Murder, Mayhem & a Fine Man

by Claudia Mair Burney

  Unless she wanted him to be found.

  My stomach flipped. Now I hoped and prayed the address wasn’t Michael/Gabriel’s.

  I found the address on a mailbox at the end of a long gravel driveway. I stopped the car and turned off the headlights. My instincts about his desire for secrecy had been correct. I could barely see the long ranch house hidden and shrouded by trees. It sat on an expanse of fenced land that stretched well beyond what I could see in the dark. It had to be well over an acre.

  I drove with the headlights off, the tires crunching the gravel like an alarm. I hoped the occupants couldn’t hear me quite yet.

  As I approached the house, I could see it looked worn yet not quite dilapidated. It certainly didn’t bear the well-kept look of a “Home, Sweet Home.” Metal bars guarded all the windows and the one door I could see. Love don’t live here anymore, I thought.

  I parked my Bug halfway down the long driveway. It occurred to me that I could pretend to be a damsel in distress. I was conservatively dressed and certainly not threatening-looking. A little car trouble. Could I please use your phone?

  It could work. Right? It would give me a peek into the house. If I were fortunate, Susan would be there and would be willing to talk. If not…

  God help me.

  I proceeded to the front door with caution, all the while having a little chat with myself.

  What do you think you’re doing? Turn around, go home, and leave this to the police, spoke the voice of reason.

  But the other side of me needed a chance to voice her opinion, too. Go ahead, girl. You know you’re dying to know who’s in there. What if it’s him? What if he’s got the women and kids in there, about to kill them? You can be a hero.

  I chastised myself. This could very well be Susan’s parents’ home. Or an annoyed middle-aged man wearing ratty pajama bottoms, with a T-shirt stretched unbecomingly over his paunch, could answer the door and send me off, damsel in distress or not.

  By this time, I was at the door. I gave it a hard knock and hoped this experience wasn’t going to give me one.

  The door opened cautiously, and a pair of eyes, hidden in shadows, peered out.

  A woman. A living, breathing one—but not a healthy one. Looking into her face, I knew. I’ve found Gabriel’s lair. Thank You, Lord. Help me find the babies.

  The woman stuck her head out the door to get a better look at me. She looked no older than Susan, but she had a soul weariness about her. She reminded me of me, this honey-colored African-American girl. I saw my own face in hers—seven years ago—and felt my heart shatter, the pieces scattering in a wild free fall, like glass shot through with a bullet.

  She did have one thing I hadn’t had when I lived with Adam: a spark—albeit tiny—of defiance in her eyes.

  “Hello,” I said.

  She paused, as if she could read the sympathy in my eyes, and quickly looked down. “What do you want?” she whispered.

  Good question.

  “I’d like to use your phone.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m having…”

  What? A flashback to my misspent youth? A suicidal need to rescue you from cursed communion? Answer her, Bell. “Is Gabriel here?”

  “You shouldn’t be here.” She looked behind her. In that moment she could have been crowned Miss Terrified Paranoia.

  And what is that smell?

  A man, about the size of an action figure, appeared behind her. He stretched to the full height of his five feet. He pulled the woman aside, apparently to stand in the doorway and look at me. My heart flipped into overdrive.

  Michael Wright, now called Gabriel.

  A half smile crept across his face. “I knew you’d return to me, Amanda.”

  My blood turned to ice water.

  “It’s Green, right? Amanda Green.”

  I forced a smile. “What a memory you have.” That would serve to flatter him and keep him from knowing my last name. I wanted him to know as little about me as possible. As it was, I could hardly believe he remembered me. Then again, as soon as he came to the door, I remembered him.

  Michael had changed more than his name. Seven years ago he really did look like a red-haired, bespectacled G.I. Joe—from the shirt-bulging muscles down to the stubble on the chin. He wore those big, plastic-framed glasses every predator with less than 20/20 vision wore. Michael had had serious issues with his height and tried to compensate by dressing like his idol, Prince. He was no Prince, however. He would even have been turned down as a prom date by a desperate girl in a horrid yellow dress that made her look like Big Bird.

  Gabriel was still short, but he’d aged, and not gracefully. Gray flecked his oily red hair. His eyes seemed to be larger than I remembered. He looked hot, and not in a good way. Perspiration beaded on his face, and moisture trailed down his chest and made circles at the armpits of the dingy white T-shirt hanging on his bony body. Something had ravished him—most likely drugs.

  The sick little elf stood there and undressed me with a bold look. I doubted that in his mind I was wearing my classic blue suit. His intense gaze burned into me. I took a step back to distance myself from his unrelenting stare.

  “You remember me?” I asked, forcing my mouth into a grimace I hoped I could pass off as a smile.

  He gave me a curt nod. “I know it’s been a long time, but I remember everyone who belongs to me.” He leaned against the doorframe. Again, his eyes swept up and down my body. I’d changed, too, and he’d noticed.

  “You’ve gained weight.”

  He had to be a nutjob to say that to a woman.

  I nodded amicably. “Yes, well. Like you said, it’s been a long time.”

  “You came to three of my studies, maybe six or seven years ago. I thought I’d see you again sooner. What took you so long?” Honestly, the man looked like he wanted to devour me.

  I knew I shouldn’t give him any information that he could use against me. “You know how it is, Michael. Life gets in the way.”

  He didn’t seem pleased with my answer. “Nothing should stand in the way of spiritual perfection and oneness with God, and I’m not Michael anymore. That is the name of an inferior being. I am Gabriel.”

  At that moment my fight-or-flight instinct emerged, giving me a clear, unmistakable urge from God to run.

  Unfortunately, an inflated sense of heroism prevented my flight. Now that I’d been discovered, I decided to stay and fight to find the women and children. How many women could I save?

  He leered at me. “Your hair is different now.”

  “I cut it for my birthday.”

  “You will grow it back. A woman’s hair is her glory.”

  How do you really feel, Gabe?

  “How did you find me?” he asked, his green eyes darting from side to side with paranoia.

  Now there’s a good question. I had to be shrewd. What would best appease this man? Do I rat out Susan? What if she’s here? I decided on an answer that wouldn’t implicate anyone—anyone alive, that is—and hoped his ego was big enough to buy it.

  “Seek and you shall find.”

  He nodded appreciatively and gave me that really bad half smile. “You’ve been seeking me?”

  “You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted to find you.”

  “And how did you find me?”

  God, help me say this the right way. Easy girl.

  “Through Jonathan and Damon. I remembered their house and went from there.”

  This actually quieted the moron. I let the little shrimp usher me inside.

  Whoa. My lungs tightened, as if his house were one big allergen. I swallowed to suppress my urge to cough.

  This house contrasted dramatically with Jonathan’s. Where the one had been sparsely furnished, the dácor of Gabriel’s lair was a study in excess. The place reeked of bad taste in black, red, and velvet. And speaking of reeked, an odd chemical smell permeated the air. To his credit the place was tidy—a tidy cross between a brothel and a very cheap Chinese r
estaurant. The focal point—a mural of Gabriel standing on the backs of four women—took up one wall of the living room. The feral eyes of Gabriel gazed at me from the mural, looking devilish and powerful.

  I shuddered.

  I had to admit, the subject was atrocious, but the work was exceptional—thick, bold strokes of vivid color met with photo realism. I figured the artist must live in this house. I doubted Gabriel had the skill or discipline to create such a work, nor would he commission it from someone outside his lair.

  Underneath the mural, cursive words read, “No one can take you away from me. My Father has given you to me. I and my Father are one.”

  Not good.

  The life-size portrait of him standing on the women’s backs boldly communicated what I already knew—the women were chattel and were subject to whatever whim moved him, sexually, spiritually, and emotionally. I silently prayed that he was still into the number seven. At least that would minimize the amount of people he could damage.

  And God, please save the children from his urges.

  The girl who had opened the door now closed it with a thud and turned a key in the dead bolt to lock us inside the house. The clanking keys conjured images of the county jail. She trailed behind us and handed the keys to Gabriel. I looked at her, and her head shook, an almost imperceptible “no.”

  Gabriel placed his hand at the small of my back the way Jazz did. He was not Jazz, however, and I couldn’t help recoiling at his touch. I didn’t mean to react and glanced at him to see if he’d noticed. He had, and he didn’t like it.

  “I’m sensitive,” I said.

  “You’ll get used to my touch,” he said nonchalantly, as if he’d said, “We serve Cheerios for breakfast.”

  Frankly, I’d have preferred to hear about Cheerios.

  He was nowhere near this bold seven years ago.

  Lord, what have I done?

  Gabriel stopped and placed his hand on my shoulder. He looked me squarely in the eyes. That’s when I saw the dilated pupils. He was high. “You are starved for touch.” A putrid, medicine-like smell wafted from his mouth.

  I didn’t respond to what he’d said, glad he couldn’t see that my heart was about to jump out of my rib cage.

  “You haven’t been loved in a long time.”

  I started mentally calculating the list of people who love me. My mom, my sister, Rocky, Mason and his wife, my church family, Maggie, everyone who calls me Bell.

  Jazz.

  I suppose Gabriel thought I hadn’t caught his implication. “You haven’t been made love to in a long time.”

  Great. He had to remind me of that. He seemed to search my face for confirmation.

  What was I supposed to say, “Yeah, it’s been seven years since I left Adam, and it should have been longer than that”?

  When I didn’t reply, he stroked my face with the back of his hand.

  Oh, God. What could I say? I had no clue. He, however, had plenty to say.

  “Every woman needs a man’s touch.”

  I needed to know what he was on. I bet he’d taken an upper—which kind could determine my fate. Thanks to Adam, I was all too familiar with a cocaine high, but Gabriel’s intensity made me think something more insidious than crack had him zooted up.

  Gabriel continued his slimy rhetoric. He talked loud and fast. “Every woman needs a man to complete her. Even you.” He grazed a clumsy hand down the lapel of my suit jacket.

  I came up with a new meditation. Father, God, help me not to scream. Please help me not to scream.

  He leered at me. “But I’ll take it slow. Slow is good.”

  Not at all is better.

  He gave me a tour, bouncing around with Tigger-like energy, showing me different rooms in the house. I didn’t see any children or any evidence of them. I saw no television, radio, or print media in the sadly tacky place. Then, for a finale, he showed me his room. This one was fully equipped with books, state-of-the-art stereo equipment, and a big-screen television. Right again, Bell. He did keep a tight rein on what got into the heads of his followers. Other than what he allowed them to see, they were cut off from the world.

  Gabriel’s room had orange walls with a yellow and brown couch from the early seventies. He’d apparently ditched Prince in favor of Elvis Presley. The King’s 45s donning an entire wall will be burned evermore in my memory. One wall bore another giant mural of Gabriel. In this one he was dressed like his new idol: white sequined jumpsuit, high collar, and awful Elvis sunglasses. A snake hung around his neck in this rendering.

  “This is my domain,” Gabriel said, gazing proudly at the mural. “I used to really have that outfit,” he said. His lips twisted into a pout, which, trust me, was preferable to his smile by a long shot. “Some reprobate stole it from me.”

  Thank God for said reprobate.

  Another waif—this one a dirty blonde and looking like someone Gabriel had dragged out of a crystal meth lab—stabbed at a button on a remote when she saw us. Elvis’s voice burst forth in surround sound, declaring himself a “hunka hunka burning love.” Then the girl jumped up, ran over, and placed her arms around Gabriel’s neck, planting a flurry of kisses there. She got a smile out of the troll. She dropped to her knees after the neck-kiss fest and started in on his feet.

  Girlfriend had indulged in a little feel-good herself. High out of her mind, she definitely belonged to him.

  Gabriel stood there as if this were a natural display of affection. He rubbed her head as if she were a dog.

  Dog.

  My fleshed crawled. I found it hard not to hate him.

  “What’s her name?” I said, to make sure he let her have one.

  “That’s Faith.” He didn’t bother introducing us.

  Faith. Ain’t that deep?

  I scanned the room again. I decided from then on I’d refer to the Elvis room as the ER—’cause I’d only set foot in there again in an emergency. Of course, if I did have an emergency, it would be the perfect choice. It had a phone.

  “Do you want dinner?” he asked me, as the woman continued to worship him.

  “I’m good,” I said.

  “I’m sure you are, but are you hungry?”

  Fabulous. I had to listen to his game, too. I felt sorry for those poor, fragile women. Anyone with a whit of self-esteem would have laughed at his tacky innuendos.

  “No, thank you,” I said. The smell in the house still bothered me. A dry coughing fit seized me.

  “Would you like something to drink?”

  “No,” I croaked, trying not to cough. Even though the smell in the house made me intensely thirsty, I didn’t want anything from him but the babies and the women.

  “Amanda, I’m just being a good host.”

  Just then it occurred to me to accept the drink he offered: first of all to keep from choking to death, and second, for the opportunity to hang out a little longer to get the information I needed.

  Unopened cans or bottles only, I heard my mother’s voice warn. I hope you wore clean underwear; you never know when you’ll end up dead or in the hospital.

  Okay, not a good time to think about my mother or contemplate the possibility of being maimed or murdered.

  My coughing ceased long enough for me to ask, “What do you have to offer?” I made the mistake of asking this like he was a normal human being.

  “I have a lot to offer, Amanda,” he said, going over to the ugly couch and lounging on it. He kicked back in a pose that had to be a pathetic attempt at looking sexy. I tried really hard not to roll my eyes. Finally, he made a sweeping gesture with his arm like the room was a showplace. “All this can be yours. But for the moment, I was offering you a beverage.”

  All this can be yours.

  The little devil spawn. Did he know I’d understand his reference to the temptation of Jesus?

  Why taunt me?

  “What do you have to drink?” I asked. I tried to maintain my cool and play along.

  “We’ve got diet cola, grape juice,
and bottled water.”

  I’d definitely pass on the grape juice. Thank God he didn’t offer any poison-laced Kool-Aid. “Bottled water would be great.”

  I hoped God would understand what I meant when I prayed, God, don’t let that sound like it sounded.

  It sounded like it sounded, but Gabriel didn’t let on if it bothered him.

  He barked an order at the girl who had opened the door for me. “Elisa. Take Amanda to the kitchen, and make sure she’s comfortable.”

  He didn’t follow us.

  Thank God for favors, big and small.

  On the way to the kitchen we walked through a corridor. The first thing I saw was another massive mural of Gabriel painted by the same artist. I noticed that in this one the artist rendered the subject more intensely, every color bolder, every stroke angrier. This mural had an almost manic energy. He ticked somebody off, I thought. The passionate, chaotic result reminded me of Van Gogh’s work. I wondered if the painter endured the same self-struggles as Van Gogh had, a kind of love-hate relationship with self—or with Gabriel.

  I glanced at Elisa. If she were fabric, she’d be threadbare burlap. Obviously thin and wearing baggy clothes, the green-eyed black girl didn’t have the same drugged-out look of Gabriel and Faith. Maybe he didn’t allow her to partake of whatever he was on. I wondered if any of them got decent meals.

  “Nice work,” I said about the mural, and then slipped in, “It must have been expensive to pay someone to paint that.”

  “We give good gifts to Father,” Elisa said in her flat voice.

  I assumed that meant “he makes us work like dogs to give him whatever he wants while he does absolutely nothing but get high and gratify himself.”

  “Do you have a job somewhere?”

  “No, not me. I’m called to be at home. Some of Father’s children work on the outside. He doesn’t think I’m strong enough. He likes me to paint at home.”

  “It was you who painted the murals of him?”

  “Yes.” She didn’t look proud, only sad.

  I placed my hand on her shoulder. “You’re an amazing painter, Elisa.”

  “My gift is for Father. I only use it for Father.”