Playing Saint

by Zachary Bartels

  An inverted cross had been painted in blood on her sternum, partially obstructed by her low-cut blouse. On her forehead, the letters N E X had been painted in all caps with the same careful strokes. Parker tried with all his resolve not to look at her throat, cut deeply from one side to the other, dried blood clinging to the skin.

  He felt the Chinese food coming back up his throat. He slapped a hand over his mouth and ran into the cramped bathroom, slamming the door behind him to block out the sound of the three detectives guffawing in the kitchen.

  Do not throw up, he commanded himself. Get ahold of yourself! He swallowed hard, forcing his lunch back into place. He was about to face the jeers of his three new colleagues when an idea struck him. He pulled his phone from his pocket and opened an Internet search.

  Nex? He had no idea what nex was. Seminary had covered the biblical languages, Hebrew and Greek, comprehensively. And, unlike most of his colleagues, Parker had kept up on them. But he was almost certain that nex was neither language.

  He typed the word into the search bar on his phone. The first two pages of results were for telecom companies and gadget websites. He started over and typed “nex translation.” The third hit was a Latin to English dictionary. He opened the web page. It was blank save for the words, “Nex: death” and “Back to index.”

  Parker smacked his lips and frowned. Despite having kept his lunch down, his mouth still tasted like vomit. Setting the phone on the sink, he fished around in his back pocket for a foil pack of prescription nicotine gum. He popped a piece from a little plastic bubble and wrapped it in a stick of tooth-whitening spearmint gum. Joshua Holton had taught him that trick. Quit smoking and kick-start your winning smile all at once. He felt a little rush from the nicotine as he sank his teeth into it.

  “You okay in there?” Ketcham called from the other side of the door.

  Parker pocketed his phone and emerged from the bathroom.

  The detectives were gathered around the dead man in the doorway while Troy read from his clipboard. “Leon Price, student at U of M. Twenty-year-old black male, about six four and 235 pounds. He’d been dating the other victim for nearly three years.”

  Ketcham relit his cigar. “Looks like the boyfriend broke the door down, had a gun in his hand, and still couldn’t save the day. What happened?”

  “Knife to the throat again,” Corrinne observed.

  “It’s different though,” Troy said. “He died from a single stab wound to the jugular. When the knife was pulled out, it opened the vein about an inch, and he bled to death very quickly.”

  Ketcham furrowed his brow. “How do you know that?”

  “I sent some pictures to Dr. Potter with my phone,” Troy confessed. “Said the killer was either real lucky or insanely skilled to put the knife dead center in the jugular with a single stroke and enough force to puncture it.”

  “And all while his victim is holding a gun,” Corrinne added. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. Dr. Potter thought N-E-X might be some kind of numbering system, like the equivalent of 666 or something.”

  The detectives all looked to Parker. He could sense this was a test. If he couldn’t deliver in this moment, Ketcham might second-guess the decision to bring him in. Isn’t that what he wanted? Then he thought of the string of recent clergy scandals. He thought of Brynn Carter’s voice cracking while she did interviews on cable news programs, political cartoons of him in the local paper.

  “I think the doctor has seen too many movies,” Parker said, chewing his gum rhythmically, suddenly calm and in control. “It’s Latin. It means death.”

  Ketcham chuckled. “He killed her and then he wrote death on her? That’s kind of redundant.”

  “Not just death, but carnage. Destruction. Genocide.” Parker was making things up now. “This might be a warning that there is much more to come.”

  There was a moment of silence, then Ketcham clapped once. “I told you this was our guy, didn’t I? I was about to give up on you, Parker.”

  Parker forced a smile. “We wouldn’t want that, Paul.”

  The smile disappeared from Corrinne’s face. “Don’t call him Paul.”

  THIRTEEN YEARS AGO

  Danny tuned out the announcements and invocation and passed the time leafing through a special edition King James New Testament. It was in every sense a prop, and as such, he had learned how to attract attention to it in just the right way—to showcase the words 12-Step Edition on the cover without being too obvious about it. He’d found the gem in a secondhand bookstore six months earlier and knew right away that it would help The Project. An unspoken battle with drugs and drink worked wonders at building credibility and filling in the grim backstory.

  A rotund man with a pink face invited the congregation to stand and sing a chorus from a yellowed, comb-bound booklet in the pew rack. Danny stood with the rest, thoroughly despising the saloonish bounce of the untuned upright piano, but moving his mouth with the words all the same. There was no need to draw attention to himself just yet. He was still invisible and that was good.

  Churches were funny that way. A pretty, young lady in a sundress or a middle-aged couple with two children would attract an ad hoc welcoming committee within moments of entering the building. But a dumpy guy in his early twenties with unkempt hair, thick circles beneath his eyes, and worn, ill-fitting, thrift-store clothes would only be noticed by a very particular type of person. And yet, this type could be found in most every church, and these were the people with whom Danny needed to make his initial contact. Spotting them and, in turn, being spotted was not an exact science, but it was one that he had been developing for nearly two years.

  The first time had just sort of happened. It was early spring his sophomore year at Wayne State, and Danny hadn’t slept for three nights. The nightmares had been getting worse back then, and he had found that chemically keeping himself awake was the best defense. One Sunday morning at about six thirty—his classwork complete and his few friends unconscious in their bunks—Danny had gone for a drive. He cracked the windows, cranked the music, and followed a state highway north. Before he knew it, he was out of Detroit and up into what Michiganders call The Thumb, flanked by fields of corn and soybeans.

  A little before nine his fuel gauge told him it was time to refill, and his better judgment added that it was time to head back. He began looking for a gas station. Two popped up in the course of ten miles, but the first was closed on Sundays and the other didn’t open until noon. Another three little towns came and went without any hint of where their residents procured fuel. The car began to intermittently shake and chug, the final warning that the bottom of the tank was near.

  Danny remembered having seen a pay phone outside a convenience store a few towns back. He could possibly make it. Then again, what if there was a gas station just over this hill? It would be stupid to turn around and miss it. He cursed his luck and his life and decided to push ahead until the old car stalled out, which happened just as he crested the hill.

  And he was sure that no one had ever been as glad as he was in that moment to see Don’s Beer Bait and Gas shining like a jewel in the valley, a red neon Open sign glaring in the window. The car coasted easily down to the entrance where Danny guided it into the parking lot and up to a pump. Obeying at least a dozen hand-lettered signs distributed around the grounds demanding that he Pay First, Danny headed into the charmless little store.

  “Fifteen dollars on pump one,” he told the clerk, presumably Don, who held out his hand dispassionately without so much as glancing up from a two-page glossy spread full of guns.

  Danny put his hand into his back pocket in search of his wallet. Nothing. The other pants pockets were empty too, as were his coat pockets. With a burst of clarity, he remembered tucking the tattered brown billfold into the front pocket of his backpack the night before. It was in his dorm room.

  “Oh no. This isn’t happening.” He surveyed Don’s—or whoever’s—face for any trace of compassion but
came up empty. “Um, I can’t believe this, but I left my wallet back in my room. In Detroit.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “I know how it sounds, but I’m completely empty out there at the pump. I’m sure the thing won’t even start. I’ll mail you the money. Plus interest.”

  “No credit. No checks. No loans. This is a gas station and a bait shop, not a charity.”

  “I’m not asking for charity. I could leave you my watch for collateral. It’s not much, but—”

  “Save it. You want charity, the Jesus freaks across the street are about to start their meeting any time now. I’m sure someone over there will give you a handout.”

  The Prince of Peace Gospel Church was a two-minute walk from Don’s no-longer-jewel-like establishment. Danny had entered five minutes into the service, slipping into a seat near the back.

  He’d never been a churchgoer. A religious friend in high school had goaded him endlessly, but Danny had never seen the point.

  The service was more or less what he expected: uninspired music and an unremarkable pep talk about living a “victorious life.” He endured it without participating, waiting for it to be over so he could undertake the uncomfortable chore of asking for money. Before the minister gave the benediction, he invited anyone who “had a need” to come to the front for prayer, counsel, and support from the church leaders. This seemed the best chance Danny would get. As the congregation filed down the center aisle, he made his way up the side.

  Judging by the brightening of the pastor’s face, Danny guessed it was rare for someone to take him up on the offer of a postservice meeting. He gave Danny’s hand two vigorous pumps while bellowing, “Jim! Eddie! Need you up here!” to a pair of men busily herding women and children out the back.

  They in turn tapped a few others, and before he knew it, Danny was surrounded by a group of seven concerned church members.

  “You need prayer. I can see it in your eyes,” said a white-haired woman. There was a general murmur of agreement that persisted until the pastor held up a hand for silence.

  Eddie, an enormous man in a worn button-up shirt, gripped Danny’s arm a little too hard and looked him in the eyes. “Tell me, son, are you having a problem with drugs?”

  “Yes,” he answered, although he wasn’t sure why. Danny hated anything stronger than caffeine and B12, but it was clearly the answer they wanted. Noticing the exchange of concerned glances, he added, “But I’m six weeks sober last Thursday.”

  Their smiles returned. The pastor patted Eddie on the back as if he deserved the credit for this development.

  “I’m not feeling too good, though. I haven’t slept in days.” He was surprised how the truth felt no different from the absurdity of his lie, even to him. “I’ve run out of money, and I’m afraid I’ll fall back in with the old crowd.”

  “Can we pray for you?” the pastor asked.

  “Yes, I’d really appreciate that,” Danny lied.

  In unison, seven hands pressed into him, spread out all over his head, shoulders, and back. He took the hint from their firm downward pressure and fell to his knees.

  The pastor’s voice dropped to a raspy half-whisper. “Lord, we pray for this young man, that you bind the spirits of addiction that are terrorizing him. Give him the strength to push forward. Give him sleep. Give him rest in you. And Lord, if there are any demons oppressing him, we break their hold over him in the name of Jesus!” He punctuated the last word with a squeeze to the back of Danny’s neck, pinching a bundle of nerves.

  Danny flinched and sucked in a breath. The group collectively gasped, and for a moment, all seven hands were lifted from his body. When they returned, they were placed gingerly, with an added sense of reverence.

  Emboldened by this little victory, the pastor’s voice doubled in volume and intensity. “Father, we pray that all evil spirits leave this man for good, never to return!”

  Playing to his audience, Danny let out a little yelp, followed by a shudder. There were a variety of amens from the huddle around him and then the prayer was over.

  When he opened his eyes, he was met with a wall of awe. They all gaped at him like he’d just broken a home run record or dragged a child from a burning building. Then the awe matured into the pride of builders surveying their work. He was their project and they were all pleased with the outcome.

  Two hundred and thirty-seven dollars was quickly amassed. It was all they had on them and they insisted he take it. They would be thinking of him, they vowed, remembering him at their weekly prayer meetings. Everything would be better from here on out.

  Only it wasn’t. For a few days, the dread he’d been carrying around seemed to lighten. The nightmares even went away for a couple of nights. But when they came back, they were all the more terrifying.

  The next Sunday morning he found himself strangely drawn to a little Pentecostal church in Lapeer, where he began to hone his performance as the man who needed prayer and deliverance. Within three months he felt like he could write a book on the subject. Refusing to take money was his first breakthrough. He slowly learned that peppering his speech with Latin phrases, a low growling laugh interspersed with weeping, and a pretended sense of confusion helped as well—as long as he didn’t overdo it. Less was more, he learned. And, of course, the churches had to be far enough apart from one another to avoid any kind of overlap.

  For the better part of a year Danny did not understand his compulsion to return to these little churches, seeking out an informal ritual from ordinary folks who had never taken part in it before—a ritual he himself did not believe in.

  Then came the quiet voices. And the unmistakable presence, like the nightmares spreading into his waking hours. At first he thought of it as a battle—him against Them, as if he was dealing Them a blow on Sunday mornings. Eventually, though, he realized that They actually wanted him to go to the churches. They wanted him to be delivered each week. They had been the ones compelling him all along, coaching him as he worked on his craft.

  They had also compelled him to kill two people. The most recent was just last night. Danny shifted in the pew a little impatiently, bending the 12-Step Edition New Testament nearly in half one way and then the other. The song leader gave the universal sign for you may be seated and whispered, “Thank you, Jesus.”

  A blond woman in her fifties took to the pulpit and asked the group, “Before the pastoral prayer this morning, do we have any special prayer requests?”

  Danny raised his hand as timidly as he could.

  FOUR

  “GOOD WORK TODAY, PARKER.”

  Ketcham’s car rattled away from the crime scene. “And listen, don’t be embarrassed about losing your lunch. It took all of us a little while to harden our nerves and stomachs.”

  “I didn’t throw up,” Parker insisted.

  “Sure. You’ll feel better after you get home and get some more food in you. I’ve got a pass for most of the parking ramps downtown, so I can take you right to your car if you like. Where’d you park?”

  “I actually walked to the courthouse. I can walk home from there.”

  “Nonsense. Where do you live?”

  Parker gave him the address.

  “So what’s in the cards for the preacher tonight? Is dinner waiting on the table?”

  “No, I’m not married,” Parker answered.

  Ketcham nodded approvingly. “Me neither. Never have been.” He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his inside pocket and held it out to Parker. “Smoke?”

  “No thanks. In fact, I just quit, so the less smoke I smell, the better for me.”

  “I see.” Ketcham lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. “I’m afraid it’s a matter of principle with me. I smoke when I can, and the only place you can smoke anymore is locked in your own vehicle with the windows sealed tight. Can’t even smoke at a bar. Stupid nanny state.”

  “It does seem a little extreme, I guess.” Parker loved the smoking ban. Smoking in restaurants had been his downfall the fir
st three times he tried to quit. Now it was illegal.

  “And yet anyone can carry a gun,” Ketcham said. “Unless you’re a felon. Did you know that, Parker?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “In the state of Michigan, they have to issue you a concealed pistol license if you’ve never been convicted of a felony. I guess they figure if you haven’t held up a liquor store, you deserve a chance.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “You should probably get one, though.” He pulled on to the Ford Freeway and poured on the gas.

  “A gun?”

  “And a permit to carry.”

  “You don’t think the killer will come after me, do you?”

  Ketcham laughed. “No I don’t. It’s just that you’re a pretty high-profile guy and you only seem to be getting famouser. Ashley Englesma told me you have a big book coming out soon.”

  “March is what they tell me.”

  “Well, you never know when some nut will read your book and start stalking you.”

  Parker was strangely flattered at the thought but said, “Sounds unlikely.”

  Ketcham shrugged. “My motto is Always Be Prepared for the Unexpected. That’s why I carry two sets of handcuffs.”

  “I’m not really the gun type.”

  Ketcham lit a fresh cigarette off the butt of his first. Parker couldn’t believe how fast he’d smoked through it.

  “It’s not about being a ‘gun person.’ It’s like . . . my sergeant at the academy taught me—and I teach my rookies—that 80 percent of the population are sheep. They just move in herds. They’ve got two modes: graze and stampede.”

  “Do sheep stampede?”

  “Of course they do. Anyway, the sheep have no interest in trouble. If they see it, they’ll go the other way. They only want to go to work, go home, eat dinner, have a drink, go to bed. Another 10 percent of the population are wolves. They prey on the sheep, take advantage of the fact that they want to avoid trouble at all costs. Most wolves won’t carve a Latin word into your forehead, but they’ll take advantage of anyone if they can get away with it.”