Sins of the Fathers

by John Richmond

FRANK MASON EXISTED in a state of perfect patience. He sat at his desk, still clad in the crusted remains of the recently exploded Emma Grouwe and lately concussed Rosario. As he hadn’t taken any nourishment since the episode in the kitchen (where he’d voided his bladder while hammering his house keeper), he was empty, comfortable. It was an expensive office chair. A masterwork of ergonomics and classic style. Only the best for Frank Mason. He stared straight ahead, the waves of stink emanating from his gore-coat warped the air like heat off blacktop. Every now and then his stomach rumbled, but he failed to register its complaints. Had he noticed, Mason might have plunged his brass letter opener into his own belly to silence it. But he was consumed. He was waiting.

  It was a not altogether unpleasant state of being, this place between information and action. It was new, curious. In his adult memory, Frank couldn’t recall a time in which he’d had so little control over a situation. There was nothing for him to do but wait; there were no people, no circumstances, nothing over which he could exert his will except his own body.

  The phone rang. Mason let it ring twice more before extending his arm and wrapping his fingers around the handset. He cleared his throat. “Hello?”

  “It’s Horton, sir.”

  “Mr. Horton,” Mason’s other hand began to flex in and out of a fist. Dried bits of tissue flaked off the back of his hand onto the desk blotter. “Do you have anything new to report?”

  “I’ve had a visit from one of Father Calvin’s friends.”

  “Ah,” Mason said. “Our friend the Bishop.”

  “Bishop? He looked like a regular… He said you gave him my location, sir.”

  “I did.”

  “He said that he could have Jeremy back to you in less than forty-eight hours if I agreed to help him.”

  “Well then,” Mason’s flexing left hand began to throb, burn. He ignored it. “He must have access to information we don’t. I’m glad you came to me earlier, Mr. Horton, when your own resources were at their end. It seems it was the right choice to enlist the Bishop’s aid.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What is it, Horton?”

  “I don’t trust him, Mr. Mason. I don’t feel right about going up against Father Calvin with this guy at my back. They’re on the same team or whatever.”

  “Are you sure you’re not being paranoid, Mr. Horton?” A twist flashed over Mason’s lips. “We’ve all been through a great deal lately. Do you have anything concrete to base your feelings on?”

  “He told me not to tell you where we were going. Said you were a ‘loose cannon’, sir. I didn’t much like hearing that.”

  Mason’s hand froze in mid-flex, the muscles screaming painful gratitude for the respite.

  “Sir?”

  “I’m here, Horton.”

  “Sir, I need some help. I want you to come up here and back me up. If this guy from Our Lady of the Sacred Bazooka is on the level, then fine, we take out Calvin, get Jeremy back and everything’s copacetic. If they’re in this together…”

  “Where are you, Horton?”

  “Right now I’m at the motel I called you from the last time we talked. Father Bob—“

  “Who?”

  “He told me to call him that.”

  “Fine. You can leave it at that. His name doesn’t matter and it would probably keep you safer not to know it for now. Go on.”

  “We’re leaving to find Calvin and your boy in about another three and a half hours, but I don’t know where we’re going and I can’t call you while we’re en route cuz’ he’s gonna be right next to me the whole time.”

  “Then how will I find you?”

  “Sir, you remember the OnStar systems I insisted on installing in all your cars? I’ve got the Lotus—I’m sorry for taking it, sir, but it was the only set of wheels left, and I had to move fast.”

  “Forgiven, of course, Mr. Horton.” An image of the skin burning from Horton’s skull as the Lotus’ back tire shredded it flashed through Mason’s head. “Your priorities, as usual, were correct. Now what about it?”

  Horton explained to Mason how he could obtain the car’s location in real time and gave him the number for the OnStar customer service line. “Ask for Courtney. She’s very helpful. Just tell her it’s that damn ‘wayward teenager’ again and she’ll sort you out. You should rent a car with an in-dash G.P.S map. Something high-end ought to come with that standard. If you get started now, sir, you’ll be able to stay relatively close to our trails. It’s messy, Mr. Mason, I know.”

  “But it’s what we have. You’re a good man, Horton.” Mason paused for effect. “Don’t worry son, I’ll get your back.”

  Mason thumbed the flash button on the handset and Horton beeped out. Mason’s car rental agency was on speed dial. Five minutes later, a cheerful young man—his name was Allen and how could he help you today—ensured Mr. Mason that he would personally deliver the rental car to his front door within the hour. Of course, it was no problem. Frank Mason was a Titanium Level Club Member.

  He had been right to wait. The petals of his rose had already begun to return. He had Horton back under his influence and with the information the bodyguard had provided, Mason now had a situation in which to be active. When he caught up to all of them it would become a situation he could control, and he would control the hell out of it. He could move again. Mason stood up, the joints in his hips and knees crackling as if they were filled with bubble wrap.

  He walked on down the hall.

  Mason paid a visit to the “tool room” hidden in his walk-in cigar humidor. The absence of a handful of his prized Cubans was like a missing tooth in an otherwise perfect brown smile. Mr. Horton had helped himself to more than Mason’s car. Well, perhaps he could have a few of Horton’s fingers wrapped in tobacco leaves to replace the missing stogies.

  Thirty minutes later, Mason stood just inside the open front door waiting for his car. The “tools” he’d selected leaned against the coat rack like deadly umbrellas. He did not move. Even when the flies droned in to explore and feast on his gore-coat, he remained a study in stillness. Until the car arrived, he again found himself in that in-between place. Tires popped over the gravel drive and a gleaming blue BMW 330i purred into the turnaround.

  A tall, bespectacled go-getter in his mid-twenties hopped from the driver’s seat and trotted around toward the front door. He caught sight of Mason’s silhouette and stopped, squinting into the gloom. “Mr. Mason?” The shadow didn’t answer. Allen blinked as the shadow’s head suddenly went blurry for a moment. A distinct buzzing sound floated on the warm afternoon air. “Hello?”

  Mason smiled, the movement of his facial muscles arousing a small cloud of flies around his head. He reached to the side. “Allen? Hiya! Looks like you brought me one heck of a nice ride.”

  “Yes, sir,” Allen swelled. “It sure is.” He turned around and placed his hands on his hips: a man looking over a prize piece of horse flesh. The custom Bimmer was his company’s pride and joy, reserved for special club members like Mr. Mason. The Royal Blue lacquer paint job refracted the sun like a pool of Mediterranean water. Allen’d had that color mixed special. A fat black fly lazed by his face. He waved it away and wrinkled his nose. Oh man, something had died around here. Allen turned, saying, “I think you’re really going to like the way she han—.” Mason was standing six inches away from him. Allen screamed only once before Mason took his breath away.

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