On Tenterhooks

by Greever Williams

“Si señor, alli,” said the bartender, pointing to a doorway near the end of the bar.

  “Gracias.”

  He left the bar and returned to their booth. He casually pulled Veronica away from the table and handed the box to her.

  “Why don’t you take her in the bathroom and see if you can do anything for her . . . see how bad it is?” he asked.

  Veronica cracked the box open. Inside were antiseptic wipes, bandages, aspirin, salves and other supplies. She nodded.

  “Okay, but do you think this stuff is any good?” she asked, rummaging through the supplies in the box.

  “It’s the best we’ve got right now. Take a look at her. If you think we need to go a doctor, we’ll wait for a few minutes and then go. I don’t think we should leave just yet.”

  She glanced at the door again.

  “But what if he shows up?”

  “I’ll yell for you then, give you a warning. But if they can track us across a continent, I don’t think taking a two-minute bathroom break is gonna make any difference. Just do what you can for her and get back quickly.”

  She nodded once, “Fine.” Then she walked back to the table and held out her hand to Abby. “C’mon, kiddo. Let’s go get you cleaned up.”

  Abby looked at her and then looked over at Martin. Martin nodded. “Good idea.” He slid out of the booth and helped Abby up. Quietly sobbing, Abby let Veronica lead her through the doorway next to the bar.

  Steve sat down on the edge of the booth, so that he could keep an eye on the front door. Martin sat back down across the table from him. “Is it bad?” Steve asked.

  “I don’t know. From what little I could see, he burned her, burned her breast. I don’t think that part was too bad though — she seemed to be breathing okay. But I don’t think that’s the worst of it. I think he was doing something to her insides.”

  “You mean like she’s bleeding internally?”

  “No, not like that—like he was messin’ with her head. On the way over here, she kept telling me ‘I didn’t let him in.’ She repeated it several times. I don’t know if she was talking to me or to herself.”

  Steve pondered Martin’s words.

  “Well, we gotta get her to tell us what he did. We might need to find a doctor around here.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Martin, “but give her some room to breathe. Let her tell you; don’t force it.”

  “Okay.”

  When Veronica and Abby returned from the bathroom, Abby was wearing the top to Veronica’s tracksuit and Veronica wore only the white tank top that had been underneath the jacket. She paused at the bar long enough to return the first-aid kit. Martin and Steve both stood up, both watching Abby with obvious concern. Seeing the welcome, she smiled.

  “I’m okay, guys, just a little sore and a little stiff.”

  Steve looked at Veronica for confirmation. She smiled and nodded. “We got her fixed up, and she’ll be fine.” She put her arm around Abby’s shoulders and gently squeezed. Martin moved off the bench to let Abby slide in near the wall.

  “Okay,” said Steve, “we gotta figure out what we do now.”

  “What we do now?” Veronica asked, her voice rising. “Jesus Christ, how about we get the hell out of here before Preacher finds us again? Or ‘Mr. Biker’ comes back. Who the hell are these guys, Steve?”

  “How should I know?” Steve shot back. “I know about as much as you do!”

  “All right, knock it off, guys,” said Martin, standing up again. “It’s not helping. I say we stay here, at least until we catch our breath. Besides, there are other people here, and we’ve got our backs to a wall, so no surprises. Let’s get our heads around it before we go off half-cocked.”

  The two men looked at Veronica, who looked at the front door and back to them. “He could trap us in here, you know.”

  “Yes,” said Martin. “But he also could be right outside in the roadway there, peeking in every window trying to find us. For all we know we could run right into him.”

  “Besides,” added Steve. “Preacher and Biker seem to have been following us for a long time now. I don’t think running is a good solution.”

  “Then what is a ‘good solution’?” Veronica challenged.

  “I don’t know, but let’s try to figure it out . . . together.”

  She peered at the door again and then turned back at them. They watched her, waiting in silence for her to agree. “Stop staring at me like I’m a damn circus freak! Fine! Move over!”

  She slid onto the bench next to Steve.

  “Okay, so let’s put it together,” said Steve. Preacher was in our dreams first. Then he showed up, looking for each of us before we even met. Then, he somehow managed to follow us, on planes, across the country and even here.”

  “Yeah,” said Veronica. “But how could he do that? He was on us before we even met. It’s like— ”

  “Like he’s inside our heads,” whispered Abby, looking frightened.

  “Right,” agreed Veronica. “And what about our new friend, Biker?” He seems to be pretty into us, too.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Steve. “But I don’t get the same feeling from the two of them. Even before Preacher hurt Abby, he seemed wicked to me. The first time I saw him for real, back in the airport, he looked messed-up. . .almost sadistic.”

  Steve shook his head. “I don’t know what to make of Biker,” he continued. “But I don’t get that same feel from him. Regardless, they both have apparently been following us for a while now.”

  “Do you think they got our info off that website?” asked Martin.

  “I don’t think so,” replied Steve, “at least not mine. I didn’t mention anything in my letter about how my wife died. But Preacher seemed to know that she died in a car accident.”

  “Yeah, and judging by the way you described your first meeting with him,” said Veronica, “he seemed to enjoy reminding you of it.”

  “He’s not human,” Abby stated.

  They all paused and looked at her.

  “What do you mean, sweetie?” Veronica asked.

  “I mean — he’s not human. When he touched me. . .” She paused, caught in an involuntary shiver and then cleared her throat. The group waited. They wanted to know what had happened to her. Each of them leaned on the table, eager to hear Abby speak again.

  “When he touched me, his hand was burning me. . .on my chest. . .but I could also feel him. . .inside my head. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like . . . like he was running around, throwing open doors in a big house, looking for something.”

  “Did he find it?” Veronica asked.

  “No, I don’t think so. Well, I don’t know. I don’t even know what he was looking for.” She shrugged.

  “I think he was reading my emotions or something, and I was trying to fight him off. I can’t explain the feeling. I almost felt like he was trying to rape my mind—to make me think things I didn’t want to think.”

  “That’s about right, sweet thing.”

  They each jumped in their seats at the sound of the voice. Biker stood over them near the end of the table.

  “It’s his specialty, in fact. But he’s gone, at least for now.”

  He took a chair from a nearby table, slid it up to the end of their booth and dropped into it, joining them at the table. No one said a word. Martin and Veronica, sitting on the outside, shrunk toward Steve and Abby. Biker either didn’t notice or didn’t care about the slight. He picked up a bottle off the table.

  “Water? Come on ya’ll, let’s think and drink here!” Then, he turned in his chair and whistled. “¡Pedro, Cinco cervezas, por favor!”

  “¡Si, Señor!”

  “Now,” he continued, turning back to the table. “Where were we?”

  No one answered. He looked at each of them in turn. Abby couldn’t hold his gaze, but the others stared at him stone-faced, until he broke the stare.

  “Ah, I see. I get it,” he nodded.

  Pedro arrived and placed a frothing pils
ner before each of them. Abby pushed hers away. Biker took his, raised it to his lips and drained it in six crowded gulps. When he finished, he smacked the glass back down on the table, wiped the suds from his lips with the back of his hand, glanced over his shoulders and then leaned in on the table.

  Conspiratorially, he whispered, “Okay, I got an idea. Don’t freak out on me or nothing.”

  He reached back under his jacket, pulled a pistol from his belt and laid it on the table with the muzzle pointing at himself. Abby drew back even further. Fishing in his jacket pocket, he pulled out a handful of loose bullets and dropped them on the table beside the gun. They clattered and rolled on the grimy tabletop. No one else moved.

  “This here is a M1911A1 single-action, semi-automatic, magazine-fed, and recoil-operated handgun, commonly referred to as a Colt .45,” he said, pointing at the gun. “Standard sidearm of the US military from 1911 to 1985. A solid shot in the chest from 50 paces will knock down an average-sized man like a feather in a windstorm.”

  After a short pause, he added with a hint of amusement, “Of course, I like to think of myself as more than the average man.” He thumped his chest once for effect and laughed alone at his joke.

  “Anyways, here it is. Take it. Load it. If you ever get to feeling that I am going to do you wrong, pop me in the ass with a couple shots from that bad boy and shut me down. Got it?”

  He looked around the table. No one moved for the gun. “Well?” he asked, shrugging his shoulders. “Look, that’s all I got.”

  Sliding out of the chair, he stood up, removed his jacket and hung it on the back of the chair, exposing his grimy, threadbare t-shirt. Then he raised his hands in the air and spun around in a circle, while they all watched in silence.

  “Nothin’ here.”

  He sat back down in the chair and propped a foot up in his lap. He pulled off a well-worn black boot and pulled up his jeans, revealing a bare foot and ankle. “Nothin’ here,” he repeated, not looking up. He put the boot back on and pulled down the jeans. Then he put his other foot up in his lap and repeated the process. He pulled off the boot to reveal another bare foot and an ankle adorned with a small, simple tattoo of a dove.

  “And nothin’ here,” he said. He put the boot back on and put his feet back on the floor before picking up the chair and scooting back up to the table.

  “And I don’t have nothin’ hidden in the jeans either,” he said, smiling. “You’ll have to take my word for it though. I ain’t takin’ them off in mixed company.”

  He chuckled again, alone. “So,” he gestured at the gun, watching each of them. “Take it, if it makes you feel more comfortable.”

  Without another word, Veronica grabbed the gun off the table and pulled the magazine from the base of the butt. She loaded the bullets with the precision and speed of an experienced sharpshooter, released the safety and pulled the gun in close to her before shoving it down under the table and leveling it at Biker’s stomach. Her eyes narrowed, and her confidence grew.

  Biker bent over, at a safe distance, and peered at the gun under the table.

  “Damn, girl, a gut shot! I like it,” he smiled.

  Without taking her eyes off him, she spoke to Steve, “Okay, we’re good now. Let’s get this moving.”

  Steve noticed how her eyes never wavered—she kept a constant watch on Biker’s hand. He also noticed that Biker kept his hands, palms down, on the top of the table. Clearly, the guy knew the stakes were high.

  Steve spoke, addressing Biker: “I don’t know who you are, but we want answers. Obviously, you know a lot about us, so I am not going to bluff you. We are scared—scared of you and of that Preacher.”

  Biker stared at him, nodding, while Steve pushed on: “I have only known this woman for two days, but I can already say with certainty that if you do not give us the answers we are looking for, she will shoot you. If you try to harm us in any way, she will shoot you. And if Preacher comes walking through that door, she will shoot him and then she will shoot you.”

  Steve paused for a moment. He felt stronger. “Fear, Mr. Biker, can be a very powerful weapon. Do not underestimate it.” He did not take his eyes off Biker. He wanted to read any reaction he could see, and he did not doubt for a minute that Veronica knew how to use that gun. Still, he wasn’t positive that she would pull the trigger on an unarmed man. He didn’t want a sideways glance at Veronica to ruin any façade created by his words.

  “Right,” said Biker. No longer smiling, he sighed, “This is kind of a long story.”

  “We’ve got the time,” said Martin. Everyone seemed a little more comfortable now that there was at least some protection by way of Veronica.

  “Okay, well let’s start at the beginning. Well, sorta the beginning. I need to ask you all to keep an open mind about what I got to tell you.”

  He paused and seemed to struggle to choose his next words carefully. “You know all that stuff you learned about in Sunday school? I’m talking God, heaven, Satan, hell—all that?”

  Steve and Martin nodded. Abby just stared. Veronica shifted the gun until it rested in her lap, the business end still pointing at Biker’s mid-section.

  “Well, for the most part, it’s pretty accurate. The Bible did a decent job of laying it down. Now this here, what we’re going to talk ‘bout now, now this is where it gets mighty interesting. . .”

  Chapter 34

  “God made man in his own image. Or, I guess I should say, he made people in his own image. But that was it. He didn’t make them to be deities or immortal. He wanted them to live a life of free will and choice. The short life of man would make them more attuned to living life to its fullest.”

  Nodding his head for emphasis, he moved quickly on.

  “God got things started, and then he let nature take over from there. He’s had the ability to sense the potential for good and evil in people from the time they are conceived. He doesn’t plant the good and evil in a person. Instead, he gives them all free will to manage themselves individually. There are some on the earth in whom God can sense a tremendous potential for good. Call them ‘positives.’ For those, he assigns a sort-of ‘permanent guardian angel’ to watch over them.”

  Biker paused. He could tell that he had their interest, if not their belief, in his words.

  “The problem is that Satan is just as real as the Big Man. And he’s also got the ability to sense this potential for good and evil. He’s got minions walking on Earth, hundreds of them, in fact. He assigns these personal demons to keep an eye on those people with a taste for evil and chaos. We call those people—“

  “Let me guess: negatives?” Veronica snapped, with a sarcastic smile.

  Gone was Biker’s jovial attitude. “Yes, that’s correct, Veronica,” he said, staring at her. “I made it simple for your sakes. Their true names are much more complicated. Now, let me continue, darlin’.”

  Steve braced, half expecting to hear the report from the Colt in Veronica’s lap. Instead, her smirk disappeared, but she did not otherwise acknowledge Biker’s stern tone. As Biker continued, Steve was aware that, while the voice was still his, the tone was like that of a college professor rather than a bar rat.

  “These demons provoke and stimulate the hatred in the negatives. They can coax unfounded hatred and unbridled cruelty from the negatives, making them much worse than they would have been on their own. Just as God is able to stimulate the power of Good in some, Satan turns others deeper into the darkness of Evil.”

  Biker leaned forward in the chair. “In the last five centuries or so, as order has been established in the world, the number of negatives on earth has increased greatly. Satan’s power on earth keeps growing and growing. A while back, say about the turn of the twentieth century, the angels thought they were gonna get a break. The age-old tricks that Satan’s demons relied on were no longer cutting it.”

  He tapped the table with his fingertips.

  “In the past, the demons could rely on things like superstition and
folklore, geographic isolation and petty tribal rivalries to stir up controversy. They used it to jack up fear and hatred.

  “As the world evolved, a lot of those things went away. But it turns out the angels had it even worse off. Today, the world leaps ahead in communication, science, medicine, technology. And although some might consider it a good thing, this has brought a lot more gateways of evil into being. For nearly every advancement you can think of, there’s a down side. There’s a counterpoint to every major improvement made here on earth.”

  He faced Steve. “Steve — you know a lot about technology. Think about cyber stalking, pedophiles and rampant child pornography.”

  “And Martin,” he continued, staring at Martin. “For every prescription you fill to ease someone’s burden, there’s a junkie in an alleyway or a young girl selling her body for her next spoonful.”