by Rodd Clark
“So there is no God, and Gabriel Church exists . . . then what is his purpose? Why does he exist?”
“I answer to a calling. In truth I don’t know if it is God’s or the Devil’s or some alien influence . . . but I am here, and my purpose is to answer the white light commands. Beyond that, I don’t know my purpose.”
“So you, like the rest of us, still wrestle with the big picture issues . . . interesting.”
“I’m a murderer in your definition. I am not inhuman.”
There was little reason to travel that road further; it might nullify their unspoken contract and most assuredly get the killer riled-up. Christian placed the pad on the table and grabbed his pen.
“I’d like to go back a ways and look at your influences. Do you mind?”
“Your dime,” was all Church said as he repositioned his body for a longer discussion. But even though he acquiesced, it didn’t appear that he enjoyed where that might lead.
“You began with your father, Bennett. Was he the first influence? Were there others you’d like to share?”
GABE CONTEMPLATED slowly before speaking, pulling back images from a past he didn’t enjoy discussing. His feelings for Bennett Church had been laden with revulsion, and there were many stories that he had yet to bring to light where Bennett might appear even less a savory character.
He began telling Maxwell of a time when he was only eight years old. It was a period of confusion for him. The boy was beginning to recognize how dangerous a man his father truly was. He had been a lonely child, he didn’t have many friends, so therefore didn’t go to their homes for sleepovers or camp in their backyards in pup tents while telling ghost stories. Because he didn’t have those companionships, he equally didn’t see how other boys reacted to their own fathers, or how their fathers were supposed to act with them. But there had been one time he remembered.
It was during the annual street carnival aptly named The Spring Fiesta. The community he lived in operated the carnival each year as a fundraising event for the local charities. There were church booths and tiny rides, cotton candy and sodas. There was a dunking booth, where a popular minister might be placed on a pad and positioned above a tank of four or five feet of water. Youthful sinners might rejoice in tossing softballs at the bulls-eye ring just to submerge their favorite pastor in the smallest bit of water. There was laughter and bliss for the religious; one would never find a person of ill-repute running a booth or a ride. There were never any drugs or drinking allowed. It was good wholesome fun. At least until the year Gabe was eight and ran excitedly to the carnival hoping to ride the tilt-a-whirl ride. He assured himself he would ride it over and over, even if he puked.
The boy had raced ahead of his sister, leaving his mother trailing both of them. When he hit the midway, he saw the tossing games. He spotted the brightly colored booths with the over-stuffed, plush neon animals tied up with string at the top of booths set with basketballs and straw buckets, rings over bottle tops, and bean bags and bulls-eye paddles to throw against. He was delighted. But in less than a quarter hour, while he was running around like any eight year old released inside a carnival, he then ran smack dab into his father who had shown up unexpectedly.
He first noticed the stench of bourbon, then his father’s hand as he grabbed the boy by the hair just to steady him from falling when he bounded into his old man.
“Whoa there little camper,” he said as his big hand palmed the boy’s scalp. From a distance it might have appeared sweet, in a traditional sense, but then again you needed to be standing close enough to smell the booze, as Gabe had been, and to have known how mean his father could be when drunk.
Bennett had never attended the carnival before, even though it was close enough to their house that one could walk there. He did allow Sissy to take the children each year, and each year she would return with two exhausted kids, only to find Bennett drinking bourbon or beer from his comfy chair in the den. Whenever she found him there and realized he’d been drinking for hours, she’d back-step into the kitchen and then quietly herd her children off to their rooms to sleep. She would do exactly the same by seeking refuge under the covers of their marital bed and lie there in anticipation of his changing mood.
To see his father at the carnival was shocking, to run into him headlong was unfortunate. Bennett crouched down and gripped his son tight in his arms. By the casual appearance of any passerby, it seemed he was happy to run into his boy, excited to see him happy and so full of life. But Bennett Church was a master of deception.
He smiled as he leaned and whispered to his son, inaudible to anyone close, “You’re one little fucker who should be in bed by now. You know, son, this is a big carnival . . . a little boy could end up hurt, or even dead here, and nobody would be the wiser.”
Gabe’s face drained of any color, and he stopped his squeal of delight instantly.
“What do you think people would say if they found a dead little boy crammed into the mechanics of one of these fun little rides? Ya think anyone would be shocked at the dead little boy?” Bennett chuckled sadistically under his breath but never once lost his smile or the tight way his arms encircled his boy.
“I’m going home now. I expect to see you and your sister in bed by the time I get home. If you’re not there . . . the preacher’s gonna be giving me some pretty condolences for my recently dead baby boy. You understand?”
His voice was cold and matter of fact, he meant business, and even though Gabe had never gotten a chance to win a toy, or ride the tilt-a-whirl, he raced home, past his mother and even past his sister, then crawled under the covers in his room and cried himself to sleep. The next morning Bennett was sober, albeit grumpy. He never acknowledged threatening his son, never once apologized, and although the boy never told his mother, he knew . . . somehow she knew. He never went back to the carnival again and vowed then that one day he’d kill his father.
THERE WERE other stories Church shared with Christian, some worse than others, but each one was sad and pitiful. Christian wrote silently as he told each story. He knew Church wasn’t asking for understanding, and he wasn’t requiring his sympathy. He was fulfilling his part of the contract by telling his account exactly as it was, unvarnished and open like an oozing sore. Christian wasn’t going to pity him. It was what it was, a factor in the development of a sociopath, and it was as expected as any segment making up the whole. It was simply a fragment of that shattered psyche that was Gabriel Lee Church.
It was getting later in the day, both men felt a little weary from either writing steadily or sitting for too long in one position. Church suggested they take a break, and Christian agreed. When the killer stood up, he stretched his back muscles and raised his arms high, pulling at each elbow to ease the tension in his shoulders. Christian was struck silent by what he saw—a true sense of a masculine authority that was the figure standing before him. He looked up to see Church had caught his gaze. The man was smiling, as if the two shared a common secret . . . and it was delicious. As Church finally pulled the shirt over his head, he mumbled something about getting a drink at a bar on the street. He said he could use a stiff one, and his smile reappeared from over the neck of his pullover. The game was becoming old, yet somehow, every time, it still grasped Christian’s heart and held it tight inside an icy grip.
Chapter Seven
THE CITY WAS BUSTLING. The streets of Seattle were filled with cars, and even in the mid-afternoon, there was a rush of vehicles heading everywhere. Both men had decided to walk the short distance of the downtown streets to locate a pub or a bar where they could get a drink and take a breather from their efforts. The mist of rain had already come and gone by then, and the crisp, clean air was exactly what they both needed. Walking beside Church down the city sidewalks seemed odd to Christian. The man was a killer, yet somehow they were becoming friends. Gabriel was bigger and walked with the smooth confidence of a man who knew his own skin. Christian always moved cautiously, without the same certainty of t
he man beside him. He was educated, professional, and not hard on the eyes, but he still had timidity in his carriage; he hadn’t fully shed those years in school where he was tagged a loner and a socially awkward misfit.
Church also spoke louder than most. Surely louder and more boisterous than most people the writer had ever come in contact with. He seemed to beg others to notice him and possibly to just enjoy the view. Christian wasn’t mousy, per se, he just felt that tinge of discomfort in being singled out in a crowd—exactly the opposite of Gabriel. His fraternal experiences were limited; he’d never hung out with the cool kids, never been one of the rowdy bunch of miscreants who drank too much or enjoyed sports to an unhealthy degree. He was crafted in a serious, scholarly mode. But as he walked down the sidewalk with Church leading him forward, he had to consider he’d much rather be more like Church than the person he’d become. It must’ve been nice to be so comfortable with who you were, to never have to live with doubt or uncertainty. But the blessed were ignorant, he guessed. It seemed those who didn’t know better were just oblivious to life’s little challenges.
Yet he couldn’t deny Church was intelligent, thoughtful in a way. His mind may have fractured but it retained a sense of divine control. He was clever about those around him. He had spotted something in Christian he hadn’t seen in himself and done so with a lesser degree of effort than one might imagine. He understood how influence and manipulation worked, apparently; the games of seduction he employed were just that, games, and only for his amusement.
Listening to him joke about everything around him as he bounded ahead of the writer excitedly, or watch him grin like that enthusiastic little boy racing to The Spring Fiesta, he was something indecipherable, something mysterious. Christian had to consider that being in awe of the man in his company was an affront to life. It slapped at the cheeks of each and every family member of Church’s victims. By enjoying aspects of Church as a person, he was invalidating his criminal activities, nullifying the lives of the men and women he had murdered. But still it was impossible to reconcile the killer against the sexy fucker whose wake he seemed to be pulled in. There was a gravitational force to the killer that couldn’t be defined. It made him realize the job ahead would be difficult. He would try to put a face on a killer’s exploits, and to do so he’d need to grant respect to all those victims, their families, and partially to Church himself. It wasn’t going to be easy.
Just ahead Church stopped in front of a sports bar and smiled broadly at Christian, which suggested without words they try there for a drink. He appeared that childish boy, pulling at his mother’s skirt hem, begging her to enter the aquarium doors, or dancing impatiently in front of the human oddities show at the state fair. He was beckoning in so many more ways than one.
The bar was what one might expect: crowded, loud, and crawling with bar staff racing around wearing green lapel jackets, each covered with bright pins and dangling ribbons—personality they called it. Numerous monitors showed every game one might desire: both college ball and professional soccer, and even one screen in the back showing horseracing. Nothing, it seemed, could slow the friendly wagers over scotches, not in a state made famous by gambling.
It was filled with college-aged kids and just a few businessmen who had outlasted their late lunch, deciding to linger after one too many pitchers of beer. Everyone seemed engrossed in one thing or another. These were the types of bars that wanted you to feel like you had walked into a party already underway. Christian could tell by the way the servers spotted arriving patrons but tried to initially ignore them that it was a ridiculous farce of a concept. Church never waited for one of the pretty young girls to show him to a table; instead, he chose to head directly to the bar. With his lead, Christian followed like a dutiful son.
It was hard not to notice how pretty waitresses and young girls sitting with friends would turn their attentions in Church’s direction. He was a wanted man in many ways. His cool confidence was a drug that had the potential to lure. Christian knew that their eyes didn’t linger on him as he walked past tables heading to the bar. He considered what it must be like, having eyes focused and trained on you. For someone like Church, who knew the value of remaining unobtrusive, it must have been a challenge. He liked the response he’d received that was certain. But how does one deal with the salacious, hungry looks all the time?
Sexuality for him was a coat he could wear out and be proud of the looks he attained. But it was a coat he couldn’t remove easily. Christian imagined if Church had the flu or walked into a bar hung over and appeared out of sorts or dressed inappropriately or shabbily, he would still see admiration on ladies’ faces . . . and maybe even a few of the men’s. You could see that Church would be a fun fuck, even from a distance. His very movements suggested athletic energy that wouldn’t be wasted in the bedroom; he had full lips that screamed out how he wanted to wash you in long, wet kisses. He was built strong, suggesting the trail down his muscled frame would be an extensive and satisfying trip for your hands. His overpowering size suggested he would hover over you while tiny beads of sweat fell on your neck and face and he pounded harder, just like a rutting animal, forcing himself inside deeper with every thrust of taut ass muscles.
But with all the physical attributes he had, it was that smile, added to a twinkle of mischief in those damned pale eyes that always closed the deal. Although he knew what others didn’t . . . that Church was a stone-cold killer. That twinkle and grin were implements he used to get closer to victims, and even if he didn’t use them, he still had them. How could you look so innocently dangerous when you had murdered someone within the last month? The true coat he wore then let fall from his shoulders . . . was that look. It was the twisted smile or far-away gaze that he had to have worn just seconds before he killed. That look on his face, whatever it was, must be the garment he wore as his ultimate disguise.
Church reached the bar first and took the initiative in ordering them both two tall drafts. It was that familiarity that Christian couldn’t reason. Alpha males take the lead, overstep their authority, and forget to ask for the same considerations: Would you like a beer or a drink my friend? Church made those decisions for you, and where it would have been offensive from someone else, it was attractive on him. Being in his company made one feel protected in a way, but not submissively. People would always approach Church first, and then acknowledge the company he was with. If you were that company you would be considered carefully.
During their time at the sports bar, Christian measured how others treated him and acted in Church’s presence. A waitress might approach Church to tell him a table was now ready in her area . . . if he’d like one? She would nod and smile as she acknowledged Christian, but even he could see the wheels turning in her head. Is this guy a coworker? Are the two of them close friends or just casual acquaintances? Do I have the chance of getting my phone number in the big guy’s pocket unnoticed? It was painfully clear how special Church was in other’s eyes, and not so coincidentally, how bland he was by comparison.
His laughter was animated and his gestures broad; he was once again begging to be seen. It didn’t bother Christian how others changed in the killer’s aura. He knew something they didn’t, and he shared a bond they never could. The two men talked about everything except the book. He offered nothing more on his life before the murders began. It was informal and easygoing like two friends simply out on the town for a drink. Church occasionally reached out to grab Christian at the elbow while he spoke. He was engaging, and he pulled his audience in, ensuring his companion heard every syllable that fell from his mouth. He tugged you along with his stories, but Christian found that odd because he never considered Church a man who was in the company of strangers very much.
Christian reached over and pulled up an empty barstool and slid it close. Although he had taken a seat, Church seemed satisfied with standing, as if nervous, excited energy prevented him from staying too long in one place. The writer could see that Church enjoyed hi
s time with him, and this made him happy. He had stopped making his sexual innuendoes to unravel Christian, but it represented a slight bittersweet resolution; however uncomfortable the insinuations and overtones had been, they would be sorely missed.
“You ever considered us going out together on the town? I mean, we could hit some bars and get our drink on, ya know?” His smile reappeared, and he leaned so close Christian could smell the hops and barley on his warm breath.
“Don’t you think we should get back to the book? I only rented the room for a short time you know?”
The killer seemed adamant in tempting him out for a round of drinks. “It can wait, we have time, and you have me as long as it takes.”
The words cut a serious hole into the writer’s chest. I have him as long as it takes. There was so much inference embedded into that phrase that it reminded Christian of his own manhood, which stirred to some life inside his jeans as the killer offered prospects of more time in his company.
“It doesn’t even matter what type of bar it is . . . I’m game for whatever thrills you, buddy.”
It seemed every word the man uttered dripped with suggestive ambiguities, but then again his reference to “type” of bar made him a little nervous. Church was making obvious implications that he needed a gay bar to have fun. Christian had only been inside a gay bar once, and that had been on a lark with friends who dragged him there after already hitting one too many drinking establishments one night. Although he hadn’t known it at the time, what seemed just a harmless bit of fun had actually been a test by his so-called, well-intentioned friends who had deep suspicions about Christian’s sexuality. They hadn’t stayed long, and to their dismay, pounding house music and spinning disco lighting failed to pull any hidden personality out of their companion. He did not break into song singing verses of “Finally” by CeCe Peniston or the Weather Girls’s “It’s Raining Men.” How could he explain his reality without having to traipse over an untidy subject with more detail than he preferred?