Defenders of the Faith

by Williamson, Chet

  Fatso laughed, and Peter felt himself turning red. "You look a little too straight for that kinda stuff, kid."

  The line came to Peter in a flash, and he knew that it was perfect, divinely inspired. "Oh, it's not for me, sir," he said in mock innocence. "It's for my big brother."

  "For your..." The fat man seemed speechless, and then he laughed again, but not in derision as he had before. This time it was in sincere appreciation for a good joke. "You're okay, kid...you're okay." He scratched his chin, dark gray with beard shadow. "Pull up your shirt."

  "What?" Bile rose in Peter's throat.

  "Pull up your shirt. I wanta make sure you're not wearin' a wire." Peter did as Fatso asked, revealing his pale hairless chest. "Okay, tuck it in," Fatso said. "I'll tell ya what. Maybe if you was to put some money -- say a hundred dollars in twennies underneath the dumpster in back of the store, well, maybe there might be something there for you the next day. But it ain't necessarily me put it there."

  It was then that Peter realized what he was getting into. If he were to be caught buying drugs at a place like this, nothing could save him, not the CCYC, not Paul Blair, not Jesus himself.

  But then he thought about Jessica, about that sweet prize, and of course about the triumph over this so-called Christian rock that was nothing more than a web for Satan to weave around poor, stupid young people.

  "The stuff too? A needle?"

  "Everything you need. But remember, you didn't hear it here. Now vamoose. Unless there's somethin' else you want."

  "No. Not tonight. Thanks. Thanks a lot."

  Dear Lord, he thought as he walked out into the night, was this how they did it? What if something went wrong? What if someone saw him hide the money and then took it. Or what if Fatso took the money and didn't put the drugs where they were supposed to be? Still, this was the plan, and he would go along with it.

  He got into his car, where he took the required five twenties from his wallet and put them into an empty bank envelope he had tossed on the floor after his last drive-in transaction. He drove the car around the back of the building, parked near the dumpster, got out, and put the money under the large bin, near the back so no one would see it except someone looking for it. Then he drove home.

  He didn't sleep well that night. He kept thinking about policemen waiting for him when he picked up the drugs, or finding his money missing but nothing else in its place. The next morning he got up just before dawn, dressed quickly, and drove out to the shop. There were no cars at all in the front parking lot, and he drove around the back, relieved to see that there were none there either.

  Peter got out, looked all around, then walked to the dumpster and looked underneath. He felt a quick chill as he saw nothing where his envelope of money had been. But when he got down on his hands and knees and looked more closely, he saw a grease stained McDonald's bag further under the dumpster. Anyone else would have thought it was trash, but Peter reached in and yanked it out.

  It looked like garbage, all right, and he wondered if he was being foolish in even thinking it was what he had paid for. He opened it gingerly, expecting to see some crushed french fries and part of a rotting Big Mac, its lettuce turned black.

  Instead, wrapped in a McDonald's napkin and a small plastic bag, he found a small quantity of white powder and a disposable plastic syringe.

  He quickly folded the bag shut, stuck it beneath his jacket, and scuttled back to his car. He would have to hide the drugs under the seat, for there was no time to go home. His Religion and Ethics class began at 8:00 sharp.

  Chapter 44

  It didn't look as though God especially smiled on the Glorisound Festival the following weekend. Dark clouds had begun to gather Friday morning, and by late afternoon, when the first act walked onto the covered stage, a hard May rain was pelting the Stedman Park audience. Most of them, fired by Jesus and the music and the promise of a fulfilling weekend, stayed right where they were, either letting themselves be drenched by the thankfully warm drops or huddling under large and multi-colored umbrellas.

  The rain didn't dampen spirits, however, and by eight o'clock the huge field was filled. Most of the crowd was young, although there were a number of older people there, mostly pastors of churches who had brought buses to the event. The rain had slackened off, but the ground was sodden, and most of the celebrants were coated with mud, their shirts and jeans sticking to their legs. Still, they clapped in rhythm, shouted, sang along to choruses they knew, and waved their arms ecstatically in the air.

  Peter had been there since six o'clock, but had not yet seen Jessica or Rand. Sacred Fire was not due to play until Saturday night, and then again on Sunday morning in a giant band jam, but he thought they might have come to hear the others play. It didn't surprise him that Rand wasn't there. The guy was probably so self-centered that he didn't like anyone else's music but his own.

  What did surprise Peter, though, was how much he enjoyed the music. Most of it was praise music, what radio stations would have called soft rock, with warm keyboards, gentle, pulsing percussion, mellow instrumental leads, and well blended harmonies. Peter could understand the lyrics, approved of all of them, and was moved by many.

  He took the time to look over the grounds, and found that the porta-toilets would be the best place to set his scheme to work. They were behind the stage in a poorly lit area, though each toilet had its own light inside. In between sets the toilet area was packed with lined up people, but during the sets there was hardly anyone there but the musicians who were to play the next set. Peter checked several times, going back and forth to the area during every set, and finding it nearly always abandoned.

  Rand and Jessica, along with some of the other members of Sacred Fire and their dates, showed up just after nine o'clock, and were greeted by friends who had held spaces on their blankets for them. Rand happily plopped himself down on the soggy fabric, while Jessica sat more daintily on a plastic cushion. Rand talked to the others while the band on stage performed, but Jessica tried to listen attentively.

  Peter did not show himself to them. He remained in the darkness at the side of the stage, surrounded by others watching the band. All through the set, he watched Jessica. He saw how Rand treated her, like something he owned, hardly ever looking at her, but always with a hand on her shoulder, her arm, her knee. It infuriated Peter, who calmed himself by thinking soon, very soon, Rand would never treat Jessica like that again. Rand would never treat anyone like that again.

  Peter had problems sleeping again that night. He kept thinking about what he was going to do the next day, and the music he had heard that night kept playing in his head.

  There was one line in particular that he kept hearing. It went, "Jesus needs me as much as I need him, praise him now, he needs me as much as I need him..."

  That was so true, Peter thought. Jesus did need him to do his will. It was Christ's divine will that he and Jessica be together, but it was up to Peter to do the earthly things that had to be done to make it so.

  Finally he went to sleep, humming the tune in his head, and thinking, Don't worry, Jesus, I won't let you down...

  ~ * ~

  It rained heavily all night, but tapered off the next morning to light showers. In the gray light from his bedroom window, Peter prepared the drug. He had no idea of what to do with the white powder, but knew that he would have to liquify it somehow to get it into the syringe. He tried dissolving it in a small amount of water, stirring and stirring until the mixture had the consistency of white school paste.

  He took the plunger out of the syringe and painstakingly packed the thick mixture into the barrel until he had nearly all the heroin inside. He hoped it would be enough. Peter reinserted the plunger until it touched the heroin, and slipped the syringe into his inner jacket pocket.

  Despite the showers, the temperature stayed warm, so by noon, when Peter arrived, the field was packed once again with celebrants. Sacred Fire showed up, once again fashionably late, at four o'clock. Peter saw
their equipment van, with the group's name emblazoned on the side, pull in behind the stage near the porta-toilets. Rand was driving, and when he climbed out he took command, telling the others, including Jessica, where to put the equipment, rushing to get the instruments from the safety of the van to the covered backstage area.

  This time Peter did not stay away from Jessica, but went up to her as soon as she had helped lug the last piece of equipment to shelter. Her dark brown hair shimmered in the misty rain, and her smile as she greeted him was warm and sincere, and he knew that he was doing the right thing.

  "Hey," she said, "good to see you! First you've been here?"

  "No, I was here last night."

  "Oh, I wish I'd seen you. You like it?"

  "Yeah, it was great. But I'm really looking forward to hearing Sacred Fire's set today."

  "Why don't you come and sit with us? We're right down front."

  "Well, I'm with some friends in the back, but I'll tell you what -- when Sacred Fire plays, I'll come down and join you, okay?"

  He said goodbye then, since he saw Rand walking towards them, and he didn't want to talk to him. He thought that might make it harder.

  Peter wandered around for the remainder of the day, and every now and then got something to eat from one of the food stands. He was glad to see that the weather was gradually worsening, which meant that there would be fewer people there who might come across him and Rand. Never did he have any doubt, though, that his scheme would work. He was divinely inspired, and God would not let him be seen or caught. Still, he would be cautious. There was no point in tempting the Lord.

  At seven o'clock, when the act scheduled before Sacred Fire had just come on stage, Peter went behind the stage to the toilets, and from behind one of them recovered the three foot long piece of 2x4 that he had placed there the night before. Then he waited, ducking behind the large, fiberglass structures when anyone came back. The rain was pelting now, but the tracks he left in the mud were obliterated by the heavy drops almost as quickly as they were formed. It was just like the day, he thought, when he had decked that smartass kid back at church camp.

  Sacred Fire was scheduled to perform at 8:00, but all the acts had been running long, so Peter wasn't too worried when it was 7:45 and Rand had not yet showed. Sure enough, in another few minutes, he rounded the corner of the stage and headed back to the toilets. But Peter's heart was chilled by the sight of the bass player with him. There would be no way he could do it now.

  Rand went into one of the unwieldy booths, the bassist into the one next to it. Over the music from the stage, Peter could hear the sound of urine splashing into the receptacle. In less than a minute, the bassist came out, wiping his hands on his leather jeans, and called to Rand. "You comin'?"

  "Nah, I'll be a minute. You go on."

  Thank you Jesus, Peter thought. He would get his chance after all.

  "Okay," the boy called, "but don't fall in, man." He walked away from the squat forest of porta-toilets, back to the stage area. Peter took only a moment to make sure that no one else was coming. Then he ran up next to the toilet Rand was in and waited at the side on which the door would open.

  He didn't have long to wait. He heard Rand scuffling around inside, and then the sound of the latch being thrown. The door opened, and Rand stepped out right into the path of Peter's heavily swung piece of board.

  It caught him right where Peter had intended it to, directly in the middle of his face. The brunt of it struck his forehead, but Peter heard a crack when his nose broke as well. He started to fall like a sack of potatoes.

  Peter dropped the board, and grabbed Rand before he struck the ground. Blood was already coming from his nose, but the rain would wash it away. Being careful not to get Rand's face against him, Peter dragged him twenty yards to Sacred Fire's van, propped Rand against it, and dug into the pockets of Rand's leather pants.

  The van keys were in the third pocket he searched, and he unlocked the side door, slid it open, and hauled Rand inside, setting him in one of the two seats along the side. Then he slid the door shut again. The light that filtered through the windows was dim but sufficient. Peter took the hypodermic needle from his pocket, slid up Rand's blousy sleeve, felt rather than looked for a vein, and drove the needle in, depressing the small plunger only a moment afterward.

  The pain of the prick roused Rand. His eyes fluttered open, and his mouth, covered with blood from his nose, opened as well, and he made a soft groan. But then the drug entered his bloodstream. He did not even gasp. The animation that had returned to his body was cut off instantly, and he slumped forward again.

  Peter grasped the back of his neck and slammed his face against the metal side of the van, then let his face slide down the wall, making sure to leave a long smear of blood. Then he released Rand, so that he fell off the seat and onto the floor. There were a few seconds of retching, labored breathing, and then no breath at all.

  Peter knelt and felt the boy's wrist, but there was no pulse. He thought that there must have been an enormous dose in the syringe to kill him that quickly, and hoped that they would think it was because Rand was as ignorant of heroin as Peter had actually been, that he had taken it for the first time, and had simply given himself a massive overdose.

  Now he wiped with his wet shirt anything he might have touched, and pressed the keys against Rand's hand and dropped them on the floor. Then he lifted Rand's hand to the syringe still sticking out of his arm, and pressed the dead fingers around it as well. The van suddenly smelled terrible, and Peter assumed that Rand must have shit himself when he died. He looked out the window, saw no one, and lifted Rand's hand once more, wrapped the fingers around the door handle, and pressed on the hand to open the door. He got out, pushed the door shut with his foot, and ran into the rain, now falling with more force than ever. He picked up the board with which he had hit Rand. The rain had already washed it free of Rand's blood, and he tossed it behind the porta-toilets. Then he rejoined the crowd.

  He gave the stage area a wide berth, not wanting anyone to see him, and walked along the outskirts of the ever diminishing throng until he was all the way at the back, where the food stands were. He checked himself in the pale, rain-muted lights to make sure that there was no blood on his hands or clothing, then started to make his way down through the people to where Jessica sat in the rain, waiting for him.

  She was holding a large umbrella with the legend, Praiseathon '09, on it, and when she saw him she beckoned him to join her. He waved gaily, despite the rain, and sat next to her on a padded plastic exercise mat. A country-rock band, The Holy Rocknrollers, was on the stage. "Sacred Fire up soon?" he asked over the loud and heavy beat.

  "Yeah, any minute now. I think this is this group's last number. Hope so, anyway."

  "You don't like them?"

  "A little too loud for me." Then she laughed. "But I should talk -- a roadie for Sacred Fire!" He laughed along with her, and they listened to the rest of the song, since the volume and their proximity to the stage made further conversation difficult.

  After the number came to its ear-numbing conclusion, the man who had been introducing the acts scurried on and said something to the lead singer, who nodded, and went back to the mike. "We're gonna do one more number in praise to our Lord...who sends the rain and the sunshine!" He counted off four, and they were into another song just as loud and twangy as the previous one.

  "Wonder what's up," Peter said, and Jessica shrugged, although he could see she was concerned, looking frequently into the wings for Sacred Fire and Rand.

  After the number ended, the M.C. came out again. "There'll be a slight break. We should start again in a little while."

  "There wasn't supposed to be a break here," said Jessica. "Excuse me a minute, Peter. Something's wrong."

  "Want me to come with you?"

  At first he thought she was going to say no, but then she nodded grimly, almost as though she knew something was not only wrong, but terribly so.

 
He followed her backstage. By the time they got there, someone had found Rand. The bass player's girlfriend was crying, and the others looked pale and stunned. "What is it? What's wrong?" Jessica asked.

  The bass player just shook his head.

  "Rand? Is it Rand?"

  "He's..." The boy swallowed hard. "He's dead, Jess."

  Jessica didn't scream, but only made a little noise in the back of her throat. "Where..." she whispered.

  "In the van, but...you don't want to see it. He..." The boy could hardly bring himself to say it. "He took some drugs."

  "What?" It was as though the bass player had spoken in a different language. "He what?" Jessica pushed her way past him, her sobs starting to come shallow and quick. Peter followed her to where a small crowd of musicians and backstage workers were standing uncomfortably by the van where he had killed Rand. The door was open, but Peter already knew what he would see, so he watched Jessica instead, waiting for just the right moment when he could, as he had planned, comfort her.

  It wasn't long in coming. Rand's pale skin had been chalked even whiter by death. His eyes were slightly open, and the whites had turned yellow. A gray-orange strand of vomit dribbled down his chin and neck, and the needle still remained accusingly in his arm.

  Jessica sobbed violently at the sight, and the instant she turned away, Peter was there, and she pressed her face into his chest and cried, just as he had hoped she would.

  Just as he had prayed she would.

  Chapter 45

  The inquest into Rand Evans's death could not have gone better for Peter Hurst. There was never any suggestion of foul play, beyond what it appeared Rand had done to himself alone.

  Rand's fellow band members stated that, although they had never seen him take drugs, nor act at any time as though he were under their influence, Rand had confided to them in private that he sometimes wondered what it would be like to play high, but had always said that it was merely curiosity, that he would never, never defile his earthly temple with narcotics.