by David Perry
Peter checked his bars. “I’m about half.”
“You?”
“I’m good. I have a charger inside. You can fill ‘er up on the way.”
“So how should we play this?” Peter asked, withdrawing a second cigarette, lighting it, and sucking it down to half.
“Hopefully, he’ll be alone. I’ll approach the door by myself. You’ll hang back in the car, waiting and watching. You’ll be there in case anything goes wrong. And that’s final. I go in alone.”
“What about killing him?”
“I’m working on that.”
“What about making him disappear?”
“What do you mean?”
“We could kidnap him and keep him incommunicado until we have Michael and Chrissie back, then release him.”
“Who’s going to babysit him? We don’t have time to get more people involved. Plus we have a deadline … one in the morning.”
“Good point.”
“We’re going to have to play it by ear,” Jason declared.
“When do you want to leave?”
Jason rubbed his chin. “In a few minutes,” he replied. “Is Lisa pissed?”
Peter smiled and nodded. “I think she worries more about me being with you than she did about my being in Iraq.”
Jason nodded. “Can’t say I blame her.”
“You okay?” Peter asked. “You’ve been wearing out those jeans for the last hour.”
Jason lowered his eyes and saw his hands running up and down his thigh. He stopped and looked at his brother.
“I should have left all this stuff alone, Pete. If I hadn’t been chasing Clyde Hutton, I would have been there when they took her. I could have stopped it.”
“Maybe, but you wouldn’t have been able to keep them from taking Michael. We’d still be here trying to get him back. This was a well thought out op. She’s planned this a long time. Don’t worry, we’ll get them back. No matter what it takes.”
“Thanks. Give me a minute. I’ll get the gun and the money. I’ll come and get you. Have another smoke.”
“Copy that,” Peter said as he fished out his third butt.
Jason descended the stairs after leaving his bedroom. He had retrieved his Smith and Wesson and two boxes of rounds, the cash, and two empty clips from the small safe in his closet
The two-story Running Man residence still held a household’s worth of furnishings. The utilities were still on. He hadn’t spent much time here since he’d moved in with Chrissie six months ago. He drove the twenty minutes from Newport News and checked on things twice a week. Once in a while, he’d spend the night.
A melancholy gratitude filled him. Good thing I haven’t sold it, he thought. I might be moving back here.
Jason hesitated in the kitchen, peering through the window at his brother leaning on the deck the railing with his back to Jason. Intermittent puffs of smoke wafted skyward. He’d always chided Peter about his two-pack-a-day habit. And Peter always waved it away.
Tomorrow, he’d say. I’ll quit tomorrow.
His brother always smoked outside, even at home. Lisa would have it no other way. Today, he was glad for his brother’s addiction.
The keys to the Hummer lay on the counter beside the cell phone. Jason scooped them up.
He pivoted, exiting the kitchen through the foyer and opened the front door a fraction. The hinges squealed. He pulled it open wide enough to slip out and closed it silently behind him.
You’d run through hell in a gasoline suit for me, brother, Jason told himself. I can’t let you do it this time.
Jason knew the moment Hussein’s video instructed him to kill a man that he had to keep Peter out of it. He’d sacrificed too much. Lisa, Peter’s wife, already hated that Jason had exposed her husband to so many dangers. She’d never say it out loud. But he saw it in her eyes. Jason was sure she lobbied Peter about staying away from Jason. Jason also knew Peter defended him … every time.
On the way back to the house, Jason had devised a getaway plan. The idea to have a smoke on the deck and invite Peter to stay there for a minute had worked.
Jason pressed the button on the key fob, unlocking the doors. He hopped in and slipped the key in the ignition. The engine hummed to life. He jerked the gearshift into reverse and backed out.
As he curled into the street, the front door opened. Peter appeared in the doorway, confusion etched on his face. He bolted toward his Hummer.
Jason rammed it into drive, slamming the accelerator to the floorboard. The rear wheels spun on the pavement, causing it to fishtail. Smoke enveloped the Hummer. Peter intercepted Jason as he gained speed. The former marine slammed the passenger-door window.
“Jason, what the fuck!”
Jason stayed hard on the gas, swung the wheel right, and hurtled onto Running Man Trail. He watched an irate, arm-waving Peter grow smaller in the rearview mirror.
Chapter 25
Pastor Charles Bang walked through the soothing environs of the earth-toned tile and chocolate timbers of the Gloria Dei Lutheran narthex making his final rounds, checking on the vast Hampton complex, before heading home for dinner. He had taken the position as senior pastor a few years ago, moving his family down from Buffalo. He did not miss the harsh winters of northern New York State and enjoyed the warm, welcoming weather and attitudes of the Virginia locals.
He’d been uncertain about the move at first. The former pastor had passed away after a long, distinguished tenure building the church, school, and daycare from the days when the congregation met in a bowling alley. Nonetheless, they had welcomed him with open arms. He fit in here. It felt like home. His flock’s numbers were growing, and he looked forward to a lengthy tour at this holy duty station.
Through the inner glass doors leading into the sanctuary, he spied someone kneeling at one of the front pews. Not wanting to disturb the praying man, he opened the door and used his outstretched hand to keep it from bumping against the stop. Bang progressed up the center aisle at a leisurely pace, enjoying the view.
The sanctuary was nearly dark. The lights were off. The only illumination in the vaulted space seeped through the tall pentagonal-shaped windows cut into the nave walls and the more massive portals on either end of the transept. A fifteen-foot wood and brass crucifix hung suspended above the raised altar in a wash of supernal radiance. Bang loved the acoustics of the vast, stone sanctuary trussed with heavy, dark timbers. The massive pipe organ behind the altar brimmed the space with glorious Lutheran hymns each Sunday. The acoustically charged space carried his sermons to all corners of this place of worship with ease.
But in this early evening, the sounds reverberating through the vaulted ceilings were ones of despair and hopelessness. Bang had heard them before. And it signaled tragedy.
Ten feet away, Bang knew something was dreadfully wrong. The man’s head was bowed. His shoulders bobbed in a frenetic fashion. Anguished sobs escaped his quaking body. The sobs ceased when Bang placed a firm, gentle hand on the man’s shoulder.
“Can I help my son?”
The man turned and elevated his swollen red eyes to the cleric. The tear-streaked face was a familiar one to Bang.
“Jason? What’s wrong?”
Jason wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I need a prayer answered.”
“You’re in the right place.”
Jason searched Bang’s eyes. Bang regarded him in silence, his eyes imploring him to share his burden. As he watched and waited, the clergyman searched his memory for specifics about Jason Rodgers. Jason and his girlfriend, Christine Pettigrew, had come to Gloria Dei eight months ago. As he recalled, they were looking for a new start and had mentioned marriage at some point. Neither one of them had been members of a church, but wanted to change that. A friend had recommended Gloria Dei. They attended services regularly, but their busy schedules did not allow them much time to participate in church activities. Rodgers had a son named Mark or Mitchell, and Christine was childless.
Ban
g took up a position in the pew forward of the pharmacist and angled himself to face the distraught man. Reaching out, he placed a gentle hand on Rodgers’s arm and implored, “Tell me what’s wrong.”
Jason sighed. “I can’t give many details. I’m in a very difficult situation, Pastor.”
“Tell me what you can.”
“I’ve lost two people I love very much.”
“I’m sorry, Jason. How did they die?”
Jason shook his head. “They’re not dead. They’re missing.”
“What happened?”
“I asked Chrissie to marry me yesterday. But I’ve messed it up, Pastor. My past has messed it all up. Michael is gone also. It’s my fault. I may never see them again.”
“I don’t understand. Has a crime been committed?”
“Yes.”
“Have you gone to the police?”
“No. I’m doing everything I can. I was praying for them. I need you to pray for them. Can you do that for me … and for them?”
“Most definitely, my son.” Bang placed his hand on Jason’s bowed head and whispered a short, emphatic prayer.
“Dear gracious God, we pray for the lives of three of our own, Jason, Christine, and Michael. We ask that you watch over them and bring peace back into their lives. We ask that you help Jason find the skill and determination to bring his loved ones back into his life. In Jesus’ precious name we pray. Amen.”
“Thank you, Pastor. I have to go now. I have to be somewhere. Before I go, I have one last question for you.”
“Of course.”
“I’ve been placed in an impossible situation. I have to do something that will cause someone’s family great pain and suffering. I don’t know if I can do it. But if I don’t, I could lose the two people I love the most.”
“How can that be so?”
“Pray for Chrissie and Michael, Pastor. I’m asking you for forgiveness … in advance. I have to do something ungodly. I promised myself I would never do such a thing again. My hand has been forced.”
“Again? Jason, you’re not making any sense.”
“Is it ever justified to kill someone in order to save a loved one’s life?”
Charles Bang stared at Jason in complete shock. He’d been asked many difficult questions and been put in many difficult situations over the years. This question, however, was a first. He felt the blood drain from his face.
“Jason, I guess that depends.”
“Pastor, please pray for us.”
Before he could utter another syllable, Rodgers slipped out of the pew and marched toward the rear of the sanctuary. Bang watched, stunned, as Jason plowed his hands into the double glass doors, causing them to burst open.
He tried to call after the retreating pharmacist. But his normally sanguine voice had been sucked away by fear and confusion. All he mustered was a half-hearted, “Jason …”
Bang hurried after the pharmacist, scurrying out of the dark sanctuary through the narthex and foyer to the entrance. He arrived in time to see Jason Rodgers backing out of a parking spot in haste and squealing tires into the intersection with Fox Hill Road.
Jason pulled the Hummer to a stop at the curb on 65th Street, a hundred yards from the address that had been etched on the lid of the second miniature coffin. He was all too familiar with the street and building. He’d been here before. Two years earlier, he’d watched Douglas Winstead’s head explode in the living room of the dilapidated structure.
His anxiety had waxed as he drove to Newport News from the church in Hampton. Bile had risen to toxic levels in his gut, threatening to explode out of his mouth in an eruption of acidic vomit. Peter had blown up his cell phone with threatening text messages and voicemails, adding to Jason’s unease. He’d ignored all of them. He had not shared with Peter the address incribed into the lid of the second miniature coffin.
Jason had not grabbed the first cell phone marked number one in grease. Peter had left it on the counter along with the password that gave access to the text message. Now he rubbed his pants pocket, feeling the hard case of the second phone, the one from the miniature coffin with Chrissie’s name burned into it, beneath the denim of his jeans. He removed it and placed it on the Hummer’s passenger seat.
I’m going to need that later to call Hussein, he thought.
Throwing his head back, he sucked in several breaths, choked back his stomach contents, and tried to steady his nerves. Over the past two years, the seminal events had faded, hanging in the gallery of his mind like the work of a semi-known artist relegated to near obscurity. With the events of the last twenty-four hours, those once obscure memories had been moved into the main viewing gallery, ever present and shone upon by the brightest of lights. His past deeds, his actions, were being revisited. Jason did not want to live in that hell again. But as Dante Alighieri mused in his Divine Comedy, one must pass through hell to get to heaven.
He started to remove the weapon from his belt. A car passed by. A large black Cadillac. Jason hesitated, letting it slip past. The brake lights flared. It stopped at the intersection with Warwick Boulevard, hesitated a moment, and turned left heading north on the one-way thoroughfare.
When it had moved off, he removed the Smith and Wesson M&P 9 mm from under his shirt and checked the fifteen round clip. Full. Briefly, Jason’s mind flashed on his old gun, the Smith and Wesson 645 that Jasmine Kader had stolen from his house and planted in Sheila Boquist’s bedroom in an attempt to frame him for murder. The police had never given the 645 back to him, not that he cared.
Jason shook the memory from his mind and analyzed the new gun.
The composite grips felt evil in his hand. He racked the slide, chambered a round, and replaced the weapon in his belt, in front this time, and lifted his shirt over it.
Would he kill an innocent man to save Michael and Chrissie? Could he?
As he opened the car door, the muscles in Jason’s arm quivered. Hoping he would not have to pull the trigger, he walked like a zombie to the same rickety front porch he’d mounted with Walter Waterhouse a couple of years ago. Jason scanned the structure. Nothing had been done to improve its appearance. The paint was in a greater state of neglect. Absent shingles still dotted the old roof. Weeds had long ago crowded out any semblance of ordered greenery. The two-story neoclassical structure was proletarian in stature, having descended through the lowest socioeconomic strata.
None of that mattered. For Jason, this was a death house.
Jason had never had a reason to return to this neighborhood. And he would have avoided it at all costs if Michael and Chrissie’s lives weren’t depending on it. The images of Douglas Winstead’s head disintegrating flashed in his mind’s eye in a strobe-like, rapid-fire display.
The sound of the muted report, the crack of the glass, the smell of fear and sweat, and the tactile sensation of blood and bone hitting him in the face seemed real again, as if they had happened only moments ago. He wanted to turn and run, to drown the images and thoughts in a bottle of Knob Creek. It was a fleeting thought, however, whisked away by the image of Michael and Chrissie bound and blindfolded in a dark cell somewhere and frightened beyond all comprehension.
He climbed the steps and approached the front door. The floor boards creaked in the same manner and with the same devastating intensity. Jason smirked at the cloudy, convoluted irony of it all.
He had killed to save two important men. He had killed men … and a woman who had deserved to die. They had murdered a man he admired and respected. Thomas Pettigrew. Jason had dispensed a lethal justice with relative ease. At the time, he hadn’t thought about the emotional and mental aspects killing would leave in its wake. The people he’d killed were depraved, vicious individuals who had tried to kill two presidents. And they had violated his way of life.
He had killed to save two men he did not know, and done it with relative ease.
Today, he was being asked to kill again. This time an innocent man, a man he did not know. A man with whom he had
no quarrel. And Jason had to do it to save two more people. Two people who, in the scheme of world politics, were inconsequential.
But they were the two most important people in his life. Jason trembled at the thought of losing them. It would be just like Delilah Hussein to put him in such a quandary. The evil in that woman knew no bounds.
Jason placed his hand in his jean pocket, hooking the thumb outside, close to where the gun resided under his shirt. He mashed the doorbell and blew out a breath, vibrating his lips.
Seconds evaporated.
The curtain on the door moved. The painted, peeling portal swung open.
Jason studied the eyes of the man standing there. His eyes bore into the shrunken face of incarnate evil.
At that moment, Jason knew he had been wrong. He did know this man. He did have a quarrel with him.
“Come in,” the man said. “I’ve been expecting you.”
But would he … could he kill him?
Chapter 26
The Watcher had donned dark sunglasses. The position of his head gave the appearance that he was looking straight ahead. But behind the black shades, his eyes darted back and forth, scanning every inch of the scene before him.
He had followed Jason Rodgers from the church in Hampton. The dark-suited agent stayed hundreds of yards behind. He was not afraid of losing him. The Watcher knew the pharmacist’s destination … and he was tracking him using an app on his phone. The detour to the church caught him by surprise. The pharmacist had stopped off for a bit of spiritual counseling.
At 65th Street, he spied Peter Rodger’s Hummer, drove past, and circled back, taking Warwick Boulevard north, doubling back along Huntington Avenue, then turning back onto 65th Street.
He’d taken his time. When he returned, Rodgers was out of the car and nowhere to be seen. The Watcher concluded that he’d gone inside and met the man in the house.