by Raen Smith
“Please, don’t even go there,” Delaney replied. “You want to talk about everything that happened that day? Everything that you did to me?”
“Okay, okay. I concede,” I said as the website populated. We definitely didn’t need to have the conversation right now and quite possibly ever. I guess I could admit what I did was a little extreme.
We both watched as the screen displayed red, soaking streaks down the left and right sides of the page. The Vigilante League was sprawled across the top in red, dripping lettering as if it had been splashed with blood. I looked at Delaney, her eyes wide as she took in the screen.
“What the hell is this?” Delaney whispered.
“I don’t know, but we’re going to find out.”
“It looks like it’s a club for all the crazy fanatics of vigilantes,” Delaney said as I scrolled down through the page to take in some of the headlines and pictures.
“It looks like it’s concentrated on fictional characters or something,” I said as more images displayed on the bottom.
“There’s Dexter,” Delaney whispered, pointing to a picture of a man with angel wings bathed in blood. “It’s a TV show about a serial killer. James was really into it, but he stopped watching it after everything that happened with Holston. Too close to home I think.”
“I know the feeling.”
“What does this have to do with Holston?”
“Well, I’m going to take a wild guess that there are some crazies out there who think what he did was justifiable. Fans of Holston Parker,” I said as I typed in Holston Parker in the website’s search box.
“This is sick,” Delaney said as she leaned closer toward the screen. Her belly brushed up against my arm before she moved back a step. “Sorry.”
“It’s all right,” I said, pointing to the screen. “Look, a posting about the year anniversary.” I scrolled down as the images populated while I read on. Holston’s black eyes stared back at me and his fedora rested light on his head. My throat tightened as I studied his face. It was the face I hadn’t seen for more than a year other than in my nightmares. It was a face that I wanted to permanently erase from my memory. I wondered if there was any sort of therapy or magic treatment for that because, if there was, I would be the first one in line. I think Delaney would be second in line right after me.
“He’s dead,” Delaney reminded me. “You killed him. Don’t forget that.”
“I know, it’s just - ”
“I know.” Delaney rested her hand on my shoulder. “I can’t believe that bastard was actually my biological father. It makes me sick every time I think about it. I try not to.”
“I don’t know what’s worse, living with him and actually thinking he is your father for twenty-some years or finding out that he actually is your father despite thinking that someone else has been your father your whole life,” I said. Either way, it was awful.
“It’s a toss-up,” Delaney replied. “But it doesn’t matter. The only father we have ever had or will have is Michael Jones.”
“I’ll take your word on that,” I said as I continued to scroll down further. My finger stopped as I saw the picture of a woman with the same blue eyes as me appear on the screen. Cropped brown hair, a black leather jacket, an expressionless face. Me. It was a picture of me. God, did I really look like that big of a bitch? “Where the hell did they get this picture?”
The caption read, “Daughter, Evie Parker, Murders Own Father. One Kick-Ass Bitch.”
All I could see was red. Rage flushed through my body and threatened to take over when I felt a gentle squeeze on my shoulder.
“Sick bastards,” Delaney said, trying to comfort me. “Ignore it, keep scrolling.”
I forced my hand to move the screen down and the picture disappeared as more text took its place. The author was celebrating the “work” that Holston had done over the course of his lifetime and heralded him as a national hero that deserved accolades.
“Are you reading this?” I whispered as I pointed to the last paragraph. It read, America’s justice system is flawed and corrupt as citizens spend billions of dollars to keep criminals alive in prisons. If only more people existed like Holston Parker, the world would be a better place. A safer place where we could let our children run in our own yards and parks without any fear. Where our women could go out for a jog without any fear of being raped or taken. A world without terror and evil. Thank you Holston Parker for your service. We commend you for your dedication. Vigilante League: HP Chapter will meet at the pub on June 19 at nine p.m. to prepare for the June 20 celebration. HP, RIP.
“Holston Parker, rest in peace. Are you kidding me?” I looked down to see the author of the article. He called himself the White Knight and a picture of a white mask accompanied his byline that read, Crusader, lover of all things deliciously good that fight evil.
“The Pub?” Delaney whispered. “That asshole better not be resting in peace. I hope he’s rotting in hell.”
“Atlas Pub. What time is it?” I asked, hitting the X on the screen and closing the laptop with a quiet thud. I was ready to meet the White Knight. If it was me who he wanted, then I would give him everything he wanted and more. I moved to stand up when I felt the push on my shoulder.
“No way. You’re not going,” Delaney said. “Too dangerous. We’re calling Sanchez.”
I grabbed her arm a little harder than I anticipated and her eyes widened in a flash of fear before they settled.
“Don’t do this. You’ve got to follow the agreement if you ever want to get back to him,” she warned, shaking my hand off her arm.
I let my hand fall to my side and felt the weight of her words. She was right about getting back to Ryan, however Sanchez was going to drag me down. I would be able to slide in and out of the pub without being noticed. That wasn’t the case for Sanchez. People knew who he was; he wouldn’t be able to wear a disguise and blend into the crowd as easily as I could.
“Fine, we’ll call him, but he’s not coming with,” I said.
“Who’s not going where?” Mark appeared behind Delaney as he placed his hands on Delaney’s shoulders.
“I’m headed out to Atlas Pub, and I need someone to go with me,” I said. “And that someone is not Sanchez.”
“There is no Atlas Pub anymore. It’s called Bazil’s now and is under new ownership,” Mark replied.
“I’ll go,” Delaney offered.
“No,” James and I answered at the same time. James appeared beside Mark and soon Hobart followed. Hobart was dressed in a pair of jeans and t-shirt.
I studied his vanishing dark brown hair and his receding hair line that moved back to the middle of his head. I could tell Hobart was the type of man to hold on to everything, not just his wisps of hair - even though he shouldn’t.
“What’s going on?” Hobart asked. His hand stopped digging in the chip bag as he finished chewing the last bit in his mouth.
Sweet watchdog, Sanchez.
“I have a small lead, nothing major, but something worth investigating. And it’s not worth pulling them in for questioning, yet. Delaney, show Hobart the link while I am getting ready,” I said, scanning the faces all staring at me. I reluctantly added, “And I need someone to go with me.”
“Well, let’s call Sanchez to get this cleared,” Hobart said as he slid his hand inside his pocket to retrieve his phone.
“Tell him the event is more important tomorrow night,” I added. “He’ll get it when he sees the website. And tell him to trust me. Delaney and James are staying here. And Hobart, I think you should stay back as well. Make sure nothing happens here. I’ll bring Mark with me,” I said, already moving to the suitcase James dragged in just minutes earlier. “Delaney, what did you bring me?”
“Just a shirt, leggings and a dress. I didn’t have anything else that would fit you,” Delaney replied as she knelt down next to me to dig through the bag. I grabbed the shirt and leggings and held them up with a frown. It wasn’t exactly what I was lookin
g for, but it would be good enough for tonight.
“Mark, you have a hat?” I asked as I made my way through the living room.
“What makes you think I’m going with you? I told you that I didn’t want to be involved at all. There is no way - ” Mark sputtered.
“Deal,” Hobart said into the phone. He pulled the phone from his ear. “As long as you send the website to him and you bring Mark with you. I’m going to need your cellphone number, Mark. I’ll send it to Sanchez. He’s also sending Officer Dotti with you.”
“Who the hell is that?” Mark asked.
“The officer patrolling the subdivision,” Hobart said. “He’ll follow you there. He’ll just be outside Bazil’s.”
“Mark?” James asked.
“I need a hat, Mark,” I called from the hallway. “You’ll need one, too.”
“Fuck,” Mark grumbled.
I smiled when I heard the footsteps behind me.
***
Mark walked beside me down the sidewalk with his Brewers hat pulled down low, the bill just hovering over his eyebrows. My green Packer hat rested right above the eyeglasses and brown contacts I still wore. The blue shirt hung loose and low, just hitting my thighs. It wasn’t my best disguise, but it would suffice in order to get close enough to the “club.”
A goddamn Vigilante League. It was unfathomable that anyone would spend time idolizing Holston Parker, let alone create a club that several members belonged to. The mere idea revolted me, and I wondered how I would feel when I actually saw the individuals who made up this league. They all needed to get a new hobby; curling, darts, fantasy football, the options were endless. Join a bowling league, for Christ’s sake.
I looked down the rows of parked cars at the meters. For a Thursday night, the bars were relatively full. I spotted a black sedan beneath a street lamp across the street and squinted to see the outline of a driver behind the wheel just a few spots down from Bazil’s. Officer Dotti. I could see him nod his head in the shadows of his car, and I reciprocated before tucking my head down. I needed to stay on good terms with Sanchez, whether I liked it or not. He was my ticket out of here.
“How pissed are you?” I asked. I wrapped my arms tighter across my chest as I felt the night air filter through the loose cotton of my shirt.
“As long as I get a few free beers and get back to my bed tonight, I think I’ll get over it,” Mark replied.
“I think we can manage that.”
“You’re drama, you know that? Just everything about you is trouble,” Mark said as he pulled the door to Bazil’s open. “But somehow, I find myself wrapped up in it. I guess I just can’t seem to stay away from you.”
“What does that say about you?” I asked behind the hat as I ducked into the old Atlas Pub. The old Mark that I knew was back. I couldn’t help falling into the playful banter that we were so good at. It was easy with Mark. I felt lighter and smoother when he was around, and I didn’t mind the distraction from the thought that Sister Josephine was tied up somewhere, simply waiting out her time before the exchange could happen.
“Not a whole lot,” Mark replied with a laugh as he followed me inside the chatter and music of the bar.
The inside of the building was vaguely similar; the old brick wall was still a staple of the bar. However the decor had changed and any traces of Holston Parker had been removed from the building. A fresh coat of paint and new bartenders had added to the transformation.
I clenched my fists as I set my eyes on the woman behind the counter; a blonde with cherry red lipstick. I dug my fingernails in deeper, and hoped like hell the vision of Ethan behind the bar would go away. Otherwise, I’d have blood dripping down my wrists. Coming back to Appleton, and now the old Atlas Pub, was harder than I had anticipated.
Mark nudged me from behind and pointed to a set of free stools to the right. I nodded and followed him to the spot where he ordered us two Millers. Delaney had told me that it was a strict rule that everyone in the Jones family drank Miller beer. No one could cross Michael Jones, especially now that he was a brew master.
When I saw the blond with the cherry red lipstick coming back to deliver our beers, I purposely looked the other way. It stung too much thinking about Ethan. Mark handed me the bottle and raised it in the air. I reluctantly met his with a clink before he took a long pull. The last time I had a beer was with Ryan. Damn it, now I was thinking about Ryan and our last night in Norway together. I was a complete wreck.
Focus, Evie. Sister Josephine.
“What are you looking for?” Mark asked as he eyed the TV blaring behind the bar. The sports commentator’s voice echoed between us as he recapped the Brewer’s last loss.
“A group. I’m guessing mostly men, maybe a woman, but I highly doubt it,” I replied. “People that look like they would belong to a crazy club dedicated to vigilantes.”
“So what does that look like? Because I sure the hell didn’t pick out Holston to be a serial killer.” Mark leaned in just enough for the guy sitting next to me not to hear. His smooth voice tickled my ear and his newly applied cologne assaulted my nostrils.
“You and the rest of the general population,” I replied as I turned away from him.
I scanned the bar and looked for clusters of people, but nothing piqued my interest yet. There was the fifty-something group of women in the corner with too much make-up, all drunk and falling all over each other. Then there was a bald man and a blonde woman, maybe in their thirties, sitting at the bar together. First date, maybe. They were flirting, though they kept a safe enough distance. I moved my eyes beyond the front of the bar to the booths in the middle. A younger group of two girls and a guy dressed in tight skinny jeans and neon tank-tops were in the first booth, probably Leighton students. I looked back at the bar and noted the glowing red numbers. 9:45 p.m. I hoped I hadn’t missed them.
“Where were you for the last year?” Mark asked before he took a swig of beer.
I inhaled deep. No lies.
“Was it China again?” he added with a smirk.
“Norway.” There, that wasn’t so bad.
“Why Norway?”
“A friend was there,” I said as I moved my eyes to the back booths. I really wasn’t in the mood to talk about Ryan with Mark.
“Boyfriend or friend?” Mark asked.
“Why are you asking me this?” I spun to face him. The music pounded in my ears and the clinking of the glasses amplified behind the counter.
“Curious,” he replied with a cocked eyebrow. He took another sip before looking back at the TV.
“I’m not talking about it,” I said as I tried to focus my attention back on the reason we were here. The so-called club had to be somewhere in the bar and sitting here talking about Norway wasn’t getting me any closer to them. I needed to find them before they left; it was already forty-five minutes past their initial meet time.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” I said.
Mark grabbed my hand as I moved to set my beer on the counter. “Probably not a good idea.”
“Well, you’re not coming with me, and I need to find these assholes before the big convention tomorrow. See if I can figure anything out. Give me your phone.” I held out my hand as I waited for Mark to give in. He stared back at me with reluctant eyes, hesitant to let me out of his sight. I sighed and added, “Don’t make me beg.”
“That could be interesting,” Mark said slowly.
“Don’t make me knock you out.”
“And there it is.” Mark grinned before digging his hand into his pocket. “There’s the Evie Parker I’ve been looking for.”
I bowed my head and curtsied before I stared at him and held out my hand again.
“Just promise me you’ll come back. I don’t want to be responsible for anything happening to you. It will be my ass,” Mark replied before handing over his phone. I couldn’t help staring a second too long. The Brewers hat was working for him, it really was, yet I shook him off, reminding myself of the infamous
White Knight that I had my sights set on.
“Yeah, apparently a lot of asses are on the line.” I smiled before I left him sitting there by himself, tucking my head down and weaving through the small scattering of people throughout the bar. I walked slowly, listening to the voices and conversations buzzing throughout the bar.
Yeah, I need a new job.
Tina’s such a bitch.
No, I can’t believe it, either.
The Brewers really suck this year.
Don’t they suck every year?
The idle chatter wasn’t bringing me any closer to Sister Josephine. I bounced through another group of people before I glanced up at the last booth to see four men all leaned in close to each other with beers in front of them. Two of them were twenty-something, wearing sports t-shirts and baseball hats. The third wore glasses and a plaid button down shirt. His hair was combed neatly to the side; older, maybe in his fifties, stretching to sixties. The fourth had jet black hair that was spiked straight up with tattoos running down his neck. They looked completely and utterly normal, all individually, but together, they were completely mismatched.
Jackpot.
I slowed and turned to my right, leaning against the wall only five feet from them as I pulled out Mark’s phone. I slid through the menu with my head ducked low as I pretended to read and scan through the screens. My eyes shot up to see their heads still set on each other, engaged in a conversation that I could barely make out. The pounding music was too loud; I couldn’t hear anything other than Adam Levine’s voice. I hated Adam Levine and his whiny voice and his wimpy bad-boy image.
So I inched closer along the wall until I was just a foot or two away. I waited for a break in the song for the men’s voices to become clearer. Lucky me, it was only a matter of seconds.
“Everything is ready to go. There should be about fifteen of us there,” Neck Tattoos said. “And we shouldn’t have any problem getting in. I just checked this morning. It’s still vacant.”
“We’ll have to break-in, but we shouldn’t have a problem as long as Kevin doesn’t get too loud,” Baseball Cap Number One nudged Baseball Cap Number Two.