Sins of the Fathers

by John Richmond

“STEP AWAY FROM my son, Mr. Finch.”

  Calvin and Horton came up behind Mr. Mason as he stood in the doorway of Jeremy’s room. Mason heard them pound up behind him in the hall and made way, revealing the scene.

  Finch, red faced and wide-eyed, stood next to the bed, the barrel of an enormous nine-millimeter pistol an inch from the boy’s temple. “You gotta’ let me go,” he whimpered at Mason. Tears painted glycerin tracks down his face. “I can’t work for you no more.”

  Mason’s voice was black ice. “We talked about that, Mr. Finch.”

  “I won’t say nothin’ to nobody, Mr. Mason. I fuckin’ swear to God I won’t.”

  Mason smiled. “I know you won’t, Finch.”

  Finch caught sight of Horton and Calvin in the hall, and pressed his gun into Jeremy’s temple. “You toss your fucking piece, Horton. You get rid of that fucker right now or the kid’s gone.”

  Horton flicked a glance at Jeremy who writhed with glee and mouthed Templar, tipping a wink at Calvin. Horton stepped into the room next to Mason. “Listen, Ian.” he put his palms up, “You don’t need to do this, man. We can go it another way.”

  Finch wiped his eyes with his free hand. His lips shook. “You ditch your piece.”

  “Now, Mr. Horton,” Mason said without looking at his man.

  Horton sighed and reached around behind him.

  “Slow! Slow!” Finch shouted.

  Horton nodded and removed a Glock-9, slick and flat black, from the back of his pants. He held it by the barrel and took a step toward Finch, holding the gun out for him to take.

  Finch barked a screamy laugh, “Give me a fuckin’ break, Bruce Lee. Come a step closer and I’ll waste this…,” he glanced at Jeremy, “…this… I’ll fuckin’ kill it. Kick it under the bed.”

  Horton knelt and placed the Glock by the toe of his shoe.

  “The .38 too, you slippery fuck.”

  Horton pulled his pants leg up and pulled a snub nose automatic from an ankle holster. He kicked the guns over the hardwood like a pair of hockey pucks and they clattered under the bed. “Good enough, Ian?” Horton said. “C’mon man, let’s talk.”

  “Tried that already,” Finch choked. His nasal passages were clogged. “I asked the boss all neat n’ clean, didn’t I Mr. Mason?” Finch let loose with another of those shattered laughs. “I even gave ‘im two weeks notice.”

  “Release my son, now.” Mason said.

  Finch cringed at Mason’s voice, faced him. “Or what? You’ll kill me? You’ll fuckin’ kill me anyway. Think I don’ know who I work for? Think I don’ know that?” He squeezed his moist eyes shut, loosing a fresh run of tears down his cheeks. “I don’t know what to do now. Don’t know what to do. I cuh-can’t keep working around here.”

  “You don’t—,” Horton started.

  Finch’s eyes flew open. “I don’t what? What? I tried to quit all fair n’ professional and everything, but this scary motherfucker said he’d off me if I tried to leave.” Finch leveled the gun at Mason.

  Horton pulled an impromptu James Brown, sliding across the waxed floorboards in a wide side-step to block Finch’s aim.

  Mason grinned over Horton’s shoulder. “That’s right, Finch. Release my boy immediately and I’ll make sure you end your employment with relative ease. Or, I can draw out your dismissal for an uncomfortably long time. It’s up to you.”

  Finch’s eyes flicked back and forth between Mason and Horton. The corners of his mouth began to twitch.

  Calvin stepped into the room. “Hello, Finch.”

  There were too many people in the room for Finch’s fragile grip. His small eyes flicked off each man, then back to Calvin. Finch’s tendons tightened on the gun. “Sorry ‘bout all this, Father.”

  “What are you going to do, Mr. Finch?” Calvin asked, making sure not to look at the demon. It hadn’t done anything more than enjoy the ride thus far. He wasn’t about to egg it on to some new horror by making eye contact. Damn thing was likely to set off Finch just for the fun of splattering the kid’s brains on the wall in front of Calvin. He was aware of it watching him, bright eyes floating in his lower peripheral vision like an alligator lurking under the surface.

  “I’m…I’m, ah, I’m not sure what to do, Father.” Finch flicked the gun off Jeremy’s temple. “I could kill him?” he asked as if Calvin might approve the decision.

  “Why would you want to do that?” Calvin said.

  Finch felt a gentle pressure on the gun and looked down. Jeremy had turned his head to one side and was fellating the barrel, tonguing the exit hole. Finch jerked the gun away, his face wrinkling, withering back. He looked at Calvin. “Why?” He looked back at Jeremy who now faced Calvin, expectant. “Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me, Father?”

  “He’s just a boy, Mr. Finch.” Calvin said.

  “He’s my boy,” Mason growled. “This is growing tiresome.”

  Calvin kept his eyes on Finch. “You’re not helping things, Mr. Mason.”

  Mason turned his head so fast his neck cracked. “The fuck you think you are?”

  “Shut up, Mason.” Calvin said. “I’m trying to save your servant.”

  Jeremy giggled.

  “What?” Mason demanded, peering from behind his wall of bodyguard. “What did you just say to me? This is my house and my son, and you work for me. And what’s this servant crap?” He was almost surging out from behind Horton like flood water escaping a damn. “What are you talking about?”

  Servant? Had Calvin said that? “I meant, son,” he said. “I’m trying to save your son and you’re not making my job any easier. Besides,” he added. “you’re in danger here too, sir. It would be wiser if you and Mr. Horton made your exit. I’ll take care of things.”

  “He’s right, sir,” Horton said over his shoulder. “We should go, Mr. Mason.”

  Mason glared at Calvin and then at the back of Horton’s head with such venom that had Horton burst into flame, it would not have been much of a surprise. Not much was anymore. Finch kept looking from Mason to Calvin and back. The gun now visibly shaking with the rest of him. If Calvin didn’t get Finch some breathing room soon he was going to pop.

  Calvin formed the thought, This is beneath you, Mr. Mason, to prime his voice, then said, “I can take care of this for you, sir. It’s not the kind of thing you should worry about.”

  Mason squinted at Calvin and then shoved Horton away from him. “You disgust me,” he said and stormed out of the room, but not before throwing a look at Jeremy as if the whole situation were his fault. His footsteps and voice faded down the hall. “You all fucking disgust me.”

  “Go with him, Horton,” Calvin said. “Smooth it over.”

  “Gone,” Horton said and moved after his boss.

  Calvin faced Finch. “Better?”

  Finch seemed less frantic but the light still quivered off the barrel of the gun. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “I can’t get outta’ here.”

  Calvin took a step forward, stopped. “Yes, you can.”

  “You don’t know Mason, Padre. He’s totally out of his mind, sick.” Finch lowered his voice. “Evil maybe.”

  Jeremy raised a mangy eyebrow.

  “I do know, Mr. Finch.” Calvin sighed and looked at the floor. “I’m not suggesting that you can make it out of this alive.” He looked up, held Finch’s puffy eyes with his own. “But you already knew that.”

  “What’re you…?”

  “You knew what Mason would do if you told him you wanted to quit. You’ve worked for him long enough to know what he’s capable of. You knew where this was headed when you walked through his office door.”

  “What’re you sayin’, Padre?”

  “You can get out of this on your own steam. Mason’ll take his time with you if you let him.” Calvin nodded toward the gun. “Spare yourself that, Finch.”

  Finch looked at the gun, squeezing it in his sq
uishy fingers. “You talkin’ cappin’ myself, Father? Suicides is supposed to go to hell, though, right?”

  “That why you set up this whole scene, isn’t it?” Calvin waved a hand around the room. “You’re afraid of going to hell for taking your own life, so you thought you could maybe goad Mason into doing it for you. Except you didn’t think it all the way through, did you? Just thought he’d have Horton do you and that’d be that, right?”

  Finch was mute, listening to truths he’d not been consciously aware of a minute ago. The Father was right. He’d been wanting to check out ever since they found Sinclair, ever since the demon had kissed him.

  “Suicides go to hell, though. I ain’t been to church in a long time, father, but I remember that much.”

  Calvin shook his head. “If you got a ticket for hell, Mr. Finch, you bought it a long time ago. This isn’t gonna’ make any difference one way or another.”

  Finch flushed and jammed the gun into Jeremy’s face. “I could take this, this thing with me.”

  The boy moaned, delighted.

  “No, Finch.”

  He turned his face to Calvin, pleading. “Why not? This thing deserves a bullet as much as anyone.”

  “That’s what it wants,” Calvin said. “Don’t help it anymore than you already have.”

  Finch backed away from the bed, shaking his head back and forth. The sound of the big man’s fleshy neck rubbing against his starched shirt collar was stark. He backed into the bedside chair and sunk into it, staring at the gun in his lap. “I don’t think I can, Father.”

  The demon tracked Calvin as he moved across the room and squatted down next to Finch. Calvin put a hand on Finch’s shoulder. It heaved with automatic sobs. Heat and body odor radiated through Finch’s suit. “Pray with me a minute, Mr. Finch.”

  The demon snorted.

  Calvin flung a look at it, and squeezed Finch’s shoulder. “Ignore it. Just pray with me.”

  “I don’t remember any prayers, Father.”

  “Just listen then,” Calvin said and began to mumble under his breath. After a minute he nodded. “Amen,” he said, and held out his hand. “Give me your gun, Finch.”

  Finch, eyes still squeezed shut in prayer, gave over the pistol. Calvin stood and moved around behind Finch, shoving the gun in his hip pocket. He could feel the heat and sweat from the grip through the fabric. Calvin leaned in and reached across Finch’s chest from behind, placing his right hand on Finch’s left shoulder. Finch touched the priest’s arm, accepting the one-armed hug. Calvin brought his mouth close to Finch’s ear and caressed his jaw with the flat of his left hand.

  “Absolvo,” he whispered and yanked both of his arms back with explosive force, shearing Finch’s spinal column just below the medulla oblongata. Finch pitched forward in the chair, dead before his great bulk even hit the floor. His weight settled and released a rattle of air from his lungs.

  “Beautiful, Templar,” Jeremy croaked. “You make us proud.”

  Calvin straightened and wiped his palms on his shirt front. He looked at the boy strapped to the bed, a monster wearing a child like an elaborate Halloween get-up. If he could just love Jeremy enough… That’s what Neary had said. If Calvin could love the child enough he could save him. Foulness poured into the air as the Demon voided its bowels into the bed linens.

  “Pack your bags,” Calvin said. “Cork’s going back on the bottle.” He stepped over Finch’s corpse and walked out of the room.