by Raen Smith
“Better not get too loud. I don’t want any trouble over this. We have guys coming from Kentucky and California. All members of the League, and I want to make sure that they have a good time,” Neck Tattoos said. “We’re technically hosting this thing.”
“They will.” It was one of the Baseball Caps who answered, but I couldn’t tell which one. They blended together.
“How far is it again?” a small voice asked, barely audible. I didn’t need to look to know that it was the guy with the neatly combed hair. “Just under two hours?”
“Yeah, about that. Just follow your GPS. Siri will tell you the way. The only woman you need to trust,” Neck Tattoos said. The rest of the table erupted in laughter.
“Correction, the only woman in Kevin’s life,” Baseball Cap Number One said.
More laughter. I rolled my eyes; these guys were idiots.
“Hey, did you guys see Braun last night? What a joke.”
“The Brewers suck again this year, maybe next year?”
That was it? They were already moving on to a conversation about the Brewers?
I slipped Mark’s phone into my pocket and walked down the hallway where the pictures of Parker Enterprises’ buildings used to be. They were gone and now replaced with sports memorabilia. There was a picture of Lambeau Field from the Ice Bowl era. I only knew this fact out of obligation. When it came to talking with the executives or really anyone in the Appleton area, you had to know about the Packers and Brewers to blend in. People in Wisconsin had nothing else to talk about. I tried to stay away from everybody as much as possible to avoid these unwieldy conversations.
I shoved the bathroom door open, moved into a stall and once again retrieved Mark’s phone. I pulled up a map of Appleton and estimated a radius of the two hour drive around the city. I traced my finger along the screen, circling as far south as Milwaukee and north of Green Bay to the small, scattering of towns that populated the north woods of Wisconsin. I scanned through the town names until I my eyes stopped on the name of the town I knew I would be going to tomorrow night. The name seared like fire in my eyes. It made perfect sense.
I hung my head down and pulled the cap from my head to trace my finger along the stitched letters that spelled Packers. Sister Josephine had always been a Packer fan, cheering on the NFL team on Sundays during football season after mass. It was what everyone in Wisconsin did. The fall was filled with Packer Sundays that consisted of Cheeseheads celebrating with brats and beers.
I remembered Sister Josephine once pulling her orange cheddar hat from her bag, making the Sunday Bible School kids laugh and cheer. Even the holiest weren’t exempt from Packer-mania. Sister Josephine had once whispered in my ear that she believed God wore a Cheesehead every once in a while. That’s what I loved about her most - not that she was a Packer fan - but the warmth in her voice that made you think you were the only one that mattered. Sister Josephine had a way about her that made the parishioners, especially the children, love her. She always knew what to say and when to say it.
She had once told me that guardian angels, both living and deceased, were everywhere, and that if I was silent enough during the times of distress, that I would hear the gentle urging of my own guardian. A faint whisper she had said, that would tickle my ear and flood my body with reassurance and calmness.
According to Sister Josephine, she had met her own guardian angel when she was young. She was only a small girl when she had been in a “troubled” situation. I never knew what she had meant by that, and she wasn’t willing to give any more details other than that her guardian angel was very much alive. She had said it with a smile and I could have sworn, as I had peered into those honey eyes, that a small twinkle had sparked in her face.
As I sat on the toilet of Bazil’s, I prayed that Sister Josephine’s guardian would find her. I listened, intently, for a faint whisper I was desperate to hear. Instead, I heard two women enter the bathroom, stuttering and swooning over the latest guy that had given them the remotest bit of attention. I closed my eyes as the counting commenced in my head and tousled my hair before smoothing it down. I pulled the cap over my head, flushed the toilet and washed my hands as the stumbling women moved into their own stalls.
I stared back at my reflection; the bloodshot eyes filled with exhaustion pulsed on my face. I needed to clear my head and rest, at least for a few hours. The three to four hours my body craved was knocking on my door. I needed to answer if I ever wanted to strategize the plan for tomorrow night.
I swung the door open and moved into the hallway, the music thumping as I weaved through a small chattering group of women. The fifty-something group had made their way into the narrow corridor. As I maneuvered through, I felt a hit on my shoulder that jolted my body back.
“Excuse me,” I muttered to the man as I readjusted and moved forward, setting my eyes on the bar where I had last left Mark. A sharp pull on my hand spun me around, and I turned to see the glaring eyes of Neck Tattoos.
I yanked my arm back, but he held tighter as his hand squeezed my wrist. Adrenaline shot through my body, and the fight I had lost over the last couple of hours restored itself as I assessed the situation. He couldn’t take me now; there were too many people here, but I didn’t have my knife. How long would it be before Mark would come looking for me?
“You don’t want to do this,” I said, shooting him an icy stare before I moved my eyes deliberately down to my wrist where his hand gripped me even tighter. His hand was definitely leaving an imprint. His fingers suddenly released their hold as if he had been touching something scalding hot. I jerked my arm back and folded my arms across my chest.
“I thought that was you,” he said in disbelief as he shook his head. “I’ll be damned.”
“Excuse me. I don’t know who you think I am,” I mumbled as I turned back to the bar to see the tip of Mark’s Brewer hat still bobbing in the same place as before.
“Evie Parker.” He said my name in awe, with pure, unabridged excitement. I had never heard my name spoken that way before. The sheer shock caused me to spin around to face him once again.
“I mean, wow. It’s really you,” he said, holding up his hands to create a large rectangle. I felt my face being centered in his picture frame. “Your eyes, they’re brown. Your hair, grown out. The glasses. The hat. But I wouldn’t miss that face and your perfect little features. And your body - ” He scanned his eyes down. “I knew you were small, but I never thought you were this small. It’s amazing that - ”
“Listen, asshole,” I seethed as I pushed his hands down. I shoved my finger into his chest; it was the best I could do with my weapon-less situation. “Don’t you look at me that way. Your sick, little twisted mind isn’t going to get away with this.”
“Just as I imagined,” he whispered like I was a mythical creature. He suddenly straightened his body and held out his hand as if there was a formality of introductions that was needed. “I’m sorry for my bad manners. I’m not going to hurt you or anything. Quite the opposite, I’m a huge fan. I’m The White Knight. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
The White Knight. Who introduces themselves with a pseudo name to strangers? So this was him in all his sick glory. He was the head of the HP fanatic chapter: the crazy leading the group and planning the convention to celebrate my dead so-called father. I stood there, but didn’t offer my own hand at first. Instead, I examined the ink that swarmed his neck. An interlocking chained fence ran up both sides of his neck and toward the front, near his Adam’s Apple, was a single white horse. The horse’s head and mane lurched through a broken opening in the fence. The horse was escaping.
“Pretty sweet, isn’t it?” he asked as he ran his finger along the side of his neck. “It’s really a conversation piece for most people. You know, what it means to break out from behind the walls that society imposes on us.”
“I bet,” I said as I nodded my head in forced agreement. I somehow doubted that it was a real conversation piece for anyone. I wasn’t
impressed, at all.
“I’m sorry to catch you off-guard. I really don’t want to scare you off. It’s just that I was so excited to see you. I still can’t believe it. What are the odds?” he said, still staring at me with his hand out. He reached out further toward me, and I finally gave in just so he would put his hand down.
“It’s really you, in the flesh. No one is going to believe this. No one is actually going to believe that I ran into you. Of all nights. It’s as if it’s an omen, don’t you think?” he said as his hand reached up, as if he was about to touch my face. He suddenly pulled it down to his side. I guessed it was the horrific look on my face that changed his mind.
“An omen? I doubt it.” Despite my attempts to deflate his high, his face was still plastered with enthusiasm. What the hell was with this guy?
“Where were you? Are the police after you?” He leaned in as he rapid fired the questions.
“No police. If you’ve been following my story as closely as you say you have been, then you’d know that I don’t have a strong liking for the police and have a way of skirting around them,” I replied without missing a beat.
“Of course you wouldn’t have the police following you. They’d have you arrested by now anyway,” he said, nodding his head. He was clearly trying to sort through the possibility, but then he quickly added, “Not that you would ever get caught.”
“Right,” I replied, trying to pacify him. I usually was an ace at reading people. Hell, I usually could profile people before I talked to them, but the White Knight was throwing me off my game.
“What’s this little club that you run?” I asked.
“Oh, you’ve heard about us?” He leaned up against the wall and ran his hand through the gelled spikes; his hair sprung back to the same exact place it started in. “Man, that’s awesome.”
“I’ve heard about you, a little,” I said, stroking his ego. He was a man, after all.
“I’m fangirling over here, if you haven’t noticed. It’s a little embarrassing,” he confided with a grin before his face fell more serious. He leaned in closer to me. “So the club. You’re asking about the club. The Vigilante League is just a bunch of guys, mostly guys anyway - there are maybe two chics - who are followers of vigilantes, both real and fictional.”
His eyes lit up as he talked about the club and all I could think about was the twisted minds of the individuals who belonged to the club. How sick were these members that found excitement in idolizing people who made violence their repertoire?
“Mostly fictional,” he added, his hands moving wildly now as he leaned closer and closer to me. I could smell the alcohol on his breath. “With the exception of a handful, including your dad. Well, Holston wasn’t exactly your dad, but you get the point.”
“You’re right, not my dad,” I confirmed. “So I read that you head up the HP Chapter. If you are in fact, The White Knight.”
“You follow our league?” he asked, shoving his hands into his pockets like a nervous teenager. The White Knight was nothing I had expected and this conversation, well, not even close.
“Not exactly follow, but a friend stumbled across your posting and it piqued my interest.”
“Wow, that’s awesome. I never thought you would see it. I just had a fascination with the story from the get-go. I’ve lived here in Appleton my whole life, which I’m guessing has something to do with it. It’s a sleeper town with barely any violence that was voted one of the best small towns to raise your kids. Can you believe that? And there’s a vigilante lurking in its streets. You better believe that Holston Parker helped get that best small town rating. He was knocking off the villains single-handedly. The story was just too sensational. Add you in the mix, his daughter who ends up killing him,” he said. His words rushed together so fast that I could barely keep up with him.
“Not his daughter,” I reminded him.
“Right, right. The story is unbelievably classic. He groomed his own ‘daughter’,” he raised his hands in air quotes just to suffice me, “into his liking, except that she wants to end the cycle of killing and all. And he never saw it coming.”
He let out a low whistle.
“Better than a movie, isn’t it?” I asked. I glanced into the bar to check for the tip of Mark’s Brewer hat. I couldn’t risk him coming down here to disturb my chances with The White Knight.
“They couldn’t write this stuff,” he said with a laugh before his face got suddenly serious.
“I know I’m going out on a limb here, but it just seems too good to be true. Me running into you like this. No one is going to believe it. But they would if they saw you.”
“Oh yeah?” I asked with a raise of my eyebrows.
“The rest of the guys left for the night, but we’re having a small get-together tomorrow night. It’s a convention, I guess you could call it, with more members from the Vigilante League. They’re coming from across the US. Fifteen of us, total. I would love it if you would be our guest.”
“A guest?” I asked, eyeing him up. I thought he would never ask.
“Yeah, a guest of honor. Everyone would be thrilled to meet you. I promise you. We’re really a good set of guys just looking to make the world a better place through awareness. We simply like to call attention to the different ways evil can be eliminated in the world. You would fit right in.”
Somehow, I doubted all of that.
“As long as you said you’re not involved with the police or don’t think they know you’re in town,” he said, lowering his voice and raising his hand to his chest. “Your secret is safe with me, by the way. Scout’s honor.”
Scout’s honor. Who the hell was this guy?
“Scout’s honor,” I repeated and put my hand to my own chest. I couldn’t keep track of how many times I’d lied in my life, but I knew that one more wasn’t going to kill me, even if it was Scout’s Honor. Somehow, I think Sister Josephine would have let this lie slide.
“The convention is at nine tomorrow night in Amberg. Where you ended it all,” he said with a smile.
How clever.
“I’ll be there.” I forced myself to return the smile. “I would be honored.”
“Thank you so much. I couldn’t be happier. They are going to love you,” he said.
“Most people don’t,” I replied as I turned to go. Mark would be coming down any second.
“Do you happen to have the clothes that you wore that day?” he asked behind me.
That’s when I finally felt it; the rage I had been bottling up through the entire conversation came rushing through me. He had finally tipped the scales with his last request. I stopped, my back still to him, as my eyes hardened with a condemnation that I couldn’t hide. I couldn’t turn toward him. I knew my fist would be in his face.
“I’ll take that as a no. Sorry I asked,” he said.
But I was already moving down the hall away from him, just about to enter the opening of the bar. I saw Mark coming toward me with his Brewers hat bobbing through the groups of people.
“My name’s Jeremy George, by the way,” he called. “It was nice to meet you."
14
June 19, 10:15 p.m.
Appleton, Wisconsin
“You all right?” Mark slammed his truck door shut. The black sedan on the other side of the street flashed its lights on and turned to follow us onto the street.
I tossed Mark his phone; I had already made the call to Sanchez. He agreed we would regroup in the morning at Mark’s house. In the meantime, his team would investigate the league and its website.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said, pulling the hat off my head and running my fingers through the strands. “Turns out my disguise didn’t work out so well.”
“Who was that?”
“The one and only White Knight. He’s the head of the Holston Parker Chapter of the Vigilante League. Apparently the group is harmless. He claimed that they’re a good group of guys looking to make the world a better place through awareness. His real n
ame is Jeremy George. Can you believe he used the word awareness?”
“Awareness of what?” Mark asked.
“He said they want to call attention to the different ways evil can be eliminated in the world. He told me I would fit right in.” The more I thought about it, the more I realized how insane all these people really were.
“That is wrong on so many levels,” Mark replied. “And by the way. What’s with the name Jeremy George? Something about people having two first names bugs me. I might go by The White Knight, too, if I had a name like that,” Mark joked with a lopsided grin as he pulled onto the main drag of Appleton. His attempt at cutting through the tension fell flat.
I was too preoccupied with the buildings we passed downtown; the bars and shops hadn’t changed since I had last been here. We drove by the Apothecary Shop and a sudden rush of warmth overtook my body. I tried to ignore the memory of Theron lying in the bed with a chest wound from two winters ago. I had kept him in that space above the shop before Holston had found him. It wasn’t like me to have these feelings. Could I call them guilt? Whatever these feelings were, they were starting to get to me. All that mattered was that Theron made it out alive, I reminded myself. I turned my attention back to Mark, his hands holding the wheel loosely.
Focus on Sister Josephine.
“Yeah, two first names is weird,” I said, thinking about what Jeremy George had said about me. That I had been “groomed” according to Holston’s liking.
I was far from groomed, but instead, largely ignored as a child. I had never even had to worry about Holston coming to any of my events after school because I wasn’t allowed to participate in any sport or organization. Girl Scouts hadn’t even been muttered in our house. Not that I would have been a good Brownie anyway. It was me and myself with the occasionally assigned non-English speaker that would check on me. The only exception was church on Sundays when he allowed me to participate in Sister Josephine’s program for abused children, and to that, I say irony is a bitch. I would have reveled in his attention when I had been a little girl, but I now realized, that I was fortunate to not have been groomed. I was lucky that I didn’t have the attention of the sadistic man that I’d grown up with. Blessed, Ann and Michael Jones would say.