Playing Saint

by Zachary Bartels

  “But why didn’t it work the first time?” he asked again. “What happened there?”

  “Do you know what a scapegoat is?”

  Damien said nothing.

  “I don’t suppose you have a phone with you,” Parker said, pulling off another three loops of tape. He could see more of Damien’s black T-shirt than was obscured by tape, and soon he’d be able to access his pants pockets.

  “He took it from me. Of course.”

  “Dang it.”

  “Dang it?” Damien craned his head back to glare at Parker. “Forgive me, but I don’t think we’ve got a dang it or gosh phooey type situation here. Who would you call anyway? The police?”

  “Yes, the police.”

  “Do you really think we can trust the police right now? Don’t you think your crazy detective friend has already called this in? Officer down, and all that? We’d go down in a hail of bullets.”

  “I know a detective who wouldn’t betray us. She’s a good person.”

  “You probably thought you knew this Ketcham character too, didn’t you?”

  Parker didn’t answer. He was kneeling behind the chair, nearly done removing the last few layers of tape. “Then I’d call my friend Father Michael. That’s who I’d call.”

  Damien wrenched backward and glared at Parker again. “You mean that psychopath priest who attacked my guys and broke in to my house yesterday? That Christian Imperialist thug with the gun?”

  “That’s the guy. I think he’d make short work of Ketcham. But his number’s in my phone. And my phone is in a million pieces in the other room.”

  The last loop of tape came free, and Damien tipped forward onto the ground, breaking the fall with his right cheek. He groaned loudly.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m spectacular, Parker. Enjoying my destiny.” He slumped sideways and stared at the ceiling. “I’m wanted for murder, stuck in a dark, dank, cramped room with my least favorite person on earth while a murderer roams the halls outside. I haven’t been able to feel my fingers in three hours. Oh, and I can’t even defend myself because my hands are cuffed behind my back.”

  “I can help you with the last thing,” Parker said, reaching into his pocket. “I got the keys.”

  “If that’s a joke . . .”

  Parker held them up with a grin. “Have I become one of your favorite people yet?”

  Damien’s face fell. “You think those are the handcuff keys?”

  “They were in Ketcham’s pocket with his extra cuffs. It’s got to be one of these. Hang on.” He flipped through a car, ignition, house key, plus several smaller, less easily identified keys. “Turn around a minute.”

  Damien complied, but shook his head. “You really think cops keep their handcuff keys on a Redwings keychain in their coat pockets?”

  It was immediately clear that none of the keys came close to fitting. “I didn’t have a whole lot of time to think it through. I found some keys and I grabbed them. Guess you’re stuck.”

  “Help me sit down.”

  Parker grasped him by both shoulders and directed him toward the chair.

  “No, not there—on the ground.” Once seated, Damien rolled onto his back. “Now help me get my feet under here.”

  “Let’s take your shoes off first,” Parker suggested.

  Once the large black boots were set aside, the two men were able—with much grunting and discomfort on Damien’s part—to bring his cuffed hands under his stocking feet and up in front of his body.

  “Much better,” Damien said, pulling a boot back on. “Now what’s our plan?”

  “I still think we need a phone, first and foremost. There has to be one down here somewhere.”

  “There’s no electricity in this building. Why would they have phone service?”

  “We need to get out of here then. We find another flight of stairs, go out the back door of the school, head to the nearest house and call . . .” He trailed off. “Wait a minute.”

  “What?”

  “If I don’t have the handcuff keys, then . . .”

  Their eyes met.

  “We have to make our stand here,” Damien said. “If we go out in the dark, he has every advantage. Weapons, the element of surprise, even the law on his side. But if we make him come to us, we take some of that from him.”

  “So, what, we dog-pile on him? Bum-rush him?”

  “Can’t you just do that thing again? I cast you out? That took him out of commission.”

  “You’re assuming the spirits have already returned—not that you believe in such things. I have no idea how long that takes. Could be days before they come back. What if we’re just dealing with Ketcham?”

  “You mean just a highly-trained, mass-murdering policeman with a gun?”

  “Right.”

  “We need weapons then.” Damien yanked the flashlight from the pull chain and swung it around the room, illuminating two large boilers, a few rolling mop buckets, and three metal storage shelves laden with bottles and cleaning supplies. “Help me snap one of those broomsticks in half,” he said. “We can stab him as soon as he walks through the door.”

  “No, that’s stupid,” Parker whispered. “You stab him, he’s just going to start shooting. We need something heavy, something solid to knock the gun out of his hands.”

  “Maybe there’s a fire ax in the hallway.”

  “You think there’s an ax just sitting in a junior high school for anyone to grab?” Parker snatched the light from Damien and began rifling through the shelves of janitorial supplies. “It’s a boiler room. Shouldn’t there be a pipe wrench or something?”

  “There,” Damien said.

  “Shh!”

  “Sorry. But look.” Damien pointed at a stack of paint cans. He hefted several of them experimentally before finding a full one.

  “That’s good,” Parker said, finding a can of his own. “How about this? You wait on the right side of the door, back in that corner, and knock the gun out of his hands the moment you see it. I’ll be on the other side, and I’ll hit him in the head. You grab the gun, point it at him, and we make him hand over your phone and the handcuff keys. Then we lock him in here and make our exodus.”

  “Lock him in here how?”

  “One of these keys opened the front door of the school,” Parker said, examining them again, one at a time. “Could be a master key.”

  “You’re not thinking. Closet door locks aren’t designed to keep people in.”

  “Then we use these,” Parker said, grabbing a handful of wooden doorstops from a cardboard box on the shelf. They looked like they had been zipped off from scrap wood, each one bearing the words, Doorstop, Do Not Throw Away in blue felt marker. Parker forgot himself for a moment and cringed at the poor use of punctuation, before continuing, “At gunpoint, we make Ketcham cuff himself to this shelf, then we use the paint cans to hammer these things in under the door. That should slow him down enough.”

  “Or we could just shoot him.”

  “Do you really want to add shooting a cop to the list of charges against you?” Parker asked, stuffing six of the wooden doorstops under his belt like shotgun shells. His eyes fell on a small plastic bucket.

  “I have one more idea,” he said. “Help me find some really noxious chemicals here.”

  Damien grinned. “I like it. We slosh a bucket full of corrosives in his face. Here, this has bleach in it.”

  “I’m not going to slosh it at him. I’m going to prop it up over the door. It’ll fall on his head, distract him, maybe blind him. Then you make your move.” He removed the cap and began emptying the bottle into the bucket. “In fact, why don’t you get back in position now—who knows where Ketcham is.”

  Damien squeezed himself back into the shadows to the right of the door. “You’re not seriously going to prop it up there.”

  “It’s a good plan. It’ll disorient him. Have you ever gotten bleach in your eyes? Or toilet cleaner? This gives us a chance to make our move.”<
br />
  “This is not a time for some Dennis-the-Menace-inspired hijinks. This man wants to kill us.”

  Parker was skimming the shelf for another ingredient. “The fact that you’re familiar with Dennis the Menace sort of kills this whole cat-burning, brooding Gothic mystique you’re going for.” He began pouring another bottle—this one straight bleach—into the bucket. There wasn’t much left, but the fumes were getting to Parker’s eyes, which told him he was on the right track.

  “That’s not chlorine, is it?” Damien asked.

  “No, why?”

  “Make sure you don’t mix chlorine with the bleach. There’s a violent reaction, basically makes a chemical bomb. Trust me, I’ve done it before.”

  “Are you thinking of ammonia?”

  “Oh, maybe. I’m not sure. I’d avoid both.”

  “Noted.”

  “The cat was a roadkill, by the way. I love cats. I’d never hurt one.”

  “Still messed up,” Parker said, grabbing a bottle of bright blue glass cleaner and shining the light on the label.

  “It was a statement about colonial Christianity’s misuse of power. We were burning the cat at the stake.”

  “I guess the nuances were lost on me—just saw an animal burning in my backyard and some thug giving me the finger. I must not be very cultured.” He began mixing in the blue liquid.

  “Stop!” Damien shouted, then clamped a hand over his mouth. The word echoed through the room.

  “It’s vinegar based,” Parker whispered harshly, holding up the bottle. He tossed it aside, clicked off the flashlight, and scurried to the door, bucket in tow, sloshing a trail of chemicals behind him. “We have to assume he heard that. Help me prop this thing up there.”

  Opening the door a crack, Parker held his breath and stood perfectly still, sensitive to any indication of company. No light spilled in from out in the hall, but he was certain he heard soft, scuffing footsteps coming slowly in their direction. There was no more time to waste.

  With Damien’s help, he boosted the bucket to the top of the door and balanced it carefully.

  “Do you want the light?” he asked as softly as he could.

  “No, you keep it,” Damien answered, finally achieving a true whisper. “You can always shine him in the eyes when your bucket prank doesn’t work. I’ll go for the gun when he’s blinded.”

  The two men went to their separate corners, backs to the wall, each squeezing the handle of his paint can and trying to listen over the pounding of his heart. They could hear the sound of doors opening slowly in the hall and the scuffing footsteps drawing closer and closer until they were just outside the boiler room.

  Lord, guide me, Parker prayed. Help me to escape this man. And Damien too. He’s had enough.

  He heard the rattle of the knob, the door scraping along the bottom of the bucket. Then he heard it give. Parker clicked on the flashlight, shining it toward the door just in time to see the bucket connect with the top of Danny’s head, spewing the chemical concoction down his back, soaking his hair but coming nowhere near his eyes.

  Though largely a failure, the trap had stolen Danny’s attention for a moment. He flailed angrily, using his gun to bat away the bucket, which bounced noisily into the hall with a series of crashes. In the corner beyond, Parker could barely make out Damien, still gripping the paint can above his head, frozen in fear. His eyes were wide, but he seemed to be seeing nothing, withdrawn into the safety of his own head.

  If someone was going to keep the Blackjack Killer from claiming two more victims, it would have to be Parker.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  CHASTISING HIMSELF FOR BETRAYING HIS LOCATION, PARKER tossed the flashlight. It rolled along the ground, spinning its white light around the room like a disco ball. Then he swung with everything in him, bringing the metal edge of the can down onto Danny’s wrist with a satisfying whump and sending the gun clattering to the ground. Parker lunged for it, the spinning light giving him the impression that he was falling slowly into a pit.

  A kick sent him back eight feet, bouncing along the ground, both elbows smacking against the concrete. The paint can connected with his face and then with the floor, opening up and ejecting its contents everywhere while Parker crashed into the block wall and rolled onto his side, soaked in bleach and institutional green paint—the wind thoroughly knocked from his lungs.

  He could see the detective reaching for the gun but could do nothing to stop him, jarred and shocked as he was. They had failed, he thought. He would die on the tenth anniversary of his father’s death, a much lesser man with nothing to show but his own inconsequential little media empire.

  Then he heard Damien’s scream, the overflow of his rage and fear.

  Damien swung his paint can—fuller than Parker’s—connecting with the back of Danny’s skull, sending him down to one knee. He swung again, pushing his advantage, and again connected. But Danny was slowly standing, unhindered by the beating. He slipped aside as the bucket came down a third time, then grasped Damien around the neck, flinging him across the room as if he weighed nothing.

  Parker thought of the Gadarenes demoniac breaking chains and shattering irons. He thought of the demonized man in the book of Acts, beating the seven sons of the high priest within an inch of their lives. Danny was not alone here. Then it returns, he remembered, and takes with it seven other spirits more wicked than itself. Parker knew what he had to do. He had to cast them out again—he had to buy a window of escape.

  Damien had bounced back up, jumping onto Danny’s back, where he was ferociously digging the chain of his handcuffs into the flesh of Danny’s throat. They went down together and grappled, each pulling the other away from the gun, Damien grunting and gasping.

  Parker pulled himself to his knees, then to his feet, struggling to recover his breath. A few words and they could be out the door. He could leave Danny trapped and convulsing once again, while they made good their escape. If only he could speak. But first he’d have to draw in a breath.

  A sharp pop filled the room, followed by an unnerving howl. Damien’s left arm was bent the wrong way at the elbow, a starburst of broken blood vessels encircling the wound. He screamed and gawked at the broken joint, nostrils flaring, involuntary tears beginning to flow. He went limp and made no move to further defend himself as Danny sent him spinning along the ground with a kick to the ribs.

  Parker shook his head hard, trying to focus on the gun lying three feet behind the demoniac. Danny was turning, his own eyes searching for the weapon in the faint light. If he recovered the pistol, Parker knew that would be it. As long as they had him off-balance and outnumbered, they stood a chance, however slim.

  He hurled himself in the gun’s direction, colliding with Danny, but managed to swat it away, sending it skidding into the darkness toward one of the boilers, where—with any luck—it was now underneath, inaccessible.

  Before he could even think of dragging himself off the cold floor, he felt it suddenly drop out from beneath him. A half second later his body slammed against the ceiling, a light bulb exploding against the back of his head. The ground came back quickly, bouncing against him twice, then disappeared a second time. Parker’s vision went white with pain as the broken glass in the light socket dug into his scalp, drawing blood. He landed hard.

  He couldn’t speak. Not only was the pain overwhelming, but his throat was closing in under Danny’s long, viselike fingers. Overcome and unable to breathe, he went limp, allowing himself to be dragged to his feet and shoved against the wall.

  “Apparently, the Blackjack Killer has broadened his MO,” Danny smiled. “Now he suffocates his victims before he cuts their throats. Always evolving, always branching out.”

  Parker could see his own green footprints spanning the width of the room amid shimmering puddles of paint and chemicals. The flashlight was lying back there somewhere, bouncing its light off the far wall, keeping them just this side of complete darkness. From just beyond its reach, he could hear Damien’s
labored breathing and intermittent groans.

  “Remember, Saint,” Danny growled. “God is awesome. And so are you.”

  Parker’s vision was beginning to swim, his airway constricting tighter by the second. He had to struggle to make out the image of Danny’s hand disappearing into his coat, reaching for the knife on his belt.

  Jesus, help me.

  With a sudden flash of clarity, Parker reached into his own coat and pulled one of the doorstops from his belt. With a final desperate rush of adrenaline, he connected the sharpest corner of the wooden wedge with Danny’s temple. The knife fell to the ground and Danny took a step back, stunned.

  Parker struck a second time, aiming for the soft flesh under his eye, but again connecting with his temple. The blow spun Danny a hundred and eighty degrees. Parker sloughed off his Melton peacoat and pulled it over Danny’s head, tying the sleeves tightly around his neck and yanking the man off-balance.

  “Damien,” he rasped with all the volume he could muster, “we’re leaving!” To Parker’s surprise, he saw Damien roll to his feet and stagger out into the hall.

  Danny was circling and cursing, yanking at the coat with one hand and swinging wildly with the other. Stepping into a mixture of paint and bleach solution, he slipped and fell to the ground.

  Parker moved quickly around him, snatched the flashlight from the floor, and made his exit, slamming the door behind him. Damien was leaning against the wall across the corridor. His heavily tattooed chest was bare, and his injured arm was wrapped tightly in a ripped black T-shirt, tied off at the metal cuff on his wrist.

  “So that’s what you were doing,” Parker said. He stuck the flashlight to the doorknob with the tacky strip of duct tape and began wedging the doorstops into place, spacing them evenly along the bottom of the door. He was feeling surprisingly good about their chances and felt his spirits rising all the more at the ongoing sound of Danny flopping around behind the door.