The Messenger (2011 reformat)

by Edward Lee

  Carlton had a machete in the LLV. His hand reached down for it-he could see the head flying, blood sailing up from the stump in red strings-but then that increasingly familiar voice told him, No. That's not the message for today.

  Carlton nodded.

  You'd get caught by the authorities before you got to where I need you to be.

  Carlton nodded.

  He waved at Old Man Halm as he passed.

  Yeah, you're lucky today.

  Next house, there was Margarita Poole, on her hands and knees in the garden. She was pulling weeds. What a fox, Carlton thought. I would do her up so right... Five-two, a hundred and ten, and tan, tan, tan. She could be an Hawaiian Tropic model with all that flowing bronze hair and those grapefruit breasts. The gardening gloves didn't mesh with the rest of the look: fluorescent green bikini top and jeans cut off so high they could've been a denim thong. Christ. Carlton wanted to take her down right there in the garden, put those dirty gardening gloves on and strip her and feel her up but good. Then he’d give it to her hard in the mulch. Yeah, those gloves are a nice touch, he mused. When he was done with her, he'd strangle her with them. Then he'd chop her up in the yard, play with her pieces. Let all the neighbors see him, wearing only her blood as he danced in the sun.

  Carlton waved at her when he passed, and she shot him a great big white smile.

  I work for the Messenger now, he reminded himself. I can't let myself get distracted...

  No, the voice in his heart said, agreeing with him. But there's no harm in pondering.

  Pondering. Dreaming as he drove. What a luxury. He turned the LLV at the next corner. Somebody mowing their yard waved. Then a FedEx truck drove by in the oncoming lane, and the driver waved. Everybody knows me, Carlton felt secure. Everybody likes me. But they won't for long...

  He was being manipulated. He was being guided. Someone else's hands were on the wheel, someone else's spirit sharing his psyche. It made him feel exultant, it made him feel elevated. Carlton's heart just kept singing as he drove, not even consciously aware of his destination.

  At the corner a group of kids were waiting at the crosswalk, the old lady crossing guard holding up her hand for them to wait. The kids were all grade-schoolers, a little rowdy as kids would be, laughing. Good kids. Going places when they got older because they were diligent and they obeyed their parents and they did their homework every night. Yes, six of them, waiting for the guard to let them cross.

  Oh, it would be sweet, wouldn't it?

  The guard held her hand up to Carlton's lane. Carlton stopped, just ten feet from the line. The kids were coming across now.

  Time it just right...just right. He knew he could do it! His booted foot fidgeted over the gas pedal. If he waited two more seconds and then floored it-

  He'd get them all.

  There's where I want you, kids. Under my wheels...

  He could mow them all down in one bunch, drag their bodies under the chassis. Wouldn't necessarily kill them all, but he could turn around, couldn't he? Finish the job. Or maybe not. Maybe just drive away and leave some of them crippled.

  Carlton shook his head.

  No, no. You have a more important message, the Messenger told him.

  Carlton knew the Messenger was right. He'd have to put his human weakness away and be strong.

  But just as God tested Job, perhaps someone else was testing Carlton, dangling temptations before his eyes.

  Carlton sighed at what he saw next.

  When he turned another corner, to the last road before he'd be heading out of town limits, he saw Joanne Malloy getting out of her Mercedes wagon. She was like a lot of the rich bitches out here: well-tended, well-jeweled. Her husband made a fortune suing nursing homes and convalescent centers. Ooo, Carlton thought, slowing down. And it looks like the twins are home from school-Harvard, of course. Joanna was cut from a familiar mold: forty years old but looked thirty from a distance. Kerchief around her head like she was Jackie Kennedy on vacation in Cape Fucking Cod. The face-lifts got rid of the wrinkles and crow's feet from thousands of days lounging on the beach. Augmentation from the best plastic surgeons in the county took care of the saddlebags and boob sag. She looks like a million bucks, Carlton thought, which was probably what her husband had spent on her. Not very friendly, a stiff bitch. Nose in the air. Better than everybody else. And of course her spoiled-rotten nineteen-year-old twin daughters had the same disposition. Like mother, like daughter. They were in their first semester in college, and Carlton could bet they spent the whole time turning heads. And I'll bet they fuck their professors for grades, and pay them off with Daddy's money.

  They'd just come back from the beach, all in matching designer bikinis and flowing sarongs, hundred dollar flip-flops and sunglasses that probably cost half a g-note a pair. Yeah, there's a threesome, all right, Carlton mused again. He imagined the most debauched things, scenes that beggared description. All under force, of course, under the threat of death. Naw, I'm afraid there wouldn't be much cuddling. He eyed their perfect contours, the outlines of their perfect breasts, six long tan legs all walking in unison around the half-circle driveway. The front door to the house could've been the front door to an embassy. You know, Carlton thought, I'll bet that fucking door cost more than my car.

  It did, his guide replied. And there's something you must know.

  What?

  They hate you. They think they're better than you. They think you exist simply to serve them. You're a servant to their falsehood and gluttonies.

  Oh am I, now?

  Carlton waved as they passed.

  Joanna turned and looked at him, soulless in the sunglasses. She didn't wave. She didn't even smile. All that returned Carlton's greeting was the blankest of looks-a look of no acknowledgment-which Carlton deemed a worse insult than a frown. Hell, she could've given him the finger, and it wouldn't have been as mocking. The two snooty twins turned their heads, too, with the same looks. One of them shielded her eyes, gazing more intently.

  "Who's that, Mom?"

  "Oh, it's just the flunky mailman," her mother said.

  Carlton heard that one. Oh "Just the flunky mailman?

  He'd go in there and show them the flunky mailman. Oh, yes. Carlton pulled over to the curb and stopped the LLV. He turned the engine off. In all the delectable musings of these past few minutes, one suddenly occurred to him that easily ranked superior to the others.

  I'll go in there and bust them up. No, not kill them. Just give 'em all a good shot to the head to knock them out. Strip them all down-no, cut their little bikinis off-then have a little party. After that, drag the three of them into the garage.

  And what then?

  Carlton knew in an instant. He'd hog-tie the twins and wake 'em up. Then he'd hang the mother upside-down by her ankles. He'd ensure that her legs were spread good and wide, like a wishbone. And he'd make the twins watch as he slit the mother open from crotch to sternum. Flap her guts out onto the floor. Maybe even put a bucket under her to catch the blood.

  Then drink the blood right in front of the twins.

  He'd only kill one of them. Real slow. Maybe put a wire-wheel on her, or a soldering gun. Something to really get her making noise. He wanted it loud. Because he wouldn't kill the other twin. Maybe he'd put a tourniquet around her wrists and chop her hands off, or wreck her face with the soldering gun. But, no, he wouldn't kill her. He needed the other twin to remember her sister's eardrum-ripping screams. Traumatize her for the rest of her life. Ruin her.

  He'd have a little more fun with her one last time- put a bun in her oven, too, if he was lucky-and maybe leave her sister's head in her lap and dump the rest of her mother's blood on her head, and then he'd leave, but before he left the house, he knew what he would say to her.

  He'd say: Take a look, Miss Priss. Pretty good work for a flunky mailman, huh?

  Yes. That's what Carlton would say to her when he was finished.

  He was looking at their front door. He was about to get out
of the LLV and walk to the house but before he could do so, something stopped him. His legs pulled back inside as though someone else were controlling them.

  Carlton knew who. And he knew why.

  He pulled away, content, resolved.

  All these things in his mind he knew he could do. He could do them easily and without hesitation. All of these messages he would be thrilled to deliver, Old Man Halm, Margarita, the kids at the crosswalk, Joanna Malloy and her twins-but that, he knew, would be selfish.

  Carlton's guide had instructed him well. There was a far more important message to be sent today.

  It was only a few more minutes until he got there. Right before the turnoff, however, he began to feel sick. Nauseated. Edgy. But was it Carlton who was getting sick, or was it his guide?

  He jerked his gaze to the left and there it was. The sprawling white building with black trim, the big sign out front. The sun shot the shadow of the steeple across the road, a dark ghost.

  St. Mary's Episcopal Church, the sign read, along with a quote from Luke:

  "Here Am I, the servant of the Lord; Let it be with me according to your word."

  Carlton couldn't help but stop the vehicle. He was about to throw up. It wasn't the church-the Messenger had trod through many churches throughout history, to desecrate them. No, it wasn't the church at all.

  It was something about the church...

  ...Carlton felt panicked when he looked upward. Atop the steeple was a simple cross, as anyone might expect. The cross had no power against him, nor the Messenger. But just below the cross, something jutted. Carlton stared, sickness boiling up.

  A gold statue stood there: an angel with a trumpet.

  The Archangel Gabriel, the messenger of God.

  Carlton snarled at the figure, hurled some invective in a language that had never been spoken on Earth. The profanity fired into the air loud as a cannon shot. Birds lifted off from trees en masse. Carlton wasn't sure but it seemed that even the statue itself rocked at its base.

  The hands controlling his hands gripped the wheel. The foot controlling his foot stomped the accelerator. Carlton and the Messenger sped away.

  The vision of the Messenger's nemesis left Carlton feeling crazed and depressed-but mostly crazed. It would all work out for the best, though he knew that.

  It would help him deliver the message more effectively. His mentor's rage was being shared with Carlton, it was becoming part of him. The Messenger's heart beat in synchronicity with Carlton's heart. The Messenger's lust was now Carlton's lust. Carlton and the Messenger were now essentially one.

  The sedate private school and its plush grounds shimmered in the sun. There was an opened gate access but no guard, no one to sign in with. The sign read:

  THE SEATON SCHOOL FOR CHRISTIAN GIRLS.

  A Cement fountain gently gushed at the center of the entrance court.

  Nice place.

  A hush seemed to spread across the grounds when he drove the LLV through the gate. Carlton drove past the administration building and St. Agnes Hall, which was the main classroom facility. A few moments later he was parking in front of the long, front-pillared dormitory building.

  "Why, hello!" the nun at the front desk greeted him.

  Carlton smiled.

  Sister Katrice was not a clichéd nun; in other words she wasn't elderly, bowed, and wrinkled. Instead the woman in the habit who smiled back at Carlton was attractive and vibrant, mid-thirties, a pretty face.

  Carlton's smile deepened as he approached with his package. "Behold the Messenger," he said jovially.

  Sister Katrice's brow furrowed. "Pardon me? Oh, you mean you have a package for us."

  "Yep. It didn't get out on the first run so I brought it over."

  The nun seemed excited, something to break up what must be a very dull post. "Who's it from?"

  It's from the deepest crevice of hell, the Messenger's voice creaked in Carlton's heart, and Carlton himself would've loved to say that but instead he simply looked at the return address and said, "Let's see. Local address, no name, same zip code. Whoever sent it didn't really need Express Mail. Still would've been same day. Oh, well."

  Then he chuckled. "The post office needs the money anyway."

  Sister Katrice grabbed a pen. "Do I need to sign for it?"

  "Actually, yes. There's a return-receipt request." He pulled off the tab and gave it to her.

  "I wonder what it is," she said with enthusiasm, scribbling her name.

  "Hmm, look at that." Carlton looked at the edge of the box. The flap was unsealed. "It must...must've come open so let's see." He stuck his hand into the box.

  Sister Katrice was frowning but she didn't say anything. From the box Carlton withdrew a carpenter's hammer. It was a quality one: a fiberglass handle, anodized stainless steel head, one end flat, the other beveled.

  Sister Katrice squinted at it. "A hammer?"

  Carlton hefted it in his hand. "Sure looks like a hammer to me."

  "Why on earth would someone send us a hammer?"

  "Here's why," he told her.

  And that was just the beginning of a glorious day.

  II

  Jane was too perturbed. When Steve Higgins left her office, she sat there a moment and just shook her head. Yes, the situation was curious, but there could be many explanations.

  Next thing she knew she was up and out of her office, trotting out to the parking lot. "Chief Higgins! Wait!"

  He'd already gotten into his patrol car, and rolled down the window. He seemed to be putting his radio back in its slot when he looked up at her.

  "You can't just go arrest Carlton because someone at the Qwik-Mart saw him last night with dirt on his face. That's ridiculous."

  "It's not ridiculous, Ms. Ryan," he said. "It's probable cause. We'd be negligent not to investigate."

  "So where are you going?"

  "To the address of the delivery he's on, Seaton School for Christian Girls. And I've already dispatched a uniformed unit."

  "Would you please wait a minute!" she insisted. "This is a mistake!"

  "If it's a mistake, then we can make that determination after questioning. So if you don't mind, I've got to get out there now."

  "I'm going with you," she huffed.

  "Ms. Ryan, please. It's police business. You can't-"

  Jane slipped around to the other side of the car and got in. She slammed the door closed.

  "You're persistent, aren't you?" Steve observed.

  "I'm Carlton's boss. It makes sense for me to be there."

  "All right, fine." He pulled off. "But I don't want you getting in the way, I don't even want-"

  "Besides, I want to be there to see you eat your words," Jane added. "For goodness sake. You're all up in arms because someone saw him dirty. Did you ever think that maybe he had a flat tire."

  "What was he doing out at that hour?"

  "It's a free country, isn't it? He's got to be to work by six in the morning anyway, which means he's up by five at least. We all get up early in this job. Maybe he was simply out for a drive. You ever done that?"

  "I've never done that only to be reported later to the police as being covered in grave dirt," Steve replied.

  "He didn't say grave dirt! He said he was dirty. So what?"

  "The clerk said the man had bits of soil on him. And he positively identified the man as Carlton Spence."

  The more Jane thought about it, the more laughable the situation became. Of course, there was nothing funny about what had happened, but the idea of a low-key guy like Carlton getting involved in some cult and digging up a grave was preposterous.

  Steve didn't say anything as he drove. The silent type? For some reason, though, he didn't strike her that way except for maybe when he was at work. He's a good-looking man, she caught herself thinking. Intense eyes. Lean, not overtly muscular but in shape. In spite of the heat, he kept the air-conditioning off and the window down, his blondish hair waving in the wind. When he put his sunglasses on he l
ooked even more attractive, enigmatic, perhaps-but more like a cop. She smirked at herself. What am I thinking? The nip of guilt panged her. The last thing I should be doing is sizing a guy for his looks after all that's happened here lately. Jeez...

  He looked over at her, eyes hidden now. "Could you put your seat belt on, Ms. Ryan?"

  Jane rolled her eyes. "The Seaton school is less than five miles away!"

  He looked back at the road ahead. "It's a state law."

  Jane laughed. "Let me guess, you're going to arrest me."

  "No, but I'll give you a $500 fine if you want."

  She held on the words a moment, looking back at the side of his face. I guess he's serious, she realized.

  Jane buckled her seat belt.

  All business, she presumed. She didn't see a ring on his left hand, not that she'd really looked that consciously.

  Would you get off it?

  She returned her mind to the current predicament-a complete calamity. She could never even imagine such a thing. But one thing she was sure of:

  Carlton has nothing to do with any of this.

  Steve's radio hissed in a burst of static, then a voice came on, "Unit One, this is Unit Six. Do you copy?"

  "Go ahead," Steve said after pushing on the intercom.

  "I just pulled up to the school's dormitory. There's a mail truck there."

  "Is Spence in it?"

  "No, sir. No one in the vehicle. No sign of anyone around the vehicle. He's gotta be inside the building."

  Steve thought through some static. "All right, check it out. Proceed with caution. This might be nothing, but you never know. My ETAs about five minutes, but I don't want you to wait. Find him and detain him. If it gets hairy, pull out and call for backup."

  "Roger, Unit One. I'm 10-6 as of right now."

  The transmission ended.

  Jane scoffed. "You're kidding me. 'If it gets hairy?' This sounds like some cop show."

  "It's no show, Ms. Ryan. Do I have to remind you that in the last couple days we've had almost thirty people murdered by the same woman, and last night that same woman's corpse was exhumed from her grave?"