Defenders of the Faith

by Williamson, Chet

  He knew that Paul Blair would accept him. He had seen it in the man's face, heard it in his voice. There was a reaching out there that was as clear and desperate and unmistakable as it was in the people who came to revival meetings, hungry for miracles. Paul Blair had relished the chance to tell what he had done, and, though he had pretended otherwise, Peter could tell that he had practically drooled at the opportunity of sharing his work and his triumphs with someone who felt the same way he did.

  Someone who could inherit his mission.

  Someone who was willing to put his life on the line in order to take the lives of Satan's minions.

  Peter could guess what Paul's proposal would be like, though. He had been so sensitive about the killing that Peter was sure he would say that it had to stop, even if he really didn't believe it. And Peter would nod and agree with him, anything to join him, to learn how to find the sinners, and how to deal with them.

  And when the time was right, the killing could start again.

  Chapter 35

  Thursday afternoon Paul Blair called Peter Hurst at his home and asked to meet him at Rockford Park, a large expanse of woodland south of the city. On such a cold day, Paul thought, there would be few if any people there to see them together.

  They met at the appointed spot, and Peter got into Paul's car. It was warm with the heater running, and the boy unzipped his down jacket and looked at Paul. His face had lost the boyish exuberance of their last meeting, and now appeared grim and determined.

  He told Paul that the police had questioned him and dozens of others who had demonstrated at Northern Buchanan Health Services, but he had told them he was home that night studying, and they couldn't disprove it, because his father was out of town, and his mother was at a church meeting. "Did they contact you at all?" Peter asked.

  Paul shrugged. "Why would they? There's nothing to tie me to the place or the woman."

  Peter smiled slightly. "That's the way to do it, isn't it? That's the kind of thing I'm going to have to learn. Stay out of it. No involvement, no motive."

  "And no killing."

  The boy cocked his head. "What?"

  "That's one of the commandments I haven't paid much attention to. But the prospect of your joining me, working with me, carrying on, made me think that together, we might be able to have the same effect without having to do what I did the other night."

  "Without killing."

  "Yes."

  "Then...you're willing to let me work with you? I can help you?" The boy's face was shining.

  "Yes," Paul said softly. "On the condition," he added more forcefully, "that there's no killing from now on. I've been willing to risk my own life, but I'm not willing to risk yours."

  "Thank you, Paul!" Peter grabbed his hand and shook it eagerly. "You won't be sorry, I promise you. This is great, this is just great!"

  "And you...accept the conditions."

  "Yes, yes, sure, whatever you say. It's an honor. I'm just thankful that God brought the two of us together...in this crusade. It really is a crusade, isn't it? A ministry."

  "I like to think so," Paul said, and found himself smiling at Peter for the first time.

  "I won't let you down. I'll do whatever you say, whatever God has us do. Where do we start?"

  "Most of what I do," said Paul, "is actually pretty dull. It's surveillance. Watching the ones I've sworn to protect, the way I've watched you. Keeping an ear to the ground, listening for rumors, noticing if situations or attitudes change, finding out why. Most of the time it's nothing, but now and then...well, people are seduced. By a lot of things. And then you...stop the seduction. Or maybe..."

  He paused, and Peter finished it for him. "Stop the seducer."

  "Yes. If it comes down to it, we'll find ways to do that."

  "We will. And what you say goes." Peter grinned. "You know, Paul, I think we're going to work miracles together."

  ~ * ~

  They decided that the best way for them to keep in touch was for Peter to take a part-time job at Paul's clothing store. Although the post-Christmas season was the slowest of the year, Paul simply told Todd Ebersole that he had a boy he wanted to help out with some part-time work, and his assistant manager had no choice but to agree.

  So Peter Hurst began working at Blair's for four hours on Monday and Thursday afternoons. During that time, Paul would ask for Peter's help in cleaning out his office, or going through some old files, at which time they would privately discuss different young people in the church. Peter would tell Paul any rumors he might have heard at CCYC meetings, while Paul related anything of concern he might have heard at church or social meetings. When concern warranted, one or the other, depending on who had more time, would observe the young person in question and report to the other. But surveillance proved the few rumors false. There was no necessity for interference or action.

  Still, their talks were productive, and a rapport quickly developed between them. They discussed politics, religion, morality, philosophy, and ethics, as well as whether the Phillies had a chance again the following summer.

  They also discussed firearms.

  Two months after Peter first began working at Blair's, he noticed Paul's trophy, a small bronze pistol shooter on a white, imitation marble base, nearly hidden by framed family photographs. When he mentioned it, Paul told him that it dated from 1995, the last year he shot in the Buchanan Pistol League.

  "You must have been pretty good," Peter said.

  "My team was. Everyone on the winning team got a trophy."

  "Do you still shoot?"

  "Yes. Every couple of weeks."

  "Would you take me along sometime? I've always wanted to try it."

  The request put Paul on his guard. So far, Peter had been prudent and reserved, anything but a zealot ready to kill Commies for Christ. His opinions regarding the children in Paul's book were sound and reasonable. He did not see a child molester behind every affectionate uncle, or an abusive alcoholic behind every parent who bought a case of beer from the local distributor. Paul had no reason to believe that the boy would suddenly turn into Charles Whitman once he had a gun in his hand.

  Still, Paul was uncomfortable. It had been with his .38 revolver that he had dispatched most of those who had harmed his children, and Paul still used it on the range. But nausea overcame him when he thought of that death-dealing weapon in Peter's hands.

  "I don't know," he told Peter. "I, uh, don't think I'll have time for a while. Spring clothes are coming in, and -- "

  "It's all right," Peter said, a sad smile on his face, his eyes seeing the excuse for what it was. "I just thought it was...something we could do together besides hole up in this office."

  It was a perfect touch. In it was the disappointed sound of a little boy denied love by his father, and when Paul heard it, something inside him weakened at the desperation of it, and he knew that in the past few weeks Peter had given him something that he had never had, the interest and devotion of a son. He knew equally well that his situation left an opening the width of his heart for a surrogate child.

  So when Peter Hurst spoke to him with the gentle petulance of a heartbroken son, he responded like a loving father. "Well, maybe," he said. "Maybe we could go out."

  "Great," said Peter, as if unable to believe his good fortune. "When?"

  Paul thought for a moment. "One of the clubs I belong to has an indoor range. What about...tonight?"

  "Tonight's fine. Maybe around eight? That way I could finish a report that's due tomorrow while I scarf some dinner."

  Paul chuckled, then told Peter how to get to the Rose Point Sportsmens Club.

  Back home, Paul ate a light dinner, and chose the pistols he would take that evening. He left the Smith & Wesson .38 revolver in the locked cabinet, and chose a Smith & Wesson K.22 and the Model 52 .38 special autoloader, to give Peter the feel for a semi-automatic. It was a splendid target gun, reliable, accurate, and with an excellent trigger action. He added a hundred rounds for each hand
gun, two pair of ear protectors, and a stack of slow, timed, and rapid fire targets.

  Peter was waiting for him when he arrived a little after eight that evening. No one else was at the club, and he used his key to enter the long, low ceilinged basement room that was the club's indoor range. It was plain and utilitarian, with waist-high benches in front of the shooters' stands, and side baffles separating the stands from one another.

  "Pretty cheery," Peter said.

  "Cheery?" Paul had never thought of the dingy, musty place as cheery.

  "I guess because it's not dark," Peter explained. "In the movies these places are always dark and creepy, with cops banging away and the targets flying in when they're done. You know?"

  "There's a big difference between cops and sportsmen. For one thing, when we want to change our targets, we have to walk out there and do it ourselves." He smiled. "And you won't see Brad Pitt at the next stand. Now, have you ever shot a pistol?"

  Peter said he hadn't, and Paul spent some time explaining the basics of gun safety. Peter listened, and repeated the salient points so that Paul was sure he understood. When Peter finally took a .22 pistol into his hands, he did so gingerly but firmly, an attitude that Paul liked. The boy seemed to respect the gun, but did not fear it.

  They did some dry firing, and Paul was pleased to notice that Peter did not flinch when the hammer fell. Paul corrected his stance and grip, explained how to align the two sights while focusing on the front sight and nestling them under the black center circle of the target, and taught him how to breathe in, then let the breath out half way as you gently squeezed the trigger.

  Peter learned fast, so Paul showed him how to load the revolver, fitting the tiny rounds into the cylinder, closing it, and cocking. Then they put on ear protectors and Paul fired five rounds slow fire. He reloaded, and shot another five. Peter retrieved the target and put up another. Then Paul figured out his score.

  "Not bad for a warmup," he said. "See, that's three 10's, three 9's, two 8's, and two 7's. As long as the paper's torn touching the edge of the higher ring, it counts. You subtract backwards from a possible hundred, so I have -- "

  "An 87," Peter said.

  "I thought you said you'd never shot targets before."

  Peter laughed. "I just add fast."

  "Want to shoot now?"

  Peter shrugged. "Guess so."

  "Go ahead and load it. Now remember, take your time. Officially, you have five minutes to shoot a string of five shots. So rest your arm after each shot. Don't cock the pistol until you're ready to fire again. Then bring it up and lower it to firing position, okay?"

  "I think so. At least nobody else is watching but my coach, right?" Peter finished loading the .22, put on the protectors, cocked the pistol, and held it out in front of him. Paul was pleased to see that, as in the dry firing, the boy didn't flinch when the shot went off.

  He seemed to hold the pistol steady as he completed the string. Paul gestured at him to load and fire another five rounds, and he did. The only visible flaw Paul could see was what he took to be impatience firing the last five, and it showed in the target when Peter brought it back.

  "Your first string was great for a beginner," Paul said. I only saw two out of five in the white. But your second string you got impatient, see? Only one in the black. This is...a 70, and if you would have shot both strings the way you did the first you could have had at least an 80."

  Peter tried another ten shots, concentrated harder, and ended up with an 82. "That's terrific. You hold it a lot steadier than I do, but you're shooting a little high. You get that sight picture down where it's supposed to be, and you'll do even better. Now, want to try the .38?"

  Paul took the gun from the case. It had custom right-hand grips, no problem since Peter had fired the .22 with his right hand. He showed the boy how to load the semi-automatic, fired a string of timed fire, and then let Peter try. He actually got a better score than when he slow fired the .22.

  "It seems easier," Peter said after Paul had scored the target. "I can just hold on it, and don't have to bring it down to cock."

  "You might have noticed the black ring is a lot bigger, too."

  Peter laughed self-deprecatingly. "I guess that helps."

  They fired several more rounds, and Paul was impressed at the improvement Peter showed in only a short time. "You look like a natural, Peter. I wasn't going to do this your first time out, but what would you think of trying rapid fire with the .38 -- that's five shots in ten seconds."

  Peter was game. He loaded the clip, then pushed it into the butt gently until it clicked, the way Paul had shown him, rather than slam it in the way they did it in the movies.

  "When you jack the slide, remember, it's ready to fire."

  Peter nodded, then, keeping the muzzle toward the target, he pulled back the slide with his left hand, put his thumb on the slide lever, and pushed it down so that the slide shot forward with a loud clack, leaving the hammer back. He bent his elbow, pointing the pistol upward, resting his upper arm against his side.

  "You can count a slow two between each shot," Paul said. "No more. Are you ready?"

  Peter nodded, straightened his arm above his head, and brought the gun slowly down until his outstretched arm was parallel to the floor. Simultaneously he heard Paul say "Go," and the muted click of a stopwatch.

  ~ * ~

  Yes

  Yes

  Yes

  Yes

  Yes

  Each shot was like a spurt of fire from his groin, in just that rhythm, with just that power. He ignored the sound of the shots, the empty cartridge cases flying out, hitting the baffles, bouncing off his arm. He was one with the pistol. It was an extension of himself, a wood and metal hand that spat out his pain and rage and hate until there was no more, and the trigger made only a tiny click lost in the echoes of the explosions.

  He stopped, lowered his arm, looked at the target. He didn't see any marks in the white paper.

  "Did I miss?" he said, tugging off the ear protectors.

  "Don't reload," said Paul, and walked the twenty-five yards to the target. Without taking it down, he turned around. "Most shooters blow it in rapid. I thought you missed them all. But they're all in the black. All five." He looked back at the target, and Peter heard him clear his throat. "You, uh, want to shoot another string? For ten?"

  "No."

  "You can if you want." He looked at Peter, and Peter thought he looked confused, as if he couldn't believe the holes in the black paper. "You shot that string fast. Six seconds. Four to spare."

  "No," said Peter. "It's okay." He laughed. "The last five would probably miss the target altogether. Call it beginner's luck and let me enjoy a minor miracle."

  Paul pursed his lips and nodded, then took down the target. He came back to Peter's side without putting up another one. "I've had it too. There's no way I can follow that."

  When Paul put the pistols away, Peter noticed that he did so gingerly, and with one eye on Peter. When he offered to carry the heavy shooter's box out to the car, Paul declined, and lifted it himself. "I'm not that old yet," was the reason he offered, but Peter saw more in it. He detected a reluctance on Paul's part to entrust the box of guns to him.

  It had been due, perhaps, to the extraordinary string of five shots he had fired. It seemed almost supernatural. He could not explain it himself. When he had realized that he could just fire until the gun was empty, fire as quickly as he could, his arm had become like rock. He had scarcely felt the recoil, had hardly been aware of the sights ever leaving the black circle. He had simply sent the bullets into the target, the paper black as sin, black as the hearts of those who did evil, who mocked God, who did awful things to children.

  It was, he thought, as if God had come into him to show him the way.

  Chapter 36

  Several weeks later, Peter received the call.

  "Do you know a girl named Charlotte Ryan?" Paul asked him as they pulled into the parking lot of the pisto
l range where they had been shooting once a week. "They call her Charlie."

  "I don't think so," Peter said. "Why?"

  "I've heard some...disturbing news about her. She attends our church -- just Sunday school, since her father doesn't go to church."

  "What about the mother?"

  "Her parents are divorced, and she lives with her father. Doug Ryan. Owns the farm machinery place, lives in that big house set back from the Wanderley road, about three miles out."

  "So what's the trouble?"

  Paul shut off the engine, took a deep breath and frowned even more deeply than before. "Her father may be molesting her."

  Peter's stomach lurched at the word. He didn't want details, so asked the first thing that came into his head. "Where did you hear about it?"

  "From someone at church," Paul answered. "Though she hasn't come out and admitted it, the girl shows all the signs, and Ryan fought desperately at the custody hearing to get her. The court let him keep the house, and Virginia, the wife, received no support, since she was the one who was having an affair."

  "She didn't bring up this...stuff with the girl at the trial?"

  "No. Maybe she didn't know, or maybe she was too ashamed. She did mention not being able to live with her husband any more, but she shied away from specifics. She wanted the girl though, and fought for her, but because of the situation, Ryan got her."

  "A monster like that," Peter said, "ought to be killed."

  Paul turned on the boy savagely. "Don't say that! I told you before, there's to be no more killing, Peter. If I -- and I say I -- use a gun, it's only going to be to frighten him into giving her up to her mother and supporting her. I think that if we let Ryan know that we know, it might be enough to keep him from hurting the girl again."

  Peter almost argued with him. He knew what people like Douglas Ryan were like, didn't he? He knew all too well. You didn't let a man like that go. You didn't warn him and expect him to be good from now on, to voluntarily give up his favorite victim who lived right under his roof. But Peter didn't say a word. He would bide his time, and the Lord would guide him.