Decatur

by Patricia Lynch

  “And who would this woman be?” Agent Tooley asked, leaning in to make sure he heard right, as the crepuscular light deepened more sharply, defining the shadows. His instincts were flaring; the same instincts that he was convinced had kept him alive during his tour of duty in ‘Nam. Father Weston looked at Max, who nodded.

  “There’s a very special parishioner at St. Patrick’s,” Father Weston said. “It’s taken us until tonight to piece it together but we think he’s seducing her so he can take her soul…”

  Max interrupted, “It’s part of his psychosis. He’s made friends with her and soon he’ll close in on her.” Father W gave Max a look; so that’s how they were going to play it, psychosis. Nothing about animphages for the FBI.

  “We came here to warn her,” Father Weston said. “She works as a waitress at the Surrey. I’ve relied on Max’s expertise to help me understand but the late Monsignor also had his suspicions. He experienced a massive stroke or I’m sure he would have talked about them.”

  “What makes her so special to Gar?” Tooley asked. He could feel how keyed up the other men were. Sometimes things had a spook on them. He had seen things in the jungle that were difficult to explain.

  “He’s developed a pretty detailed personal mythology as far as I can tell. She’s susceptible to suggestion, hypnosis, and beautiful to boot. He thinks he has met her before in past lives and I think he believes her soul alone will satisfy his quest,” Max said.

  Father W saw how fragile their story was as Max manipulated it for the agent. He began to wonder what really was real.

  “So where is she?” asked Agent Tooley, feeling somehow like he was back in the mists of the Mekong Delta again even though he was on Church Street in little Decatur, Illinois. Something was telling him to believe the priest and the professor.

  “We just missed her. We were on our way to her house,” said Max.

  “I think the focus should be on finding and bringing Gar in for questioning. Currently your enemy may not know you suspect him. You might tip your hand if you show up there now,” Agent Tooley said, the old creep coming up his spine. “Why don’t we find a pay phone, call her, think of a way to find out if he’s there or been there and then get her to come into base,” Tooley advised, thinking about how they would get rookies who had gone off-roading high or crazy back to safety. “What’s the target’s name?”

  “Marilyn. Her name is Marilyn,” said Max, wanting to bolt back to Weston’s car and just take off to her duplex, but the agent did have a point about the advantage of Gar not knowing they were on to him and Tooley didn’t look like he would tolerate any deviations to his plan.

  Rowley had climbed up in bed with Marilyn and was shaking after Father Troy had left. Marilyn was stroking him, whispering that it was okay but Rowley didn’t think so. He could smell Gar in the apartment, his faint noxious odor seemed like it was coming up through the floors even. The phone rang in the kitchen. “What now?” said Marilyn as she threw off the covers and padded in her robe to answer it.

  Gar was napping in Harry the Pill’s bed when he dimly heard the telephone ring in Marilyn’s apartment and her footsteps going to get it. He didn’t want to wake up because now when he slept, he slept the heavy sleep of the exhausted- just another reminder of the strain on his vitality. So he rolled over annoyed but didn’t rouse because after a day like today he needed his beauty rest.

  Marilyn put the receiver of the phone to her ear, standing in her bare feet on the cold linoleum floor of her kitchen. She hadn’t bothered to turn on the overhead, light from the street seeped through the faded white kitchen curtains with the daisy borders enough so she could see. There was a faint rasp on the line. In a nanosecond Marilyn’s sense flashed on high alert, she knew that rasp. There was a long pause. Marilyn held her breath, trying to make herself disappear.

  “You were sneaky horrid child and now you’re a sneaky awful woman,” the voice came through the line as her memory threatened to explode.

  This wasn’t happening.

  “It’s time to return what you stole. I only let you get away with it because I always knew I’d get it back”

  “Who are you?” Marilyn heard herself whisper, her mouth dry.

  “Don’t play games. Bring it back to me; it’s your only hope.”

  Feeling the room dip and spin for a terrifying second, Marilyn dropped the black handset and then slammed it onto the cradle cutting the connection. It couldn’t be; she had to be dreaming.

  They found a payphone booth outside of Stuart’s Dairy Mart; the two cars pulled up close together in the parking lot. After a little conversation it was decided that Max would make the call to Marilyn.

  The glass door closed behind Max and he put the quarter in the payphone as he held the black receiver attached to the industrial strength metal cord to his ear. The two phone books were missing where they should have been hanging from beneath the metal counter but it didn’t matter, he knew Marilyn’s number by heart. As the number dialed, he thought about what he would say, remembering that in both of the past life regressions Gar had held a powerful sway over the novice monk and the Shaker sister. He decided to go at it sideways and ask Marilyn to come in and meet him tomorrow in the Map Room and then see if she had been in contact with Gar. The phone gave the peculiar little pulsing drill indicating the line was busy. He held on for a split second, processing the busy signal; it was the last thing he expected. Max felt a mixture of frustration and relief, she wouldn’t be talking on the phone if Gar was there, he was pretty sure of that. He put the receiver down and the dime dropped down into the slot at the bottom and he pawed it out, shaking his head he stepped out of the booth. Both Weston and Tooley flashed their headlights at him, nearly blinding him. But in their flash he saw how a group of crows were now clustered on a dead squirrel, cawing and pecking, ripping it apart in the corner of the now closed dairy mart.

  “That was short. Is he there?” called out Father Weston through his rolled down window to his friend. Max shook his head in the negative, feeling edgy with the crows feasting on their kill. “Line’s busy. I don’t see her talking on the phone if he’s there.” Max said.

  “Well, that’s a blessing at least. Maybe we got lucky and Father Troy found him after all and he’s back at the rectory,” said Weston. The three of them looked at each other then.

  “Let’s go,” said Agent Tooley from his car, and he honked his horn at the crows, wishing he hadn’t been so easy on Gar the first time. It wasn’t as simple as separating out those that had been to the shithole and those that hadn’t if he was honest with himself. ‘Nam had been a scary hallucinatory time where for every reluctant hero that pulled a grunt to safety there were the dead zone ones that took the ears of Charlie for souveniers or fragged officers for fun. He sounded his horn again and the crows cawed harder, backing up around the fuzzy grey corpse as if to say, “the hell with you”.

  They pulled the two cars into the driveway off Eldorado Street and sprinted towards the rectory. It was quiet and dark with only the outside light on. The tall spires of St. Patrick’s towered above the parish house. Father Weston pulled his house key out of the leather key folder he carried and opened the door, calling out in the most casual voice he could manage, “Mark, it’s me. Gar there?”

  They found Father Troy sitting at the kitchen table with his head in hands. A broken glass casserole was in pieces on the floor, with Mrs. Napoli’s good rigatoni in gooey over-browned chunks and stuck to the pieces. Father Troy looked up when Father W entered, his eyes full of frustration and something else, something Father W didn’t recognize in his fellow priest, it was an angry intense hatred directed at all three of them, like Father Troy had been turned into a poisonous snake.

  “I tried to make supper for Gar in case he comes home,” Father Troy said in a shaking voice full of blame. “But he’s running from the FBI now, and your suspicions. The damn thing cracked. I guess I had it on too high,” he gestured to the mess on the kitchen floor imply
ing that ‘this is all your fault’. “Met your friend tonight too, Father W, nice ass, if you like that sort of thing.” Father Troy didn’t care that two red spots came up into Frank Weston’s cheeks. It served him right standing there with the FBI agent and the professor that Bishop Quincy had warned him about. Well, Bishop Quincy was going to get an earful come morning, Father Troy would see to that.

  “You saw Marilyn? Where?” Max asked, going over and shutting off the oven. It was hot in the kitchen and the oven was turned to high. Father Troy just looked at him.

  “Answer the man, Father,” commanded Agent Tooley.

  “I went to her apartment looking for Gar,” Father Troy said in a sulky voice. He wanted them out of here. What if Gar came home now?

  “Why don’t you help me pick this mess up, Father Troy,” asked Father W in a kind way like he wasn’t aware of how much Father Troy hated him at this moment. He held a broom and dustpan.

  Father Troy got up from his chair and crouched on the floor picking up pieces of the broken glass and chunks of rigatoni with his hands if only to avoid the nosy ancient religions professor. Father W had pulled the beige plastic garbage pail out and was sweeping bits of pasta and tomato off the floor.

  “Had he been there?” persisted Max. The younger priest was infatuated with Gar, that much was clear.

  Mark Troy felt a flush of triumph suddenly, he had information they wanted and he wasn’t going to give it to them, the bastards. “How would I know? But if it makes you feel any better I told her, he’s not ready for women, not women like her in any case. Women who sleep with priests, women who are just out there tempting men. Gar’s too fine for that, you understand.” the words spewed out of Father Troy’s mouth in an ugly stream of frustration, not caring who he hurt. It was good to hurt.

  “You need to know that I’m going to pull an arrest warrant on Gar for the manslaughter of Suzanne Cleary,” said Agent Tooley, surprising even himself. He hadn’t thought he been entirely persuaded but now standing in the parish house it was easy to see that Gar was a dangerously seductive psychopath. “I’m gonna need for you to identify the bike left on the shoulder of the road where she was frightened to the point of losing control of her vehicle. It’s your bike, the one Gar rode to Cleary’s this morning, Father Troy, and if you’re honest with yourself you already know it.”

  “Murder? That was an accident! Gar had nothing to do with it,” Father Troy said, pushing his palm down hard on sharply angled piece of broken glass. When he raised it, blood was coming out the center of his palm like stigmata. “The innocent will be protected, Agent,” he said as tears rolled down his face.

  “Mark! What are you doing to yourself?” shouted Father Weston, grabbing a kitchen towel. He pulled on the priest’s hand and wrapped the towel around it as Max ran for the antiseptic in the medicine cabinet. Father Troy felt his invisible shields rising up and closing in on him as they scurried around talking, coaxing him, and then shouting. It didn’t matter. He was safe behind his shields. The stigma was a sign, Gar was innocent and he was going to do nothing whatsoever to help anyone who thought otherwise.

  Father Weston managed to get Father Troy to his bedroom once they had bandaged his hand. He knew it was useless to talk to his fellow priest any more tonight. Max was hanging up the phone when he came back out from saying an Our Father over the nearly catatonic Mark Troy.

  “I woke up the locksmith, Weston. He’s on his way over. We both agree you’re getting these locks changed. The agent’s going to give me a lift back to my apartment,” Max said as Father W rejoined them in the kitchen.

  “What about Marilyn?” Father Weston asked.

  “That’s our job. I’m going to have local police cruiser to swing by every couple of hours in her neighborhood, but I think Marilyn’s alright for tonight at least. Gar’s probably going to lie low somewhere and hope the Suzanne Cleary ‘accident’ blows over.” Agent Tooley said crossing his arms over his chest. He had to get back in control and quick.

  Max bit his lip. “I’ve got a class at noon so you’ll have an early lunch at the Surrey with the agent and fill her in then. Are we clear?” Max asked in a way that said he was brooking no arguments. The change in the peace-loving Father Troy was deeply disturbing to everyone, especially his friend, he could see. Weston’s eyes were blood shot and he was looking longingly at the liquor cabinet even as Max shook his head. The priest nodded, thinking about what he would tell the parish council about Gar and Father Troy, not to mention the Bishop. He would try to be as discreet as possible but changing the locks was a necessary expense.

  Out in the silver government-issued Ford sedan Max sat quietly in the front seat as Agent Tooley drove the car through the plain darkened streets of Decatur.

  “You ever dealt with anything like this before?” asked Agent Tooley finally. The Father Troy he had met when he first interviewed Gar wasn’t anything like the priest in the parish house tonight. It creeped him out.

  “No, I’ve heard of such things. But it’s different up close and personal,” replied Max. He thought about the package Gretchen Wendell had slipped him before she got back in her cab, now locked in his apartment. When he unwrapped it he had found a Browning service revolver from World War II and its chilling provenance. The gun had a history, one that made it valuable on the black market of relics, memorabilia, and artifacts, according to Gretch. She had given it to him with the understanding that he would use it but also not let it fall into the wrong hands.

  “Yeah. It always is, the first time in battle,” said Agent Tooley as the sound track of choppers started up in his head. “Don’t let your guard down,” he said as if reading Max’s mind.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Escape

  Gar got up with the sun the next morning enjoying his new perch directly under Marilyn’s apartment. Taking a long shower he fingered the wound from the knife, it wasn’t too bad and the scrapes were starting their supernaturally quick heal. Good, that was still working for him. He put fresh bandages on and covered up with his tee-shirt. Still the wounds felt different from in years past, they niggled at him, reminding him how time was running out and if he failed… he wouldn’t fail. Still, three hundred and nearly thirty-three years had passed too quickly, and now he was down to it.

  He threw a couple of towels over Harry’s body and made instant coffee from the old man’s supplies while he thought over his options. Suddenly inspired, he dug through the kitchen cupboards looking for items to pack for a picnic. Marilyn was going to have to take the day off, that is all there was to it. Now that he hadn’t gone back to the parish house Father Troy might be camped with Father Weston outside the Surrey looking for one or the both of them.

  Around nine he heard Marilyn and Rowley thunder down the steps and he thumped on the door to the hallway for old time’s sakes. They were gone around twenty minutes and then came back in, moving more quietly up the stairs.

  Rowley stopped at Harry’s door when he and Marilyn came in from the morning sniff and ‘do your business’ walk. Something was there in the dust and fading Pinesol smell, something ugly, bloody, with that faint whiff of Gar. Rowley’s nose twitched. What was it coming from under Harry’s door? Marilyn was pulling him back up the stairs with a shushing gesture. Harry had banged on the door on their way out as usual this morning and she was trying not to have a repeat.

  Rowley watched her as she got dressed to go to work, planting himself in the hallway where he could also keep an eye on the door. Things didn’t feel right. She gave him a cookie and a kiss on his head, with her shampoo and shower smell perfuming over the stink that Gar had left. Telling him to be good, she shut and locked the apartment door. Rowley felt the emptiness of the apartment without her for a moment and then hopped up on the sofa and positioned himself on the pillows where he could sniff the breeze through the open window and watch her walk down North Street in her black waitress uniform. It would be a long vacant stretch now before he would see her again, that was their li
fe together; the days were always lonely except for Saturday afternoons and the glorious all day thing called Sunday. He was about to take a nap because there was nothing else to do when he heard something, it sounded like the front door downstairs being opened but in stealthy sneaky way, the way the squirrels would slink towards the bird feeder Marilyn had in their tiny backyard because the squirrels knew they didn’t want Rowley to see them poaching the seed. His ears pricked up. Harry rarely went out and then only yelling and screaming at the neighbor kids. He watched out the window intently when the man called Gar appeared on the front steps whistling softly and carrying a basket slung from a strap. Then with a quick look over his shoulder he began to run, not like he was scared but with purpose showing on his wide cunning face.

  Gar took a quick look out on the street. Kids were in schools, adults at work; mostly, the coast was clear. He was in a rare mood following his raid on Harry’s apartment. He had managed to put together some saltines and sardines along with an apple and after rooting around found an old fishing basket with a strap. It looked cool, and artistic for a picnic basket. Good. He’d see if the Front Porch was open and get something fun. Marilyn would need to be charmed to skip out on work, thought Gar, as he started running down the street; he would cut over and beat her to the candy and ice cream store on her way to work. There, he decided, was where he would surprise the source and spring his plan for an impromptu picnic at the cemetery. The weather was a little iffy but it would be okay.

  Rowley felt a blast of icy fear smack his heart. Gar, he had been right, there was something that smelled coming from downstairs. Sniffing deeply he detected a thin ribbon of death and beginning rot in the air. Harry was dead, it would be days before the humans would smell him, Rowley realized. Marilyn would hate that but that wasn’t important now. Harry was dead because he had tangled with Gar when the mirror had flown apart last night. And now Gar was running down the street with a basket, what did that mean? Rowley remembered how the doctor with the soapy clean hands once took them to Nelson Park, a place they never went, in his convertible. There was a basket there too, a big one, with lots of food inside. Picnic: where you eat outside, and then lay on blankets. Gar was going after Marilyn with that basket. He was going to hurt her but he was making it look like a picnic. Rowley jumped off the sofa, whining. He barked but it was useless, no one was here to let him out of the apartment. He began to feel panicky. Marilyn needed him and he didn’t think he could live without the scent of her fingers. Gar was a killer. Before he quite knew what he was doing he was over by the window, it was open wide with a rickety screen. Rowley pushed at it with his snout. It gave, pulling away from the white wooden frame of the window. But his body was too far below, he could only place his paws on the sill, he couldn’t figure out how to pull himself up, the window was chest high; he could only push on the screen with his snout. No, he thought. Gar couldn’t take Marilyn away from him. He ran back into the hallway, barking an alarm, looking at the window hard like the puzzle it was to him. Then he knew. He began to run, feeling his animal power in his legs, all the sleep out of him; he was pure motion now, lifting off, leaping towards the open window, and flying, flying out as the screen sailed below him.