The Church of Broken Pieces

by David Haynes

  He washed his hands in the sink again, using the nail-brush to scrub away the blackened blood that was proving difficult to erase. A flake of it sat under the nail on his thumb and despite scrubbing, bathing and an ill-conceived bleaching experiment, it was still there.

  He pulled a knife from the wooden block. He had no idea what the numerous blades were specifically for but the little one would do the job just fine. He pushed the tip to the skin, just where the nail was attached, and then pushed a little further. It didn’t hurt. Well, no, it did hurt but not in a bad way. There was a booming sound in his ears, his heartbeat he supposed. He could see the tip of the blade through the opaque nail, just a few millimeters short of the blood. He pushed again just a little and the smallest fragment of Phil Moody adhered to the blade. He pulled it out, held it under the faucet until a single droplet of water dripped down and washed it away. He felt powerful. God-like.

  He wiped the blade and slid it back into the block. Phil’s attempt at tackling the two lawyers had gone badly. He’d watched it from inside Phil’s unlocked car. Maybe if the oaf had tried it earlier on in the night things might have gone differently, but he’d been too busy drinking beer. When he finally stirred himself, he was probably too drunk to know what he was doing. Nevertheless, Wilson seemed to know how to throw his shoulder into a punch alright. He’d almost heard the sound of Phil’s teeth clattering together from outside. He was way too quick for Fat Phil. And merciless.

  There was something powerful about the way Donovan had gone to work on Phil. First with his fists and then with his knee; something alluring about the jet of blood and cartilage. He’d been bouncing on the back seat like a child on vacation shouting, “Again!” before he’d realized where he was. It had been mesmeric. But hadn’t it always been that way? Wasn’t that why he’d sought out the Marines? The opportunity to deal in barbarism and all the erotic beauty that came with it was a major draw.

  He had masturbated in the back of Phil’s car. Looking through the grimy glass of a beaten-up Country Squire, he’d stared at the gore-covered face of John Donovan and cleaned his rifle. But it hadn’t been enough, nowhere near enough. So when Sonny led Phil to the car, he’d hunkered down in the back and gone for a ride – all the way to Phil Moody’s squalid little hovel by the river.

  Phil should never have been driving. He’d drunk way too much beer and taken too many shots to the head to make it safe. But he got them back home in one piece. Driving drunk was probably within Fat Phil’s limited skill set. Not once had he looked in his rear-view mirror and even if he had, it was doubtful he would have seen the crouching Reverend. There seemed to be only slits where his eyes were, such was the swelling. It looked sore.

  Phil more or less abandoned his car. He left it half on the road and half across his neighbor’s driveway. Phil stumbled up his driveway swearing and cursing, fell into his house and crawled into his La-Z-Boy. When the Reverend entered through the open front door, Phil was already snoring. The sound was an ugly rattle through his destroyed nose and bloody snot bubbled in his nostrils. He looked every bit as disgusting asleep as he did awake.

  Cavendish tipped the remainder of his coffee down the sink and shrugged into his woolen overcoat. It was possible he’d picked up a chill walking back from Phil’s last night. It was unlikely he’d be spotted taking a walk in the early hours but not impossible, so he took a more circuitous route back home. It took twice as long as it would have done with a direct route but it was time well spent. He hadn’t exactly looked his best.

  By the time he’d finished with Phil, it was difficult to know where man finished and carpet began. Not that the carpet had been clean to begin with. There were cookie, chip and candy wrappers everywhere. Bits of all of those foodstuffs were embedded into what little fibers of carpet remained. The floor crunched underfoot. At least it did before Phil became part of it. Then it just squelched.

  He had tortured people before. In Iraq there had been ample opportunity for him to use the skills the military gave him, but it was a long time ago and he was a different man then. He didn’t understand how or why holding another life in his hands gave him such a uniquely exquisite orgasm. He wished he could go back and experience those deaths again with what he understood now. Torturing someone was the ultimate power trip. They didn’t know whether they were going to live or die, only you did. Personal, up close and drawn out. You were their god. No opportunity for mystifying ambiguity there.

  Phil had asked “Why?” in his final moments. A low-pitched whispering gargle of a question through a mouthful of blood and carpentry nails. It was a simple enough question with a simple enough answer.

  “Because I can,” he’d answered. And why not? It was a spectacularly good answer. Because I can. When you are a devil, not The Devil, or when you are a god, not The God, you can do things just because you can. Perk of the job.

  Now all he needed to do was wait for Sheriff Dumb-Ass to call him, which he would as a sign of respect for being an indispensable community leader. Also, and possibly more importantly, because the Church of Broken Pieces was a financial contributor to the sheriff’s department. Then, he could casually mention that Phil Moody was drinking in Sonny’s last night. Now who was he with? That’s right, the last he saw Phil he was having a row with those two lawyers. Now what were their names again... Ah yes, John Donovan and Frank Wilson. That’s right. You really ought to speak to Sonny about what happened, I wasn’t there, Sheriff. I’ll come with you though if you think I’m needed. I always go where I’m needed.

  22

  “He hasn’t been in?” Wilson asked.

  He had waited in the room for as long as he could manage. If he’d stayed there much longer, he might have ripped the cowboy from the wall and fed him to Jerry. The diner was the first place he could think of looking for Donovan.

  Courtney shrugged. “Haven’t seen him since we left Sonny’s.” She didn’t seem any the worse for her run-in with Phil Moody.

  “That wasn’t John last night, you know?” Wilson started. “I mean, I’ve known him for a long time and he’s never been like that before. I’ve never even seen him lose his temper.”

  She poured him a cup of coffee. “Phil Moody is a jerk, used to beat his wife with a broom handle if she burned his coffee. I know men like that, I can see it in their eyes. My dad was one of them.” She put the coffee pot down and looked at Wilson. “I didn’t think John was like that. I still don’t, despite what happened last night. He isn’t like either of them.”

  She pushed the coffee across the counter. “Doesn’t mean to say I like what he did to Phil. Doesn’t mean to say I like what he became for those few seconds.”

  Wilson took the coffee, wrapping his hands around the cup. You’d like it even less if you’d seen the movie on his camera, he thought. “Maybe he’s gone up to see Dr Hamilton?” he said aloud.

  “Can’t you just call him?” she asked.

  Wilson patted his pocket. “Left his phone.”

  She shrugged again. “Well, you know him better than anyone, I’m sure he’ll turn up.”

  Wilson nodded. The Sheriff’s car drove past the window, heading toward Sonny’s. “Busy this morning,” he said.

  Courtney nodded. “You heard the Sheriff earlier?”

  “And an ambulance.”

  They both looked at each other.

  “You don’t think it’s anything to do with last night, do you?” Wilson asked. “Phil looked in a ...”

  She shook her head. “No, I watched Sonny from my bedroom window. I watched him pour Phil into his car last night. He drove away like his ass was on fire. It takes more than a knock on the head to put a man like that down.”

  Wilson knew she was speaking from experience. He sipped his coffee. “We’ll probably be heading back today. Soon as I find John, anyway.”

  “Not much to hang about here for, I guess.” She sounded sad.

  “I don’t know. The meatloaf is pretty spectacular.” He winked at her.

&n
bsp; She smiled. “I know the circumstances have been horrible but it’s been good having a couple of new faces around. Faces that aren’t trying to buy up half the town and tear it down, anyway. It’s been a while since anyone stopped to pass the time of day in here.”

  “Except for Reverend Cavendish,” he said.

  She threw a cloth in his face. “You had to ruin it, didn’t you?”

  He laughed and finished the coffee. “We’ll drop by later to say goodbye.”

  “I’ll parcel up some of that meatloaf for the road.” She disappeared into the kitchen.

  Outside, the street was deserted except for the Sheriff’s cruiser parked up outside Sonny’s bar. For the second time that day, Wilson wished he had never set foot in Hemlock Mill. If Donovan wasn’t at the diner, there was only one other place he could be. Up at the hospice. But why would he go there on his own? He needed to reach him before anyone else, before the Sheriff.

  He made it halfway up the hill before Sheriff Taylor pulled up beside him. He wound down the window.

  “Mr Wilson, jump in the back please.” It wasn’t a question.

  He felt sick but he climbed in the back seat. He left the door open.

  “Close the door, please.” Sheriff Taylor killed the engine and turned around.

  “What can I do for you?” Wilson asked. He knew this was about Donovan, just knew it. “Is it John? Is he okay?”

  “I thought he’d be with you. You guys don’t normally go far without each other. He back at the motel?”

  There was a slight feeling of relief. The Sheriff hadn’t come to deliver a message about Donovan being in an accident. But, there was a darker cloud on the horizon. What did the Sheriff actually want him for?

  “What’s this about?” he asked.

  “Afraid I can’t tell you that, I just need to speak with him. I’ll come round and let you out.”

  Taylor turned back and opened his door. Before he could climb out Wilson spoke. “He’s not at the motel.”

  Taylor turned back around. “Where is he, then?” There was a change in the Sheriff’s tone; more urgent but he still sounded calm.

  “He’s just gone on an errand.”

  “Won’t get far without your car.” Taylor smiled. “Where is he, Mr Wilson?”

  Wilson wiped a hand over his chin. The stubble was spiky and coarse. “Truth is, I’m not sure.” He bit his lip. He shuffled on the leather seat. “What’s this about, Sheriff?”

  Taylor took a deep breath. “You guys had a run-in with Phil Moody over at Sonny’s last night. This morning Phil Moody’s dead.”

  “Shit,” Wilson hissed, closing his eyes. He snapped them back open. “You don’t think John did it, do you?”

  “I think whoever did that to Phil Moody is sick. I think whoever it is that’s responsible has no part in society. Now, not many people liked Phil, he had his... issues. But I need to speak with all of those people and both you and Mr Donovan fall into that category. The sooner we speak, the better it is for him.”

  The Sheriff shifted in his seat. “So, I’ll ask you again, Mr Wilson. Where is Mr Donovan?”

  Wilson pointed toward the hospice. “Maybe up there? That’s where I was going anyway.”

  “Good,” Taylor turned around. “Then after we’ve found him, you’ll both need to come in and we’ll talk about last night.”

  He twisted the key in the ignition and drove out of town.

  “We left Phil in the bar with Sonny,” he said. “Have you spoke to Courtney yet? She saw Phil drive away. John was in his bed asleep all night, no way he could have done anything.” He realized he was babbling and shut up.

  “So how come you don’t know where he is this morning?” The Sheriff looked at him in the rear-view mirror. Wilson couldn’t answer.

  *

  Sheriff Taylor led the way into the facility.

  “Morning, Jack.” Nurse Jones smiled at him. “And Mr Wilson, good to see you. Mr Donovan was here earlier. I think he left a while ago though.”

  “That answers my question,” Taylor said. “What time was that?”

  She tilted the watch on her breast. “He was here before I came on duty. About seven.” She frowned. “What’s this about?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing. Just need to talk to him, that’s all.” He waved a dismissive hand. “What did he do while he was here?”

  “I couldn’t say,” she replied. “I only saw him as he was leaving. Joe was on the night shift.” She flicked through the diary on the desk. “He didn’t sign in, that’s a bit naughty. Do you want to speak to Dr Hamilton?”

  “She in her office?” The Sheriff walked toward the stairs, clearly familiar with the place. He was a big man, not in the Phil Moody category but he was working his way there.

  “She’s on her rounds.”

  She smiled at Wilson as he passed. He tried to return the gesture but his face was gripped by a troubled rigor. What the hell had Donovan been doing? Why had he come so early and where was he now? He followed Taylor up the stairs onto the landing, where Louise Hamilton was waiting.

  “Thought I heard voices,” she said. She looked better than she had yesterday but dark rings formed shadows beneath her eyes.

  “We were looking for Mr Donovan, Nurse Jones said he’d been here?”

  “John?” She looked directly at Wilson. “I haven’t seen him but I arrived after Nurse Jones and went straight to my office. Is he okay, Frank?”

  Sheriff Taylor raised his eyebrows. The familiarity in her voice obviously shocked him.

  “I’m sure he’s okay,” started Wilson.

  Taylor interrupted. “I just need to speak to him, that’s all. Do you know where he went, who he visited?”

  She shrugged. “Frances Pace, I guess.” She looked over her shoulder. A nurse was pushing a medication trolley toward them. “Wendy? Did you see Mr Donovan this morning?”

  “Sure, he went in to see Frances. Why? Is there a problem?”

  Why did everything need to be a problem?

  “No, no problem.” Dr Hamilton turned back. “There’s no reason for him to see anyone else, is there?”

  “No,” Wilson replied. “We only represent her interests.”

  The three of them were silent for a moment before Dr Hamilton spoke. She addressed Wilson. “It sounds like Lucy Beaumont is going to be okay. For a while at least. Thanks to John. There’s no way I could have lifted her down, not on my own. He’s a good man.”

  He couldn’t be completely sure but Wilson suspected she had said that last sentence for the Sheriff’s benefit. As if she knew something was wrong and wanted to help John.

  “Mind if we take a quick look in on Mrs Pace?” Taylor was unmoved by her brief testimonial. What did he think he was going to find? Mrs Pace dead with John Donovan’s signature on her bedsheets?

  “Not at all, but I’ve just come from her room and she’s fine.” She looked at Wilson. “No change, she’s still twitching, not like a gymnast or anything but there’s movement.”

  Taylor nodded. “I don’t really need to see her then, if you say she’s okay.”

  His original intention was obvious then. He really did expect Donovan to have killed her. Wilson let out a long exhale.

  “Have you got a room I could use?” Taylor asked. “A private room I can use to speak to Mr Wilson in?”

  “Sure.” Dr Hamilton pointed along the opposite wing to where Frances Pace’s room was. “First door on the right.”

  He smiled at Wilson. “Not planning on going anywhere, are you?”

  “No,” he answered.

  “I’ll fetch some paperwork and I can take your statement.” He nodded at Dr Hamilton and walked back down the stairs.

  Dr Hamilton waited until he was out of range and then grabbed Wilson’s arm. “What’s going on? Statement? About what?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Phil Moody’s dead and he thinks we – well John, I think – had something to do with it.”

  “What?” Her voi
ce and eyes were incredulous.

  He nodded. “And now John’s gone missing.”

  “What?” she repeated. “I don’t get it. Why does he think you had anything to do with it? As far as I know, Phil Moody was universally despised.” She shook her head in disbelief.

  “We had a run-in with him at Sonny’s last night. He came in there looking for it. Went for Courtney too, that’s when John stepped in.”

  “Jesus Christ!” she shouted and then covered her mouth. “Courtney was with you?” she whispered.

  He nodded. “She was playing pool with John. Phil decided he didn’t like us being there. No reason for it, just thought he needed to smack someone, I guess.” He saw her eyes glide over his face looking for signs of injury, signs of a fight. “He was too drunk to fight his way out of a paper bag.”

  “And Courtney? Is she okay?”

  “I think so, Phil pushed her over but John got him off.” With a pool cue, he thought. “She’s a tough girl,” he added.

  “Not as tough as she makes out. I’ll go see her later. Do you know where John is? He didn’t kill Phil, did he?” She shook her head vigorously. “No, no, of course he didn’t. Sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. Just my tired brain misfiring.”

  “It’s okay,” he replied. “John didn’t do anything. I just need to find him.”

  “Can’t you just call him?”

  “He left without his phone.”

  Nurse Jones shrieked downstairs, making them look over the railing. “Abby?” Dr Hamilton called down.