wicked

by James Newman

  “And then he took off,” David concluded. “We don’t even know if someone’s picked up the man in my bathtub yet.”

  “Keenan never called for backup,” Guice said.

  “Jesus,” said David. “My daughter’s in the house with him.”

  At that, Sheriff Guice accelerated, zooming by the houses of Morganville that were just now beginning to show signs of life beneath the rising sun. So many families, waking to begin their day, oblivious to David and George’s dilemma.

  “What’s the deal with the church?” Sheriff Guice asked. “You said he just stopped, stared at it?”

  “Yeah,” David replied. “For like ten minutes. It was...damn creepy, is what it was.”

  Guice nodded, but his expression betrayed nothing as he drove on.

  “Did you know the church is closed?” George asked.

  Guice glanced at the older man in the rearview mirror, nodded. “Been meaning to check that out. Rumor is Reverend Rhodes has skipped town.”

  A chill shot down David’s spine as they passed the church. Somehow he knew, though he did not know how he knew, that Rhodes had not “skipped town.” No, the truth was much more sinister than that.

  “Honeysuckle Lane, right?” Guice glanced back at David.

  “We’re in the cul-de-sac.”

  “My God, I’ve known Hank Keenan my whole life,” mumbled the sheriff after several more minutes of awkward silence. He seemed to speak more to himself, however, than the two men in the car with him. “We graduated together, me and Marjorie. Class of ‘81. They used to come over for cookouts in the summer. The guy was Nathan’s godfather, for Chrissake...”

  Guice made a little choking sound in the back of his throat.

  “Nathan?”

  “My son,” explained the sheriff. “He used to call him ‘Uncle Hank,’ loved that man like he was blood. How am I supposed to tell a ten-year-old his Uncle Hank just blew away his whole fucking family?”

  David hadn’t a clue what caused him to ask it, but it was out of his mouth before he even realized he’d said it: “Sheriff, do you know anything about this...Moloch?”

  “What’s that?” Guice said.

  “Moloch.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “There was the thing at the Briggs trial,” George said, jogging the sheriff’s memory. “Remember?”

  “Oh, right,” Sheriff Guice said. “That gibberish he wrote on his hands. Kid was so whacked out on drugs I don’t think he even knew what he was on trial for.”

  “We think there was more to it than that,” George said, glancing at David.

  David nodded, as if to say: Go ahead, tell him.

  And George would have done exactly that, but now they were pulling up in front of David’s house, so it would have to wait.

  Sheriff Guice entered the Littles’ house with his gun drawn, and walked as stealthily as his bulk would allow toward the bathroom. Joel sat on the sofa, asking questions with his eyes, but David and George both shook their heads, indicating that he should remain quiet.

  Becca was awake now. She sat on the floor, playing with her dolls. But the little girl ruined whatever element of surprise the sheriff had the instant she saw her father. She ran for him, squealing, “Daddy!” and jumped into his arms.

  Sheriff Guice winced, shot a glance toward David as he eased toward the bathroom with his back against the wall. He swung into the room, gun extended outward.

  “Can we go see Mommy now?” Becca asked.

  David placed one finger in front of his lips, shushed her.

  “He’s gone,” said Sheriff Guice from the hallway. “Shit.”

  “Keenan came back,” Joel said. He looked at David. “About thirty minutes after you left. He took the man in the tub with him.”

  “You let the crazy bastard back in the house?” George asked.

  “I didn’t know what to do! Somebody knocked, I asked who it was, and he said ‘Sheriff’s Department.’ So I opened the door. Guy didn’t have a stitch on. It was the weirdest damn thing.”

  Sheriff Guice stared at him. David and George both gave the sheriff a look that seemed to say we told you so.

  Guice covered his mouth with one trembling hand.

  “He was naked, Daddy,” Becca giggled.

  David held his daughter tighter than ever, smoothed down her dirty blond hair. “Shh, baby. Shh.”

  “Joel,” Sheriff Guice said, “I know this is a bad time, and you’ve got a lot going on right now, but I need you over at Keenan’s place. 17 Cangro Boulevard. Multiple homicide.”

  “Oh, no,” said Joel. “What happened?”

  “There’s no time for that now. Just get over there, please. A couple of my men are already on the scene, but I’ll need you to do your thing.”

  Joel felt so tired, as if he might drop any moment. The bags under his eyes resembled smudges of soot and ash, like some sort of bizarre tribal paint. He sighed. “I’m on it, Sheriff.”

  “He was naked, Daddy,” Becca whispered again, into her father’s ear. Another giggle. To David, at that particular moment—despite the circumstances—it was the sweetest sound in the world.

  CHAPTER 47

  From the Morganville Daily Register, Jan. 5:

  LOCAL FAMILY MURDERED

  Suspect “On the Run,” Says Sheriff

  Authorities are searching for the lead suspect in a triple homicide that occurred this past week-end.

  Early Sunday morning, Marjorie Keenan, 38, and her two children, Nathaniel, 10, and Nora, 4, were found dead in their home, the victims of multiple gunshot wounds.

  The lone suspect in the case is Henry “Hank” Keenan, 37, of 17 Cangro Boulevard. Henry Keenan is the husband and father to the victims.

  “It’s tragic, and hard to believe that a father could do such a thing,” said Sheriff Sam Guice. “However, at this time I have no option but to believe that Mr. Keenan is responsible for the deaths of his family.”

  Henry Keenan is a senior deputy of the Morganville Sheriff’s Department, a volunteer member of the Morganville Fire Department, as well as president of the local chapter of Dads Against Domestic Violence. He has not been seen since the night of the murder.

  The Morgan County Sheriff’s Department welcomes any information leading to the sus-pect’s arrest. Anonymity is guaranteed, says Guice, and he urges anyone with knowledge of Keenan’s whereabouts to call 555-6795.

  CHAPTER 48

  Inside the dark walls of Morganville’s First Baptist Church, Reverend Darryl Rhodes wept. It seemed that was all he ever did these days, cry. His eyes were red and raw, shot through with wormy veins, and when he rubbed at them he wailed in agony.

  Alas, his tears were born not in remembrance of a past life that he would never know again, a life that seemed like little more than some foggy, half-remembered dream now...

  These were tears of awe. And wonder.

  Reverend Rhodes had been instructed to build.

  Exactly what he was to build, he did not know. Yet.

  Rhodes only knew that Moloch had commanded it.

  And so it would be done.

  The others were here now.

  Together, they obeyed. Together, they began to build.

  CHAPTER 49

  Two days after her husband and George Heatherly were released from jail and subsequently cleared of all charges against them, Kate Little returned home from Cecil R. Purdy hospital.

  David and Kate didn’t talk about what happened, at least not where their daughter could hear. David explained to Becca the morning after their arrest that he had done nothing wrong, that he had been hauled off to jail because of someone else’s mistake, and for the most part his daughter seemed to buy it.

  Despite their ordeal the night Christopher was born, David and Kate could not stop smiling every time they looked at their new son. David still felt more than a little edgy since that night, always sensing he should be on the lookout for a psycho in a Santa suit, and he had lost quite a bit of s
leep over it, but now he pushed all of that to the back of his mind as they headed home. He felt as if God had given him the responsibility of chauffeuring an angel as he drove his family home, as if everyone in town knew the 4Runner carried royalty through Morganville’s streets. Temporarily, at least, David was able to forget everything that had happened the past few days. His worries were gone, all thoughts of darkness and—how silly it sounded now, in the bright light of a new day—demons disappeared every time he gazed upon his beautiful family in the 4Runner’s rearview mirror.

  Meanwhile, Becca fell into what David called “big sister mode” with a dedication like nothing he or Kate had ever seen from their daughter. All the way home from the hospital, she could not keep her hands off baby Christopher, a constant murmur filling the back seat as she whispered into her little brother’s ear, her eyes wide with wonder as she kissed him on his fat cheeks or played with his tiny fingers or bent over his car-seat to squeeze him so tightly that Kate had to warn her to be careful.

  Halfway on their trip home from the hospital, David slowed the car, and Becca saw her Daddy’s brow furrow in the rearview mirror. Like it did when he was concentrating on one of his paintings or thinking hard over the monthly bills at his desk, when he would tell her not-now-honey-Daddy’s-busy. She sat up, stared through the windshield, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

  The 4Runner slowed.

  Kate glanced at David. “What is it?”

  “That is so strange,” said David.

  He brought the vehicle to a stop alongside the curb, ignoring a honk behind him as he did so. He waved whoever it was to go around them.

  “Go back to New York!” a youthful voice yelled from a passing yellow Camaro, but neither Kate nor David paid it any mind. David barely even noticed the middle finger sticking out the window in his peripheral vision.

  His attention was elsewhere.

  The sign on the front door of the First Baptist Church of Morganville revealed it was CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS, and the message was repeated on the large sign visible from the highway, the one with the interchangeable letters. UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE, added the latter in a smaller font. The church was dark, and the weeds about the property looked to have been ignored for quite some time. A pall of neglect hung over the place like a black cloud.

  “Closed?” Kate said. “Since when does a church close?”

  “Right,” said David.

  Baby Christopher released a low, bubbly fart from his car-seat then, as if adding his own proverbial two cents to the conversation. Becca said “ewwww,” held her nose and giggled like it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard.

  David pulled into traffic again and headed toward home, new questions forming in his mind every second.

  CHAPTER 50

  Michael Morris’s funeral came and went, and attending the services proved to be one of the hardest things Kate Little had ever done. She held Joel, attempted to console him, but knew there was nothing she could do except be there for him when he needed her most. By the end of the day, her collar was soaking wet from her brother’s constant tears, her shoulders and forearms sore from holding him up every time he seemed as if he might collapse upon Michael’s grave.

  David embraced Joel at the end of the services, told him how very sorry he was for his loss. He assured Joel that he would help him get through this in any way possible, and if there was anything he needed, ever, Joel should not hesitate to let him know.

  Kate mentioned to David on the way home that she was afraid her little brother might not make it through this, and that scared her more than anything else in the world.

  CHAPTER 51

  Sheriff Guice pulled into the parking lot of Morganville First Baptist expecting to find nothing, and that was exactly what he got.

  For the past ten days, no one had heard anything from Reverend Darryl Rhodes and several members of his congregation were becoming worried. There had been no Sunday services here for the past three weeks. Mavis Ledbetter had been receiving more and more calls regarding the reverend’s sudden disappearance and the subsequent closing of his church, and Guice knew he needed to set aside everything else on his agenda in order to deal with this situation.

  He exited his patrol car, walked across the parking lot and climbed the steps to the front doors of the church. A stray candy-bar wrapper blew across the concrete in front of him, and Guice thought the sound it made as it flipped and scraped across the mottled stone seemed strangely snake-like. He shivered, unsure if he did so because of the day’s cool breeze or the imagery such a thought brought to mind.

  The wooden sign nailed at eye-level upon the doors read CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS, but the explanation ended there. Using black spray-paint, someone had written across that: GO AWAY.

  Guice knocked. “Reverend Rhodes? Hello? It’s Sheriff Guice. You in there?”

  Guice placed his ear to the door, held his breath, and listened for any signs of life inside the church.

  Nothing.

  He knocked again.

  Nothing. Only the hollow sound of his own loud rapping, echoing through the church’s empty halls like the building’s own off-rhythm heartbeat.

  Perhaps that was the weirdest thing of all. The silence. If the church had indeed closed for the purpose of some sort of remodeling, Sam thought, shouldn’t he hear the buzz of saws inside, the heavy pounding of hammers against nails? Perhaps the muffled shouts of a stressed-out Reverend Rhodes as he supervised the project?

  But the sheriff heard nothing. Not the slightest creak, the faintest footstep. It was as if the church had been closed for years. As if the building had never been occupied at all.

  “Reverend? Hello? I need to talk to you. Folks are worried.”

  Guice frowned, descended the steps, and walked through the high grass that had usurped the property for the past few weeks. The weeds swished against his legs like the thin green fingers of children desperate for his attention as he ventured toward the rear of the building.

  He tried peering through the stained-glass windows for any sight of Reverend Rhodes. For anybody. The sad face of Jesus looked down upon the sheriff as he cupped his hands around his eyes to squint through the pool of hot-pink blood at the base of the Savior’s cross.

  He couldn’t see a damned thing.

  Guice stood with his hands on his hips as he surveyed the overgrown property.

  What the hell was he supposed to do? Technically, Darryl Rhodes owned the church. His father, a good friend of old Sam Guice, Sr., had set it up years ago, building the place from the ground up with the help of several dedicated relatives. Theodore Rhodes had been a loyal man of God, had put everything he owned into opening up his own place of worship when he grew disillusioned with other churches in Morgan County, and what he saw as their all-too-materialistic doctrines. It had been quite the successful venture, this new church, and Darryl Rhodes had continued to expand upon his father’s dream long after the old pastor left this world to claim his reward in Heaven.

  When all was said and done, Darryl Rhodes did not owe anyone a thing. He was entitled to close up shop, if that was what he wanted to do. Doing so left many loyal Morganville churchgoers confused and perhaps a little lost, of course, but legally the man owed them nothing. His only debt was spiritual, Guice supposed.

  Still...

  The sheriff could not deny the feeling that nagged at the back of his brain like a needle pushing its way through his skull. The sense that something was not right here.

  He knew he would be forced to get a search warrant before he could enter the church. And what would he tell Judge Kramer?

  I have a hunch, your honor. A bad feeling about this.

  Sure. That would work. Hateful old Vince Kramer would laugh Guice out of his friggin’ office, he tried some shit like that.

  What it all came down to was, Guice wasn’t sure. And there were a million other things he had to deal with. More important things to worry about than a pastor who had probably just skipped town with
some young mistress, taking the last couple months of his devoted congregation’s offerings with him to blow in Maui or Key West.

  Yes, he had more important things to worry about than this.

  Matters like the hunt for Hank Keenan, who was still on the loose.

  For now, Reverend Rhodes and his church would have to wait.

  Guice sighed, turned to leave.

  “Is there something I can help you with, Sheriff?” said a voice behind him.

  Guice’s heart skipped a beat. He pivoted, his hand going to the holster on his belt.

  At the corner of the church, Reverend Darryl Rhodes stood half-in and half-out of the threshold of his parsonage. A sick-looking rosebush hid his legs from Guice’s view, and the spidery brown vines that climbed the walls of the rectory almost seemed to be a part of the man’s body from this angle.

  “Are you looking for something?” Rhodes asked. His expression was stern, curious but not quite angry. “I assumed so, the way you were lurking around out here.”

  The preacher appeared as if he had not taken a bath in months. He wore a gray suit, complete with a red tie and fancy black shoes, but his hands and portions of the suit were smudged with filth. His hair stuck up in greasy spikes. His glasses were covered with a thick layer of dust. Gray stubble lined his jaw like another layer of grime beneath his crooked mouth.

  Even from where he stood, Guice could smell the man. Damned if the reverend didn’t smell like soot and ash, like something burning.

  Guice said, “Actually, I, um, I was looking for you, Reverend.”

  Rhodes said nothing. His stern expression did not change.