Gavin English Thrillers

by Ken Lindsey

  He opened his eyes and inhaled until his lungs were satisfied. As he exhaled, he noticed that the air tasted sweeter than it ever had before.

  “Let no man say when he is tempted, I am tempted of God… for God cannot be tempted with evil,” he chuckled as he started the Toyota’s engine. “I’m the shepherd and she’s the wolf.”

  Still, It remained silent.

  Chapter 10: The Snitch and the Empty Tomb

  David wasn’t happy when I refused to meet him at The Rail, our oft-patronized drink hole which just happened to also be a strip club. Once I offered to buy him a steak at Alfred’s, his favorite restaurant, he changed his tune. A little.

  “After dinner, we go get lap-dances,” he said, hanging up the phone without giving me a chance to respond.

  I guessed he would let it go, after a generous layer of peer pressure and a belly full of beef. I stuck the cellphone back in my pocket and lit a cigarette, hoping for some sort of revelation.

  Kara had a point. There are a lot of people out there who are desperate to have control. Not just over their own lives, but over the lives of others. My best guess put good ol’ Pastor Ford a smidge beyond the realm of a standard control freak. Maybe way beyond.

  Still, I’ve never been a snitch. Not as a kid, when I knew other kids were stealing candy or cheating on a test, and not even as a cop, when I watched one of my “brothers in blue” steal half an ounce of weed from a John they busted on Second Street.

  This was different, though.

  There might have been a part of me rooting for Ford to tattle on Beverly Anderson. She was a married woman, cheating on her husband, and that struck a little too close to home. No matter what else I feel about the aftermath of my wife cheating on me, I’ve never felt bad for extracting a little bit of justice from her boyfriend’s face. He’d bled, she’d cried, and I felt a little bit better.

  But the pastor’s actions since the day he hired me have not been the actions of a snitch, just trying to reveal the ugly truth to a friend. At best, he’s a creepy stalker. At worst, he’s an unhinged psycho, with a motivation that might only make sense to him. Most stalkers stop engaging in the shitty behavior on their own.

  Some of them escalate.

  Pastor Ford’s freak out in my office this morning was an escalation. He’s not in control of the situation, and he’s not handling it well. He might run to the Andersons’ home and tell Clark that his wife is cheating, even though I told him otherwise. He might do something worse.

  One of my favorite actors, from back when I was a kid, had been murdered by a stalker. In his home.

  There are worse things to be than a snitch.

  I drilled the butt of my cigarette out in the ashtray and typed the Andersons’ home address into my GPS. I still had no idea what I would say, but I had to say something.

  I locked up the office and walked out of the building, into the fading afternoon sunlight. It was a beautiful day, and the most terrible shit always happens on beautiful days.******

  When Pastor Timothy Ford returned to the church, he was grateful there were no bible studies or youth group meetings scheduled for the day. He had a bounce in his step as he made his way through the sanctuary. He whistled a tune with no rhythm and opened the trap door on the pulpit. With a grin, he climbed down into the church’s dank, seldom-used basement.

  Timothy ignored the stink of mildew and clicked on the ancient lamp, which only illuminated a single corner. There were no windows, the church had been built long before the city had building codes and violation fines. The walls, floors, and ceiling were made up of mottled and crumbling concrete, and there was a mural on the wall, across from the ladder. It was faded, half the colors that might have been bright and cheerful back in the fifties were now the same dull gray as the rest of the basement.

  Ford loved the old image. He fell in love with it the first time he found himself in the basement, back when he was a layman who wanted nothing more than to lead the church someday.

  He started to think of a girl he knew back then, but brushed the thought away before she could become solid in his mind.

  He stared at the oversized picture, imagining what it might have been like to be there when they rolled that huge stone away from the crypt (Christ is risen!). The figures painted on the wall were all but lost to time, but the gaping hole in the side of the mountain remained.

  Vast. Black. Empty.

  It was like him. He’d known it the first time he saw it. Just as he knew, several years ago, that this had to be the place for number seven. The holy number deserved a holy place.

  They found the tomb unoccupied when they went searching for the body of Christ. This time, they’d be expecting an empty basement, but discover a different sort of miracle.

  Instead of dust and cobwebs, they’d find two bodies whose souls were headed for Salvation. Finally.

  Chapter 11: Gym Shorts and Silence

  Awkward.

  Well, awkward might be an understatement when describing the interaction I had with the Andersons.

  It started with Clark answering the door wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, which was not what I’d been hoping for, and devolved from there.

  He seemed way too comfortable in that towel. He laughed and invited me inside, where Mrs. Anderson was baking cookies in a shirt four sizes too large and the tiniest pink gym shorts I’d ever seen. I couldn’t help but remember the last time I’d seen her: on all fours, calling a burly mechanic a little bitch for not spanking her hard enough.

  They were way too open about the entire situation as we sat there, on their sofa, with the edge of Clark’s shaved balls hanging just past his towel. Beverly called me a “bull” and told me I might be the most handsome one she’d ever met. Mr. Anderson agreed and said that he hoped we would be able to meet again.

  Once I let them know I was there about something serious, and that no, I wasn’t Kirk from Craigslist, the mood quickly changed. As did my opinion of Mrs. Anderson, who wasn’t just another cheating spouse. Instead, she wound up being an adventurous partner who acted with the blessing, and even encouragement, of her husband.

  I found it sort of beautiful to see them work together to get me in the sack. I hated to ruin it, but knew I had to.

  It turns out that although they both knew Pastor Ford, neither of them was close to him. He led Sunday services, which Clark almost never missed, and Beverly usually skipped to make time for her extracurricular activities, but that was the extent of their interaction with the man. They liked to set up Mrs. Anderson’s meetings on Sundays because it felt, as they put it, “especially taboo.”

  As soon as I told them Ford had sent me to follow her, they were understandably upset. Firstly, because it’s pretty fucked up to pay an investigator to follow someone you barely know. Secondly, because they really enjoyed the people at Lakeview Church of God, and it wasn’t likely that the nice Christian folks there were going to be very accepting of the Andersons’ lifestyle.

  I think it helped when I told them that I’d lied to Pastor Ford about Beverly’s agenda that day, but I can’t be sure how much. I left their house feeling worse about the world, and my part in it, than I had in quite some time.

  After that, I drove downtown to meet with David so he could tell me if there was anything interesting in Ford’s records. Afterwards, I planned to stuff my face with medium-rare heaven and a loaded baked potato. And maybe some Johnnie Walker.

  It wasn’t rush hour yet, so the roads were mostly clear and I arrived at my destination without committing vehicular homicide. I rewarded myself with a glass of Blue Label at the bar while I waited for Reeves to show up.

  Sitting there, staring at my drink on the faux-wood grain of the bar, I couldn’t stop thinking about the Andersons. They seemed happy. Less so, after I told them they had a weird, religious stalker, but happy nonetheless. I couldn’t quite understand how that was, with my monogamy-centered, Anglo-Saxon shame-driven moral compass.

  For me,
it had always been simple. If you’re married, you get to have sex with one person. Forever. It’s a blessing and a curse, but if you want a happy marriage, it’s the only way.

  Or so I thought.

  The Andersons, for as uncomfortable as they might make me, were obviously close. They weren’t cheating on each other, or betraying their relationship; they were exploring and adventuring. And they were doing it together.

  I don’t think it’s the kind of thing I’d ever be able to do, but I feel like I learned something important from them. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what that lesson might be, and just as I decided another drink might clear things up, David arrived. Soon after, a young lady with dark purple hair led us to our table, with a smile and a dangerous set of curves.

  “Would you boys like a drink to get started?” she asked. Her eyes were outlined in black, a stark contrast to her fair skin and the light, pinkish freckles spattered across her nose and cheeks.

  “Sure,” David replied with a smirk. “Two Blue Labels, neat. Please.”

  The waitress licked her lips, which were only a shade darker than her freckles, and just as curvaceous as her body. She wrote in her notepad, ignoring my ogling, and then winked, sticking the pad in her back pocket. “I’ll be right back with that.”

  “Gavin, seriously,” David said as she walked away. “Close your mouth.”

  I did as I was told. Maybe being around the Andersons had revved my engines a little more than I’d expected.

  “You need to get laid.”

  “No, I’m just… I had a drink before you got here so I’m a little loose.”

  “Right, sure,” he replied, still wearing that shit-eating grin. “We’re definitely going to The Rail after this. You need it.”

  I shook my head and looked around the restaurant. It was old-fashioned, but obviously by choice. There were candles stuffed into wax-covered wine bottles on every table, and old Italian travel posters on the walls. “No, really, I can’t. I’m trying to do things right with Kara.”

  “So, the other night…”

  “I screwed up. I like her, David.”

  His smirk lost a bit of its strength, but he nodded and leaned back into the dark red vinyl seat, “Say no more. I’ll stop tempting you with strippers and booze. You know, the fun stuff.”

  I laughed and did my best to keep my eyes on the table as the waitress returned with our drinks. David thanked her and I nodded, staring down at the glass she’d set before me. She stood there for a moment in silence, and then walked away a bit quicker than the last time.

  “You pissed her off.”

  I looked back up to him and shook my head again, “No way. One less horny guy flirting with her has to be a good thing.”

  He held up his glass, and the light reflected off the golden liquid inside, “To one less horny guy.”

  “To one less horny guy,” I touched his tumbler with mine, the glass tinkled lightly, and we both emptied our drinks.

  “Your priest is clean,” David said, yanking me out of a pleasantly warm whiskey-blanket.

  I stared at him, trying to puzzle out what the hell he was talking about for a solid thirty seconds.

  “You know, the priest you asked me to run a background check on?”

  “Oh, Jesus. You have to tell people when you’re throwing them ass-first into a conversation they don’t know they’re having.”

  David shrugged and waved for the waitress to come back our way. “I figured I better get it out there before we’re both too sloshed to remember the point of this fine dinner.”

  “He didn’t have anything?”

  “He was a person of interest on a thing from like ten years back. A pregnant woman went missing and there were some rumors about them having an affair.”

  “Did she turn back up?”

  The waitress arrived with her notebook in hand and sat next to David in the booth, “You boys ready for some food to soak up those drinks?”

  “We’re going to need two New York strips,” David answered, tipsy enough to do some flirting on his own now, “medium rare with some loaded baked potatoes on the side. And two more Johnnies, please.”

  She scribbled in her pad and stood, smiling at David and ignoring me completely. Which, I suppose I had earned.

  “I’ll put your order in, and I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

  This time, David was the one who watched her walk away with his mouth wide open. I laughed and he caught himself, then looked at me with his trademark grin. “She might be a witch. I’m definitely under her spell.”

  “What happened with the girl?” I asked, trying to bring us back to the topic.

  “I don’t know, I haven’t even asked for her number yet.”

  “David, get your head out of your ass. I’m talking about the missing girl you were just telling me about.”

  “Oh, right.” David sighed and gave his head a little shake, “She never turned up, but her husband killed himself. Kind of a dead giveaway.” He quirked an eyebrow, proud of his awful pun and begging to have it acknowledged.

  I shook my head in disgust.

  That’s the department, for you. If there’s any chance to tie an easy ribbon on a case, they’re gonna jump at it. “So, they never looked into the pastor after the husband died?”

  “I didn’t work the case, Gavin. I have no idea.”

  Damn it.******

  Everything was nearly ready.

  Pastor Timothy Ford stood in the basement of the church, his every breath echoing off the aging concrete. It had taken all night, but now the vinyl horse trough was in place, beneath the mural. There were unlit candles spread throughout the rectangular room, waiting to be lit for one final sacrifice. And most importantly, Timothy had his Father’s Bible.

  It had been two full days since he’d heard the Voice, and Timothy was surprised to realize he missed it. He was proud of the work he’d done, and excited to finish his mission after suffering for so long, but the silence felt different this time than it had any other time in his life.

  It had left plenty of times. Usually, the quiet came after Timothy got in trouble with his father. After his father died, the Voice stayed away for almost an entire year. Still, Ford had known that It would be back, eventually. More recently, the silence only came after a cleansing, but it never lasted as long as Timothy hoped.

  Now, though, he thought that maybe It had gone for good. He’d always expected to be relieved if that happened; instead, he felt more isolated than ever before.

  “I won’t be alone for long,” he exclaimed to the empty basement. “Soon, I’ll be in the mansion the Lord hath prepared for me!”

  The sound of his voice ringing, hollow and weak through the cavernous room, sent a chill through the pastor that raised goosebumps all along his neck and down his arms. He did his best to ignore it as he climbed the ladder back up to the sanctuary.

  Chapter 12: Memory Lane

  I left David at the restaurant as soon as I was done with my New York strip. He didn’t mind; our waitress asked him to hang out until her shift ended. And just like that, the wingman becomes the third wheel. Luckily, before she brought us another round, I’d been able to pry the missing woman’s name from his booze-dampened memory.

  Jasmine Tucker. It wasn’t much to go on, but the internet is a powerful thing.

  After a twenty-dollar fee and a five-dollar tip, which I didn’t mind paying because David scooped up the dinner tab to impress the waitress, my Uber driver dropped me at my apartment. Once there, I pulled up the missing woman’s name on Google, and I was off to the races.

  Jasmine’s husband reported her missing at around two in the morning. Later that day, Frank Tucker went in for questioning and a spokesman for the Police Department told the Reno Gazette that he was a person of interest in the case. They sent him home after at least eight hours of questioning, and he shot himself in the head with a .38 Ruger.

  Case closed.

  With no body and no witnesses to
any foul play, though, no way were they ready to charge Frank with a crime. They would have sat on him and applied lots of pressure, hoping he’d confess or screw up and lead them to a body. Of course, the Department had no reason to tell that to Frank, or the dumbass newspapers.

  The problem on my end was the almost ten-year gap between when Jasmine went missing and now. I couldn’t come up with a solid way to connect Ford to her disappearance after so many years. I couldn’t ask her neighbors, because a decade will paint bullshit on even the clearest memory, and Frank went out of his way to make sure I wasn’t gonna be able to talk to him about it.

  You know, by offing himself.

  I had serious doubts about getting a confession out of Preacher McCrazypants, but it might be worth throwing her name at him. If he’s half as manic as I think he is, poking the bear might be just the thing to get the job done.

  Unless he really didn’t have anything to do with her going missing.

  There’s a good chance I was chasing my own tail on this whole thing, but I liked the Andersons. And, if I’m being honest, I had a feeling that no matter how things shook out in the end, I was scoring some serious points with Kara.

  I didn’t hit the sack until about 6am, but once I did, I went out like a light.******

  Pastor Timothy Ford sat on the corner of his bed and looked around at the room, with its stark white walls now entirely bare. He’d pulled the remaining mirrors down one by one, and delivered them to the church’s basement. He also stripped the linens from his bed and delivered them to the Lakeview Church of God’s donation shed, along with his Grandfather’s lamp.

  There was a time, when Timothy was younger and more foolish, that he imagined handing the lamp down to his own son. Too late for that, now. The pastor had a more important mission, here on Earth. He meant to save souls, in a way that no one else could. Only he knew that some sins left stains too dark for prayers and baptism alone to wash clean.