Monsters Among Us

by Monica Rodden

  She tried to remember how Ken Itoh looked: a Japanese man, tall and thin, with short black hair that was graying at the temples. His clothes were always neat and pressed but just a little too big for him. He had kind eyes and a voice, like Pechman’s, that you wanted to listen to.

  “Thanks for meeting me here.” Pechman. “Got something here later so it works out.” A pause. “For the funeral. You can imagine. Lots to do.”

  “Yes.”

  Another creak of leather. A pause that felt awkward even to her. “Oh, come on.” Pechman again. “You asked for the meeting. I’m here. Talk away. I’m listening.”

  Ken said nothing.

  “Don’t be like that.” Pechman sounded like he was reprimanding a child. “I agreed to meet with you. I didn’t have to. I wanted to.”

  “Wanted to.” She heard Ken’s exhale. It was loud and made her strangely jealous. She thought when she got out of here she’d do everything as loudly as humanly possible. “I doubt you wanted to, John, though I am glad you consented to meet with me. My fear for this meeting—and I do think this fear is valid—”

  “Fear?” There was a laugh in Pechman’s voice. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. Surely you’re not afraid of me.”

  “No,” Ken said. “I’m not.”

  Another pause, then he continued.

  “I’m not afraid of you, John. I’m afraid that my absence is not having the intended effect. I thought, on the whole, that it would…change things somehow. You know why I left. You know my complaints. But from what I’ve heard, nothing has changed since my departure.”

  When Pechman spoke, his voice held a smile.

  “Intended effect…You know, I’ve missed your way of speaking, Ken. There’s a poetry in it—and by that, I mean it’s pleasant to listen to but the meaning is often lost.” A creak of leather again. Was he leaning forward? “Look, I’ll be blunt here. Not because I’m trying to be harsh, but because that’s just the way I talk. You leaving…I’ll admit, I was surprised. It was overdramatic. I hoped you’d realize that, and of course I would have taken you back on. But for you to think your leaving would do something…for your little tantrum—no, let me finish here—to change First Faith in some way is arrogant in the extreme, Ken. You did not build this church. I did. It was here before you and will be here after your departure, as you call it.”

  Catherine barely felt any pain now. Her whole body was tense, listening.

  “You think my concerns aren’t valid.”

  “No.”

  A short, biting laugh from Ken. “You’re kidding.”

  “No.”

  She heard a hard shift of a chair. The round wooden one. Ken, moving it forward? “You know why I left so abruptly, John? I wasn’t being overdramatic. It was not a tantrum. It was because I could no longer stay in a church—in an administrative position—with such abuses going on. And these were not small abuses, John. There are serious problems going on inside your church, as you call it—”

  “Yes, this is my church. I call it my church because I built it nearly three decades ago when you were barely a child.” Pechman’s voice sounded icy. “Is it perfect? No. But you were always sensitive, Ken. Little things set you off. A perfectionism I thought distinctly un-Christian. As though you were trying to be God.”

  “We are all called to be Christlike.”

  “Do not lecture me. I went to seminary too.”

  Her heart vanished from her chest.

  “But this isn’t about theology,” Ken countered. “Who has more degrees or who is more holy. It’s about what is right and what is wrong. You’ve handled things badly, John. That’s why I wanted to meet with you today. I heard of Amy Porter’s death. It alarmed me, of course. But what alarmed me almost as much was that you were taking a lead role in the funeral arrangements.”

  “This…alarmed you?”

  “Yes.”

  “That the pastor of a community was helping after the tragic death of a young girl?”

  “You’re not helping, John. Let’s be honest here. True.”

  “And what is true to you?”

  “I’m not sure yet. That’s why I’m here. I want to make sure more abuses aren’t occurring before my family and I move out of town. We just closed on a house. We’ll be gone very soon. I need to know what I’m leaving behind. Whatever you may think, this church is important to me. I have to know if I need to take more steps, if they are required—”

  “More steps? Involving Evan Porter, perhaps? I hardly think now is the time to bother him with such things.”

  Inside the cabinet, Catherine could feel the sweat drying under her clothes in a thin film.

  “John—”

  “And as First Faith has broken no laws,” Pechman continued, a bite in his voice, “involving a lawyer seems a little ridiculous.”

  “I’d say the church has bent some laws considerably. Granted, I am not a legal expert, though Evan has provided me with some resources. I don’t know if the church as a whole would be liable—”

  “Liable?” Pechman laughed, but there was no humor in it, only a thinly concealed rage. “Liable for what?”

  “For what churches are so often liable for.” Ken’s voice was cool. “Financial fraud. The mishandling of church funds—”

  “That again!”

  “Yes, that again. Why do you think I scheduled this meeting? I heard about your involvement with the Porter girl’s funeral. You wasted no time, gathering the congregation the day her body was found.”

  “And that upset you.” Deadpan. Impatient.

  “How much have you collected, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “I do, actually.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you are no longer affiliated with this church,” Pechman said, his tone dry and businesslike. “And therefore have no right to know its financial dealings.”

  “I imagine you’re still in the red.”

  “Not as much now, as we don’t have to pay your salary.”

  “An unforeseen bonus.”

  “Two birds,” Pechman quipped.

  There was another silence, somehow denser than before. It was Ken who broke it.

  “In November,” he said quietly, “you spoke to me about our goals. Same as every year: in the red January through October, then in the black by Christmas. Christmas, of course, because that’s the service during which we tell the congregation, Praise God for his bounty. We have surpassed our goals for the year. God is good!”

  “He is good.”

  “True enough. But First Faith didn’t meet its goals this year. You knew that and so did I. We knew in November. Over eleven thousand dollars short. There was no possible way we’d be in the black by Christmas. And still you told me to go about business as usual. We’d perform the Christmas service, we’d say the church had reached its goals. That we had reached those goals. You asked me, point-blank, to lie to the congregation. I refused. Not least because, from my understanding, we were not supposed to be that much in the red.” A terse silence. “You have a very nice office, John.”

  She heard Pechman sigh. “We’ve discussed this at length, Ken. I’m not going to change my mind and neither are you. We are at an impasse. I don’t know why you are here.”

  “I am also concerned,” Ken said, as though Pechman hadn’t spoken, “about your actions against justice.”

  “I’ve no idea what that even means.”

  “You interfered. You used your position to smother a police investigation.”

  “Frankly, I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

  Another silence.

  “You know my wife,” Ken said finally. “Danielle.”

  “Of course.”

  “She approached you some time ago with a sermon idea. Godly masculinity. You refused.”r />
  “I thought it a strange message, but perhaps that was just her explanation of it.”

  “And you would not allow me to preach on the subject either.”

  “I doubted it would come across any less strange in your hands.”

  “You know what was also strange? I’ve always had the feeling—Danielle, too—that you never much liked her.”

  “That is strange. We may have had our differences, Ken, but Danielle has never been a part of it.”

  “Is it because she works outside of the home?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Or is it because she’s a psychiatrist?”

  “Even more ridiculous. We offer counseling right here, at First Faith. I myself have counseled many of my congregation—”

  “Danielle has counseled many people too. I think you know of one of them. A young girl. A teenager. She said she was attacked by a member of this church.”

  Catherine tried hard not to move. Attacked. The possibilities inside those eight letters prowled like lions across her mind.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Pechman said. “That hardly seems like a church matter.”

  “Yes, I agree these things should be handled by the police.” A pause. “And she did go to the police.”

  “Well, then I’m not sure—”

  “Nothing happened,” Ken said flatly. “They didn’t pursue the matter.”

  “Unfortunate. Though not uncommon with these cases, as I’ve heard.”

  “What did you say to them?” Ken asked softly. “What did you tell the police so they’d sweep it under the rug?”

  “That is a ridiculous and baseless accusation,” Pechman snapped.

  “That’s just it, though—it’s not. You’ve gone through this before, with James. Smoothed over—no, let me finish. The girl came to Danielle after the attack. At first Danielle believed it was because the girl knew she was a psychiatrist, wanted to schedule an appointment, but the girl wanted to talk to me as well. She knew of the boy’s connection here. She wanted to see if something could be done. I believe her concern was for other possible victims in the congregation, if the problem was not addressed.”

  “She could have come to me—”

  “No,” Ken said. “I don’t think she felt comfortable with that option. For obvious reasons. She told me the whole story, what happened to her and how little the police had done in response. I went to the police station myself. I spoke to the officers on the case, not expecting much, knowing they could hardly tell me any details. Perhaps I merely wanted an assurance that they had done all they could, or an explanation as to why they were unable to do more. I also wanted to ask what options we had as a church in this situation, with no official restraining order. I felt very lost, I will admit, and going to the police did not improve things. You see, there was something in their silence and apologies that told me a great deal. That’s when I knew, though perhaps I had known it all along. The discomfort in their faces. The guilt. They wouldn’t meet my eyes. And that’s how I knew who was putting the pressure on them. Because this has happened before, when someone is valuable to you. And of course, with James—”

  “Enough.”

  A scrape of the chair. Was Pechman standing?

  “This is what I’m talking about. Sensitivity. If First Faith were in your hands—and don’t pretend that wasn’t an aspiration of yours, you talked about it enough times—you’d do exactly this. Waste time with trivial matters. You have always lacked a big-picture focus, I’m sorry to say, and that is something you need in order to lead a church.”

  “Lead a church? Lead a church? He has shown you what is good! And what does He require of you? To seek justice, to love mercy—A girl has been attacked, John. Another killed.”

  “And you think the church is responsible for that?” A laugh in Pechman’s voice. “That I am responsible for that?”

  “I do not think you a deviant or a murderer, John.”

  “Well, isn’t that a relief.”

  “But I think you ignore things. I think you dismiss problems. I think you are content to see everything as fine to ensure that the congregation believes that as well. I think your focus is not on Christ but on the church. On making the church be exactly the way you want it to be, not how God wants it to be. That is why I’m here. I wanted one more meeting with you. I wanted to tell you all my thoughts before I left town with my family. Whatever you might think, I love this church and its people. I don’t want to see it fail.”

  “It won’t.”

  A pause. “I think you and I have very different views of what failure is, John. One girl has been devastated and another is dead. I want things to change.”

  “The dead can’t be raised back to life, Ken.”

  “But is that not the very foundation of our faith? So we do not grieve like the rest of mankind, who has no hope?” Ken exhaled loudly. “I have hope for this church, and for you. I do not grieve, leaving it. But I worry, John, I worry.”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  A dense silence. It seemed to press itself into the cabinet with her, against her skull, her brain oddly frozen inside it.

  Then she heard a scrape against the carpet. Footsteps. The door opened and closed. Pechman was silent. Then, after a minute or two, he began typing on the computer. Inside the cabinet, Catherine began, very quietly, to shake.

  She had a nightmare vision that the cabinet would be her coffin. It started as soon as Pechman began typing, as soon as she realized he wasn’t leaving.

  He couldn’t stay in the office all day, could he? Surely he’d have to leave, get food, go to the bathroom? She only needed a minute. Half of one. Ten seconds. She’d be out and running—though a part of her knew her legs might not hold her.

  Her fingers moved over her phone, the lock screen. She typed in the passcode, hovered over Henry’s name in her call history.

  Forget the books, the shelf. They could do that later, or never. Make him think it was a prank. He probably wouldn’t notice for a while and anyway, who cared? He wasn’t the killer, was he? Just a pastor who funneled money away from the church and into very expensive cabinets—coffins—and made sure crimes—attacks—weren’t prosecuted.

  She texted Henry, her hands shaking and slick, and waited.

  No response. The phone was still dark.

  I can’t. I can’t do it. Not another minute. I’ll die. I’ll scream.

  She pictured herself covered in sweat and tears, crying as she shouldered her way out of the cabinet, causing Pechman to leap from his chair, confused at first and then furious. Her parents would be called. How would she explain? There was no story on earth that would make any kind of sense.

  A knock on the door.

  “Come in,” Pechman said.

  She heard the door open. “Sorry to bother you, sir.”

  “Henry? What on earth are you doing here?”

  Catherine pressed her ear to the cabinet door. One movement, and it would open. But Henry was here. Henry would help, Henry would get her out. She’d never been so grateful to hear his voice.

  “I’m sorry,” Henry said again. “I was just out for a jog and saw a group outside the reception hall. Teenagers, I think. They had spray cans—”

  “Not again,” Pechman said. “We just had to repaint over the summer.”

  “School breaks,” Henry said. She could picture his easy smile. “I guess they get restless. Anyway, I saw your car in the parking lot so I thought I’d see if you could help. Not sure they’d listen to me. Looks like there were maybe seven or eight of them.”

  “Well, you did the right thing.” She heard the creak of leather. Was he standing? Leaving?

  go go go go go go GO

  Her thoughts weren’t words but sounds.

  Footsteps passed her. The door
closed. She heard them in the hallway, then she didn’t. The silence had a denseness. A safety. She could

  get out get out out out OUT

  stay another minute, maybe two, just to make sure. He might have left his coat, a key, and then he’d be back, opening the door and

  She fell out of the cabinet.

  Not a pushing exit, but a collapse to the left, her shoulder hitting the door and the top half of her body thudding onto the carpet, the bottom edge of the cabinet cutting into her ribs, her legs twisting inside, struggling to get around the divider. Her phone fell out and landed near her elbow.

  She gasped and squinted, her face turning to the overhead light even as her eyes streamed with tears. Her entire body was shaking. After a moment, she used her arms to pull herself all the way free, her palms burning against the carpet, all her muscles screaming around her bones. The tops of her legs were out, then her knees, her feet. She should get up, she knew that, but she lay flat on her back, feeling every vertebra of her spine stretch and separate. She raised her arms above her head. Her hands hit the desk. She rolled onto her stomach, then slowly got to her knees, her feet. She rose up, stretching her arms over her head, her head bent back so much that tears rolled to her ears and down the nape of her neck.

  She had done it. She was out.

  The door opened. Andrew stood in the doorway. He took her in, his eyes moving up and down her body, stopping at her face. He looked horrified.

  “I did it,” she found herself saying. Her voice was so hoarse it didn’t sound like hers at all. Didn’t even sound human. She bent down slowly and picked up her phone. Her fingers barely worked.

  “Come on,” he finally said.

  Her legs buckled underneath her when she tried to take a step, but Andrew reached for her at once, just like he had done in the dorms that night, and this time, she let him lead her away, hobbling instead of running, with sweat coating her skin instead of blood.

  * * *

  —

  When they got to the maintenance closet, she lay down again, waiting for the feeling to come back to her legs. Andrew was talking. She tried to focus on his words, but the room had a cold floor she could feel against the thin line of skin between her leggings and shirt, right along her lower back. She lifted her shirt more and pressed her hips down, almost crying with relief, her eyes fluttering closed. She could fall asleep right here, she really could, with that whirring noise of some motor or other in the background and the dimness of the room.