Pump Fake

by Michael Beck

  "Yes."

  "How can you be so sure?"

  "You remember when I said to her we were investigating the disappearance of a girl back in 1998?"

  "Yeah, so what?"

  "She never once asked me her name."

  CHAPTER 76

  CUPID

  Malcolm Fox pulled over when he saw the ugly yellow Beetle parked outside his house. How had Tanner found him?

  He had been meticulous in his planting of evidence. Bailey's Bible, the bloodied clerical clothing, the scalpels, the souvenirs. Not to mention the actual bodies. All should have led to Bailey and Smith.

  But he had seen Tanner's eyes that day at the church. He would never quit. The son scared him more than the police.

  Most of his sacrifices the police would never even know about anyway. After the Tanners he had grown smart. If the police never found the righteous men they could hardly find any evidence against him, could they? So wherever possible, he had disposed of them. Dismembering the righteous and burying the parts in remote locations had worked well. A head here, an arm there. Where this wasn't possible, he was normally able to obliterate the righteous with fire.

  He was Samael. The Destroyer.

  God's servant.

  The bitches were different. He had spent years setting up first Bailey and then Smith as the fall guys. There was no direct evidence implicating him in any of the bitch's deaths. He had always worn a condom, left no fingerprints and worn overalls underneath Bailey's clothes so he wouldn't leave any hair or fibers behind. He was sure no one had ever seen him and, even if they had, that was the beauty of the clerical collar. No one saw the person. They saw the clothes.

  He laughed when he remembered Father Bailey's appearance after he had killed a bitch. Bailey would drop in for his weekly visit and would always be wearing odd clothes.

  He would ask Bailey innocently, "Where is your clerical clothing, Father?"

  The furtive look of bewilderment and fear that had appeared on Bailey's face was priceless. Even Bailey's addled brain had finally made the connection between the dead bitches and his clothes disappearing. After a while, he'd noticed that Father Bailey had started to keep several spare changes of clothes in his bedroom.

  The irony of Bailey having problems with his clothes didn't escape him. He remembered all the beatings Bailey had inflicted on him for just such things: an untied shoelace, a stain on a sweater, a shirt-tail hanging out. Any infraction no matter how minor was met with the same punishment. The cane and the Sorry-Room.

  Well, who's sorry now, Father? You're pushing up weeds and I'm cutting them. He smiled, pleased with this thought.

  How old was he when Bailey first began his weekly visits? Six? Seven? It was after Mother had first hurt her back, so probably six. Mother wasn't strong enough to go to church so Father Bailey offered to give her the Sacraments at home. Mother said it would be good for him to have a man's influence. He couldn't remember his own father but he was sure he was as much a bastard as his Mother was a bitch.

  Father Bailey, of course, was happy to comply. Father Bailey said he needed watching. All because Bailey caught him that time with the nail gun. He had sneaked it, along with an extension cord, off the back of the pick-up truck from the builders who were putting in a new kitchen for Mother.

  He had climbed the tall pine tree that grew next to the back fence and was having the time of his life with it. He had already hit two dogs and a cat, when he saw Denise Fenway riding on a gleaming, new bike towards him. Denise lived next door. She'd had her sixth birthday party the day before and hadn't invited him. He picked up the nail gun. Just like when he shot the animals, a delicious thrill ran through him, but magnified tenfold. His hands shook with such suppressed excitement he struggled to keep the gun centered on her smug face. He couldn't believe his luck. She was going to ride straight past him. She was ten feet away when he fired. There was no way he could miss her. When he pulled the trigger a wave of pure bliss washed over him. But nothing happened. Denise Fenway rode past him and around the corner.

  He heard a noise. Father Bailey was at the base of the tree, holding the unplugged extension cord in his hand. Father Bailey didn't say a word, only gestured for him to climb down.

  Every week following this Father Bailey would say Mass for Mother and then take him to the Sorry-Room. After hearing his confession, Father Bailey would give him the cane. If he had no sins to confess Father Bailey would give him the cane for lying. After each visit, he had a day in the Sorry-Room for penance.

  It was all that girl's fault. Her and her fucking, new bike.

  But the Sorry-Room hadn't been Father Bailey's idea.

  Mother.

  Mother knew he was bad from the start. He could never put a thing past her, she always seemed to know what he was thinking. Which was why he was always in the fucking Sorry-Room.

  He'd always liked killing things. When he was little he enjoyed pulling the left legs off bugs and watching them go around in circles. Then it was frogs he caught from the pond in the backyard. He would poke their eyes out with a knife and place them in the middle of the barbecue to see which could find their way off. One Christmas he got a BB gun and that was great until Mother came out and found about thirty dead sparrows around her bird-feeder. He lost the BB gun and had two days in the Sorry-Room.

  From then on he was more careful. He hadn't known that killing things was bad until then. After all, they were just things. What did it matter? Did people cry and shout when he cut the grass or trimmed the hedges? Of course not. But he had to keep Mother happy.

  So he worked secretively. One good thing about suburbia, there was no shortage of things to kill. Neighborhood cats and dogs kept him going for a long time. Mother never caught him again but she looked at him with those laser eyes and somehow she just knew.

  "You're bad to the core, Malcolm," she would say to him. "But I won't give up on you. God made you, so there must be some good inside you and it's my job to find it."

  She never did.

  Sometimes, when he was in the Sorry-Room for days, Mother would sit outside and read for hours to him from the Bible. He learned all about the evil and goodness in men's hearts. He realized he might be bad, but the bitches were worse. They were all like Susie Hanlon, laughing behind his back. They needed saving, just like him.

  When he turned eighteen, he had that epiphany at mass and his path opened before his eyes. Mother had taught him his lessons. Someone needed to teach the bitches theirs.

  So he did.

  Afterward, because Mother had taught him so well, he did what he could to save them. Recognition of evil was the first step towards forgiveness. After cutting out their evil, black hearts he put them into the most righteous man he could find. That was their salvation.

  Each heart from a righteous man was a sacred gift, a chance for his redemption. He needed to become part of their goodness. Their goodness needed to become part of him.

  So, with reverence, he ate their hearts.

  CHAPTER 77

  "Where's Decker?" Coach looked completely pissed off.

  I couldn't blame him. It was ten minutes to Decker's comeback game against the Dolphins and he hadn't shown. "I don't know, Coach. Like I told you, Bear was bringing him today. He picked him up okay but I haven't been able to contact him since."

  "If he doesn't show, tell him I don't want to see him again." Coach stormed over to the offensive team's bench and began barking instructions.

  I walked away from the player's bench, searching the stands. The stadium was sold out for this do-or-die game for the Turbos. One hundred thousand people were there to see if the Turbos playoff hopes would stay alive or if they would be ground under the heels of the Dolphins. An overcast morning had cleared to a fine day and the spirits of the Turbos fans had lifted accordingly.

  I spotted Liz, sitting with Jade and Angie and the girls. They were right on the fence at the fifty yard line.

  As I came up to them a Dolphins fan yelled out, "You
're as weak as piss, Rennat!"

  "Is there any danger you'll ever actually play?" shouted another fan. This was embarrassing, not because of what he said but because it came from a fan wearing a Turbos cap.

  "Leave him alone, he's our secret weapon," someone shouted.

  "I heard Custer had one of those too," shouted back the Dolphins comic.

  Angie leaned over the fence. "You're about as popular as a screen door on a submarine, aren't you?"

  "My boyish good looks and charm will win them over yet," I said.

  "Hey, Rennat! What's the difference between you and a hooker?" shouted the Dolphins comic. "You have to pay the hooker to suck!"

  "It might take a little more time," I added.

  Jessica stood up on her seat and stared angrily into the crowd. "He may not have played or done anything, but at least he's not a fat slob!" she shouted.

  The fans around us laughed and clapped. Angie pulled Jessica down beside her. "Jessica, don't talk like that to strangers. He could be a psycho for all we know." Angie's eyes were shining and there was a hidden smile on her lips.

  "Thanks, Jess. I think." I wasn't quite sure if I had just been complemented or insulted by my eight-year-old god-daughter.

  I stepped aside and gestured to Liz.

  "What, Tan?" We hadn't spoken since the charity night and her eyes had a reservation about them as she regarded me.

  "Have you heard from Decker or Bear?"

  "No." Her eyes ran over the players. "Where are they? We've been looking for them."

  "They haven't turned up yet. When was the last time you spoke to either of them?"

  "I spoke to Troy on his cell just as Bear was picking him up." She glanced around anxiously. "Do you think something's happened?"

  "Don't worry. I'm sure they're okay. Remember, it's Bear we're talking about. No one is going to mess with him. But who knows, Broncos-cap may have played some lame-ass stunt to delay them. They'll probably be here soon. Don't say anything to Angie or the kids, but keep trying to reach them on your cell."

  I wandered back to the team and sat down next to Davis and Lamar.

  "Has he turned up?" said Davis.

  "No."

  Davis just rolled his eyes and shook his head. I knew how he felt.

  We didn't get off to an auspicious start. Hawk fumbled the kick return and the Dolphins recovered it on our thirty yard line. Two downs later the Dolphins threw a twenty five yard touchdown pass to open the scoring. Our offence couldn't make any headway against the Dolphins defense and twice had to punt the ball away in the opening quarter. The Dolphins offense was doing everything we weren't: crisp passes, confident catches and massive blocks. By quarter time we trailed 16-0.

  Coach stopped in front of me at quarter time and just stared at me. I shook my head. He nodded curtly and walked away.

  "I'd hate to be in Decker's shoes," said Jeffries. "Coach is going to cut him a new one."

  I glanced across at Liz, who shook her head. Every time I tried Bear's cell it went to voicemail.

  On the third play of the second quarter Hastings was sacked and intercepted and the Dolphins ran it back for another touchdown. They converted and were up 0-23. Hastings' legs were brutally taken out by two defensive ends going in opposite directions and he limped from the field.

  On our next offensive play, Hastings, who had gone back in with an obvious limp, ran a simple sweep to our running back, Davis. Unfortunately, Davis ran left and Hastings turned right. When he turned and found no one there, he ran out of the pocket. The Dolphins middle linebacker launched himself like a missile. Hastings was flung backwards and landed on his head. We lost the ball and the Dolphins ran it back for another touchdown. The Dolphins converted the extra point and we were down 0-30.

  "It's hard to list the number of ways we suck," muttered Jeffries.

  "I'm sure Coach could," I said.

  Coach had been walking up and down in front of me for the past five minutes. Each time he went past I felt his glare on me. I knew I was going to cop a spray any minute. Decker hadn't shown and Bear's cell still went to voicemail. Even from here I could see Liz was looking increasingly worried and Angie had started to whisper urgently in her ear.

  I tried Bear's cell one more time. Voicemail. A pair of shoes appeared in front of my eyes.

  "He's no good," said Coach.

  "I'm sure it's not Decker's fault, Coach. Just wait and see."

  "Not him, you idiot. I mean he's no good." I looked to where he pointed and saw that Hastings was receiving treatment from the team doctor. "He can't even remember his own birthday."

  "Oh, that's too bad. Well, I'm sure his substitute will do all right."

  "You better well hope so," said Coach.

  "I'll keep trying to contact Bear," I hit the speed dial on my cell, again.

  My cell was snatched out of my hand as Coach grabbed my wrist and strapped the quarterback's play list to my forearm.

  "No need to do that, Coach. I'll give it to Decker when I see him," I said.

  "God help me, I hope you play better than you think," he said.

  "Huh?"

  "Don't worry. We'll just run the ball. A trained monkey can do that. You know the playbook, don't you?"

  I looked from Hastings to Coach and shook my head. "Coach, I can't play."

  "Did you sign a contract?"

  "Yeah, and from memory, I'm not getting paid."

  "Better take that up with your manager."

  "I don't have a manager."

  "Bad career move. You should always have a manager. Here, you'll need this."

  I looked at the helmet Coach was holding out. "Coach, you can't be serious. I haven't played a game since high school."

  "Then you should be pretty fresh."

  "What about Colson?" With Decker injured, Terry Colson, a third round pick from Texas, had been the second string quarterback.

  "He sprained his ankle last week, so he's not playing."

  "Well then who's your 46th player?"

  NFL teams had a roster of forty-six active players on game day. Sometimes a third quarterback would be designated as the 46th player.

  "That would be you," said Coach.

  "Me? Why the hell did you designate me?"

  "Because Decker hasn't played in weeks and Colson is injured. We couldn't take the risk and go in to the game with just Hastings and Decker. Why are you so surprised? With Decker injured, you've been the 46th player in all of the games."

  "What?"

  "Why the hell do you think you've been suiting up every week?"

  I shrugged. "I don't know. I thought you wanted me to watch Decker and not have anyone ask questions about me." I desperately searched the player's bench. "You must have someone else."

  "I'll do it," said Jeffries with a grin. "Just show me how to throw."

  Coach raised his eyebrows at me. "See? It's you or nothing."

  "But this is crazy. I'm not really a player. Is this even within the rules?"

  "You're a listed player on our active roster, so you can play. You better move it before we get a delay of game penalty. They're waiting for you." Coach glanced towards the field. Our offensive line was standing in their huddle, waiting.

  "That's time," yelled out the head referee from the sideline.

  "Oh, one little thing," said Coach. "Just sign this medical release, will you?"

  The players, as one, turned and stared at me as I ran on to the field. I heard my name called out by the stadium announcer. There was an embarrassing silence and I could well imagine the looks the Turbos supporters were trading right now.

  No one said anything when I entered the huddle. Everyone was looking at me as if they had attended my funeral last week and were wondering what the hell I was doing still wandering around.

  "Hey, this wasn't my idea," I said.

  Hawk took a couple of steps towards Coach and raised his hands as if to say, What the...!

  Coach turned away and began talking to our defense.
<
br />   "What the fuck is Coach thinking?" Hawk said.

  "We can't do any worse," said Davis. "It's thirty to zip, so what have we got to lose? Call the play, Fingers."

  Fingers?

  "Does he know them?" said Hawk.

  This was a good question. Lucky I had spent the past weeks shadowing Decker as he called the plays for each game. Larkins, the offensive coordinator, gave me the play over the headphones in my helmet and I called it.

  "Delta split, red formation. On four."

  Ordinarily the huddle broke with a unifying, team-lifting "Huh!" This time it was more a wounded sigh.

  I stood over the center, Malone, my hands waiting to receive the ball. The Dolphins defensive ends ran up to the scrimmage line, preparing to sack me. My eyes swiveled around the whole field absorbing, calculating. Like I had told Coach, I hadn't played since high school. But whether you were playing sixteen-year-old boys or twenty-eight-year-old giants, some things remained the same: the players' movements, the angles, the space, the anticipation before the snap of the ball. All of these I had known as well as my way home from school.

  Surprisingly, I didn't feel that nervous. Perhaps that was because everyone expected me to screw up.

  I called the snap, and handed off to Davis who was swamped as soon as he received the ball. The next two plays were more of the same. We punted on the fourth down and the defense went in.

  "This is about as much fun as letting a herd of buffalo run over me," muttered Davis, as he wiped his face when we stood on the side line.

  The defense for a change held the Dolphins and we went back in. Again we ran three hand-off plays. Davis gained five yards but our fullback, Kemp, ran for a loss of seven yards. Again we limped off as the punter went in. The booing of the crowd echoed around the stadium. This might not have been so bad except for the fact it was the Turbos supporters doing the booing.

  There was a momentary lull, and in the silence I heard the Dolphins comic yell, "Hey, Rennat! I take it back. I think you were better when you weren't playing."