by Ren Hamilton
“Yes, brother,” Margol said.
Shep turned and stopped short as a few dozen pairs of eyes stared fearfully up at him. He’d forgotten about the followers. It had been Joey’s idea to invite them all up to the big house for a barbecue. Joey wanted them to feel like part of the family. Well, they’d been shot at now. He wondered how they liked the indoctrination. They sat hunched in fearful poses all around the deck and the lawn. Some were still curled up under tables and chairs, but they came out when they saw Shep.
Brin-Marie, a twenty-five-year-old nurse with a particularly obsessive love of Joey, came running toward Shep. Her brown hair was cut short, boyish, and her pretty face glistened with tears. “Is Joey dead? He’s dead isn’t he!” she wailed.
“Joey is fine. Everyone come. Listen up.” They came crawling slowly out of their hiding places. “I’m going to find out who fired that shot. I need you to go back to your camps for your own safety,” he said. They stared at Shep blankly, a montage of newly made followers who’d given up their lives to service Joey Duvaine, the prophet. None of them moved. “Didn’t you hear me? I said go back to your camps where you’ll be safe!”
Their eyes glazed with the intangible spell Joey had cast over them. They knew that Shep was more or less running things at The Bluffs, but it was not Shep who kept them there. It was Joey. The poor dears thought they were still in control of their own thoughts.
“We want to see Joey!” one of the men yelled.
“Yes!” another chimed in. “We want to know if Joey is okay. Have him come out and show us that he’s all right! Then we’ll leave. Not before.”
Shep was losing his patience. Mindless drones, exercising what they thought was their right to question him. They were all too far-gone to realize that they had no rights. They were simply addicts, concerned that their drug of choice had been taken away. He couldn’t control the contempt in his voice when he spoke. “People, let me explain this to you mindless fucks as simply as possible. Joey cannot come outside because somebody might take another shot at him!” He slammed his fist down on the patio table for emphasis. “Now would you morons please do as I say before the shooter gets even farther away than I suspect he already is?”
The crowd’s gaze suddenly shifted to look behind Shep. Their faces lit up with smiles. Shep turned around to see that Kelinda had appeared outside the door. The bright pink hair still surprised him. Shep told Joey to change Kelinda’s appearance if she was going to be seen with him. With the long dark hair, she’d looked too much like the apparition. It was Joey who insisted on the pink hair dye. Kelinda’s new chin length, layered hairdo glowed magenta neon under the sun. Joey had a sadistic sense of humor at times. It was a control thing, Shep supposed.
Joey seemed disappointed that Kelinda not only embraced the pink hair, but had maintained a certain level of self-respect since she’d arrived. As enamored as Kelinda was with him, she still found the audacity to disagree with Joey, even yell at him occasionally. As odd as she’d become since her arrival, she still carried herself with a sort of maniacal dignity.
Kelinda stepped forward and the crowd visibly softened at the sight of her. The pink hair was flattering, accentuating her creamy skin and full pink lips. She wore a long black gauze dress with multiple strands of pink beads around her neck and wrists. The hot pink beads matched her hair exactly. The carefully coordinated outfits were no doubt another way of showing Joey he hadn’t rattled her by making her dye her hair; she was rocking it.
She walked to where Shep was standing, and smiled, calming the crowd as she approached. “Now Shepherd, you’re just upset,” she said. “You didn’t mean to call our wonderful friends morons, did you?”
She gave Shep a warning look. “No. I didn’t mean it,” he said, through clenched teeth. “I’m just worried about Joey.”
“Kelinda! Is Joey all right?” Brin-Marie yelled.
“A bullet grazed Joey’s shoulder,” she said in a soothing tone. “He’ll just need a few stitches. He sends you all his love, but he is concerned for your safety. He wishes for you all to return to your camps for the time being.”
Without further question, they filed off the deck and headed back through the fields toward their camps. As soon as they disappeared into the fields, Kelinda’s sugary smile dropped. She looked at Shep. Lately she looked at him with hatred, not fear as she originally had.
“You can’t talk to them like that!” she said. “They’re very sensitive.”
“Why don’t you go paint your toenails or something. Let me worry about business.”
“Find who did this,” she said sharply, then turned and walked back into the house.
“Yeah, try to refrain from sucking the blood out of Joey’s wound, Vampira!” he yelled after her. She either didn’t hear him or chose to ignore him.
A big brown house sat up on a hill directly to the left of where Shep stood. The house was the only one visible from Joey’s back yard. Shep squinted up at it. It wasn’t quite as large as the Duvaine home, but it was set high and probably had an extraordinary view of the nearby ocean. And of the Duvaine’s back deck. Shep looked over at the grill, estimating the direction in which the bullet had come. He looked back up at the neighboring house. The bullet had come from that direction. Whoever fired that shot, if they were still there, would be expecting police. They would not be expecting Shep.
* * * *
After a ten-minute trek through a wooded back trail, Shep stood at the edge of a rusty backyard gate surrounding an overgrown garden. The place was still, yet he thought he heard music echoing from somewhere inside. Shep placed his hand on his pistol. If the shooter was lucky, the gun would be the only killing tool he’d use. If they pissed him off, well, there were more creative ways to administer punishment, though he wasn’t privy to wasting his energy on such matters.
He proceeded into the garden, tearing his way through the dead scrub. As he got closer to the house, the music got louder. Shep pushed open the back door and found himself in a simple yet outrageously orderly kitchen. Cups and canisters were lined up with precision along the counters. The place was dark and lifeless. An American flag hung from one of the windowpanes like a shade. With the gun out in front of him, Shep moved carefully into an adjoining room where a glass cabinet displayed shotguns, rifles, and hunting knives, all polished to perfection. On the wall opposite the weapons cabinet hung a mounted moose head, its dead eyes keeping watch on the guns. Next to that was a banner with gold lettering that read, VETERANS OF WAR.
“Great,” Shep whispered. “It’s the fucking Deer Hunter.”
Music traveled down from a carpeted stairwell that Shep found off the next room. He crept up the stairs with his back to the wall, accidentally knocking down a rack of military medals. “Shit!” he muttered. The music was extremely loud, so he doubted the occupant heard the medals fall.
With the gun in front of him, Shep turned the corner into a narrow hallway. The man was so still Shep didn’t even notice him at first. He was seated in front of a window in a small room at the end of the hallway. His back was to Shep as he looked out. On the floor to the man’s left was the boom box responsible for the music. Shep moved slowly down the hall toward the room where the stranger sat looking out at the world. His black hair was streaked with gray, long enough to brush his shoulders. Shep would have thought it was a woman if not for the hairy arm that hung over one side of the chair. A grayish blue tattoo decorated the man’s lower arm, along with a jagged scar across the elbow.
Shep entered, moving closer so he could see over the man’s head to the window, which looked directly out at the back yard of the Duvaine residence. Shep could see the deck, the field of crops, and the follower’s campsites.
The volume of the music dropped. Shep looked down and saw that the man’s thumb was on the button. He went still as death as the room fell silent. Holding the gun steady, he pointed it at the back of the stranger’s head, then took a silent step backward. He didn’t want to get blood
and brains all over himself. He was wearing new jeans.
“Are you that much of a pussy that you’d shoot a man in the back?”
Shep flinched. “Turn around then. Let me see your face.”
The man didn’t budge. Shep hated dealing with military men. Many of them had lost their minds and their souls on some grassy battlefield or dusty desert. Men without souls were very difficult to scare. It was distressing. “I said turn around, or I will indeed shoot you in the back.”
The man still didn’t budge. Shep wasn’t about to walk around to face him. He might be holding a gun in his lap. He decided to make one last attempt at deescalating the situation with words. “You must be quite a hero judging from all those medals I saw. It would be a shame after all that bravery and valor to be shot in the back by a pussy like me. Don’t you think?”
“That would be a damn shame, wouldn’t it?” The man swiveled his chair around to face Shep. His face was tanned with leathery lines around the eyes. He was not as old as Shep had assumed. He didn’t look more than fifty, but they were fifty hard years. His upper body was well muscled, with strong legs under desert print camouflage pants. His eyes were cold and dark with the sharpness of life experience. There was humor in those eyes too, but it was a contemptuous humor.
A green bandana swept his hair off his forehead, and a black tee shirt clung to his well-developed chest. White chest hairs stuck out of the top of the shirt near his neck. He grinned, and Shep took a step back. Damn it. He hated when they weren’t scared.
“Did you take a shot at my friend?” Shep demanded. “Did you fire a bullet into a crowd of people, you fucking psycho?”
“Son, do you see a gun in my hands?”
“No but I see a damned arsenal downstairs. I’m going to ask you again. Did you fire a gun at my friend?”
“No sir, I did not.”
With the weapon still pointed, Shep took a step closer to the window and glanced out. “Someone fired a shot from this direction. I come over here, and I find you sitting at your window with a direct view of the patio where the bullet made contact. You’ve got a house full of guns and a bad attitude. Would you say that’s a big coincidence?”
The man shrugged. “I just came up here a few minutes ago. I didn’t fire a weapon, and I didn’t see anyone else fire one. When I sat down, all I saw was those Moonies of yours walking through the field.”
Shep lowered the gun slowly, deciding he wasn’t in the mood to clean up a messy corpse. “This better not happen again. If it does, I’m coming after you.” Shep turned and walked out of the room into the hallway.
“Maybe one of those Moonies tried to kill him. Did you ever think of that?” the man called after him.
Shep stopped and turned around. “They are not Moonies, you fucking cracker jack. And those people worship Joey. None of them want him dead.”
“The rabbits know when there is a snake hiding among them. He can camouflage himself in the tall grass, hidden from their innocent eyes. But they can still sense him there. They can smell him.”
“Yeah, blah blah blah. You’ve been warned, soldier.” Shep trotted back down the stairs and headed out the back door. He tore through the scrubby dead garden to the rusty gate. As he shut the gate behind him, he heard the volume on the stereo in the house crank up again.
Shep cursed as he made his way back through the woods. He should have killed the bastard. Now he’d have to keep Joey inside during the day. What was he thinking? Oh well. He could always kill him later. He shouldn’t have to deal with these distractions. This was supposed to be Obrien’s job. Obrien’s little rebellion was becoming less and less cute as the days went by. Shep had had enough. It was time to get Obrien out here so he could start doing his job.
Shep decided he would have to turn the heat up a little. He’d seen to it that Patrick lost his job, and his girlfriend, but that hadn’t seemed to faze him. Shep would just have to find something that did faze him.
He was fuming when he got back to the house. Having focused all his anger on Obrien, he went for the phone. He was done coddling the man. He’d been doing that for ten years, and it was about enough.
Allisto followed him into the library but said nothing. Allisto followed Shep around a lot, like a toddler, wanting to be with Shep all the time. He sat down on the floor and watched Shep pick up his phone. He got Obrien’s voicemail and seethed while he listened to the message. ‘Hi, this is Patrick. I can’t get to the phone right now. Please leave a message, and I’ll call you right back.’
Shep let his rage spew into the phone. “Obrien, you bone-headed piece of shit! I think I’ve been more than patient with you, you self-righteous moron. Do you know what I’m offering you? I’m offering you freedom. You think you’re making a choice by staying put? Well let me tell you something. You’re choosing death, because your boring life is a type of death. You’ve got nothing without me. How have you been sleeping, Obrien? I certainly hope your dreams have been pleasant. Make the choice, Patrick. Stop the pain. Or it will only get worse.”
Shep hung up and felt better. Obrien’s voicemail was a far better listener than Obrien himself. Allisto shifted positions on the floor and Shep jumped, having forgotten that he was in the room. “Well,” Allisto said, twirling a lock of his black hair. “That’ll get him out here for sure.”
Shep grinned. “Sarcasm, Allisto? Did you learn that in the city?”
“No Shepherd. I learned that from you.”
Shep sat down on the floor with him. He took Allisto’s face gently in his hands. “Allisto, I want to ask you something, and I want you to tell me the truth.”
“Of course.”
“Do you blame me? Do you blame me for all that has befallen us? I need to know how you feel. I need to know how all of you feel.”
Allisto reciprocated by reaching out and touching Shep’s face. “We follow you willingly as we always have, as we always will.” He pressed their foreheads together, driving his thoughts into Shep’s mind to prove his sincerity. “You ask if we blame you? Only to blame you for saving us, for tending us, and for keeping every promise you’ve ever made to us. Your hand did not trap us, Shepherd. Your hand freed us.”
Shep nodded as he blinked back tears. “Thank you, Allisto,” he whispered. “Thank you.”
A throat cleared at the doorway and they both looked up to see Joey standing there. “If you two are done making out, I need someone to go to the store for me. We’re out of rum.”
“Feeling better Joey?” Shep asked as he stood, pulling Allisto to his feet.
“Yeah. Just fucking peachy. I love getting shot. Rum?”
“I’ll send Russell.”
“Fine.” Joey left the room.
Shep looked back at Allisto, who hung his head sadly. “What is it, Allisto?”
“It is nothing. Nothing.”
“Allisto, if you have something to say...”
“I am worried about next week’s mission. I miss Klee. I worry that…”
Shep pointed at him. “Don’t say it. Don’t.”
Allisto cast his eyes down. “I am sorry.”
“We will get Klee out, Allisto. No one gets left behind. I keep my promises, you said so yourself. We will get Klee out! Understand?”
“Ylchnec hlaf bis, Zirub.”
Shep smiled. “We’re supposed to be speaking English, Allisto. Remember?”
Allisto shrugged.
“I’m going to let it go just this once. And incidentally, I love you too.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
For the second time in twenty-four hours, Patrick and Robin knocked on the door of the tiny house behind the church. They’d not succeeded in interrogating young Copie the night before. Robin tried to clean Copie’s burns, but the process brought out the pain and he screamed. Father Carbone, clearly not a physician, decided to remedy the problem by giving Copie codeine he’d had in his medicine cabinet from an old knee injury. Contrary to Patrick’s objections, Carbone administered the drug
s to the suffering boy with a chaser of whiskey. Copie passed out cold, leaving the three of them to stare at the unconscious youth and wonder what his involvement in this madness was.
They’d stopped for breakfast on the way over and discovered, much to Patrick’s dismay, that all of his credit cards had been cancelled. Neither he nor Robin voiced what they were thinking—that Shep was responsible somehow. It was far too early for paranoia.
Copie himself answered the door when they arrived, looking well-rested in black pants and a black sweater that presumably belonged to Father Carbone. “Come on in. The priest is making tea,” he said.
Patrick wondered if Father Carbone had a giant crate somewhere filled with nothing but tea. The man pulled the damned tea pot out for everything. Attempted murder? Tea. Terrorist conspiracies? Tea. Armageddon? Tea. Copie whistled as he made his way back to the kitchen table. His facial wounds had been cleaned, and his arms were wrapped in gauze bandages. “You must have gotten out of that lab just in time,” Patrick said, examining Copie’s face.
Copie huffed. “You have no idea.”
Father Carbone entered the kitchen and put the tea set down on the table. His pajamas from the previous night had been replaced with a traditional black shirt and white priest’s collar. Copie looked Father Carbone up and down. “Well. I guess you really are a priest.”
Father Carbone laughed. Copie grabbed a cinnamon roll from the plate of pastries. “You look better than you did last night,” Robin said to Copie.
Copie nodded. “Yeah, well, nobody’s trying to kill me today. That tends to take it out of you.”
Patrick smiled. The kid was certainly high spirited. He did look better. The color had returned to his face. “How old are you, Copie?” Patrick asked.
“I’m nineteen. How old are you?”
“Twenty-eight. Where do you go to school?”
“Is this an interrogation?” Copie said as he chewed his cinnamon bun.
Patrick’s smile dropped. “Perhaps you haven’t been made aware of the gravity of the situation we’re in here,” Patrick said. “This is serious, kid.”
