Parasite

by Patrick Logan

  Amazing, he thought, taking a good look at the man in the suit’s face.

  He had a square jaw and deep-set eyes, complete with a stern expression that was in stark contrast to Father Carter’s smirk. And, also unlike the pastor, it was obvious that this was no salesman. If Greg were put to the task, he would have said this man, as unimposing as he was in his slick outfit, was the muscle of the operation.

  Still, despite these strange revelations, they held little meaning for Greg.

  So what if this conman and his bodyguard were pulling the proverbial wool over all of Askergan’s eyes?

  This mattered little to him. What mattered was finding the only person who knew what happened to Kent. And that meant having to wait and watch the converted leave to find the person he was looking for—assuming, of course, that what Reggie had told him back in the station was true.

  That Corina Lawrence was, in fact, here.

  He would have to wait just a little while longer to find the girl responsible for his son’s murder.

  31.

  Greg Griddle was appalled by the uplifted expressions on the faces of the people as they left the church.

  How can you all be so happy after what happened here? After what happened to this place?

  It was all he could do to avoid sneering at those who passed him, their hands outstretched with the ubiquitous phrase, “the Lord be with you.”

  But he remained calm despite himself, watching each and every one of them leave like a disgruntled bouncer.

  More than half of the three hundred or so people inside the church left by the time he finally spotted her.

  Corina Lawrence was at the front of the church, her head hung low. A thin man with a cleft in his chin—her father, maybe, or an uncle who looked oddly familiar—had his arm wrapped around her for support. Greg immediately recognized her by her stiff gait, a dead giveaway that she had a problem with her left leg. Anyone else might have assumed based on her age that she had maybe suffered a sprained ankle or a damaged hip playing softball or soccer, but he knew better.

  She had an artificial leg, Greg knew.

  His eyes narrowed in on her, and he concentrated on her face. She was cute, with a dimple on her dirty chin, and large green eyes.

  Corina didn’t look like a killer, but this did nothing to deter Greg’s fury.

  He took two steps forward, intent on making his way to her, when an elderly woman—the same one that had shouted for her Harvey, perhaps—stepped into his path.

  “Peace be with you,” she said, holding her hand out expectantly.

  Greg’s intent was to step by her, but he caught several others staring at them and decided, with the energy in the air, that it would not serve him well to ignore the elderly woman.

  Against his better judgement, he tore his gaze away from Corina and grabbed her hand briskly.

  “And with you,” he grumbled. When he went to pull back, she held fast.

  He looked down at her arthritic hand, and wondered for a moment where the woman’s strength had come from. She was a little over five feet tall and was all skin and bone, hunched at the waist, but she was strong.

  “I see your addiction,” she said softly. “But don’t you worry, son. Askergan will be clean again. The Lord is looking out for us now. You shall also be cleansed.”

  Greg stared at her pale eyes, and his first thought was that she was in some sort of trance. Again he tried to pull his hand away, but found himself unable.

  “Yes, cleanse,” he mumbled, and finally his hand was released.

  “Revenge is but the Devil’s fingers. Don’t forget that.”

  And then she was gone, like the multitude of Askergans before her, she had vanished into the dirt-covered parking lot.

  Greg instinctively wiped his hand on his soiled jeans and turned his gaze upward, again searching for Corina.

  His heart skipped a beat when he didn’t immediately find her. Desperation setting in, he pushed by a young couple and stepped deeper into the church.

  Two more steps, and Greg came face to face with Corina Lawrence.

  The girl, with her head low, didn’t notice him, and neither did the thin man that was helping her along. The two tried to step around him without raising their eyes, but Greg shadowed their movements, not allowing them to pass. He had had nearly an hour, what with the drive to the church and then the sermon, to figure out what he would say to her once they finally met, but nothing could have prepared him for the fury that he felt at that moment.

  “You,” he spat, and the girl finally looked up. She was younger than he’d expected, not much more than a teenager, really, and scared. She was really, really scared.

  Not a killer.

  “You killed my boy,” he whispered, and Corina recoiled.

  The man moved in front of her defensively, but Greg didn’t even look at him.

  “You killed my boy,” he repeated.

  Something akin to recognition passed over her small face, and Greg knew in that instant that his words were not without truth. Whether or not she looked like a killer no longer mattered; he saw in her face what she had done.

  An innocent person would have looked confused, not guilty.

  Why? Why did you kill my boy?

  “I’m—” she started, but the doors to the church suddenly blew wide and the few remaining members inside the church, including Greg, Corina, and the man she was with, quickly turned.

  “Oh Father Peter! It’s time to collect!”

  32.

  Two men in jean vests, one thin, one heavily muscled, both with bare arms adorned with tattoos, burst through the church doors. Unlike Greg, these men with their gaunt, hardened faces simply pushed the remaining parishioners aside as they moved into the church.

  “Father Peter?” the larger one shouted again.

  It wasn’t Father Peter or even Father Carter who stepped forward, but the other man, the one in the double-breasted suit jacket.

  “Calm, Pike,” Greg heard the pastor say. There was a new sort of energy in the air, one not of salvation this time, but of something else; something more sinister.

  The man named Pike stepped forward despite the pastor’s words.

  “Who the fuck are you?” the thin biker with a ponytail shouted, eying Pike.

  The other churchgoers, sensing that something was going to go down, either quickly left the church or crouched back into the pews. Greg felt Corina doing the latter, but he reached out and grabbed her hard by the arm.

  He wasn’t going to lose sight of her this time.

  She cried out, and the man at her side stepped to intervene, but again they were distracted by the bikers.

  “Strong, silent type?” the thin biker sneered. “Don’t matter. Where the fuck is that pedophile, Stevens?”

  Someone in the gallery gasped.

  “Father Peter Stevens is no longer with us,” the man named Pike replied, his eyes narrowing. Greg watched as the biker with the heavily muscled arms slowly reached into the back of his jeans.

  This was going to escalate, and quickly.

  “Where is he?” the skinny one demanded.

  Greg felt Corina start to pull away from him, and he retightened his grip.

  “He’s not here. Your business was with him, his debt with you.”

  The muscular biker made a face and pulled a large pistol out of the back of his pants.

  “His debt, your debt, the church’s debt. Either way, there is money to be paid.”

  Father Carter only smiled. He turned to the people that were still stuck inside the church.

  “You see? This is the Devil in Askergan that we need out. This is the problem that the Lord wants me to extinguish. This isn’t the old Askergan—this is the new, Modern County.”

  Modern County.

  The way the pastor said it made it sound like a proper noun, like a name and not a thing.

  The biker with the gun scoffed.

  “Only thing you’re going to see if you don’t ge
t our money is a bullet between the eyes, Father.”

  For a second, nothing happened, the men were locked in a stalemate.

  It was Pike who finally broke the silence.

  “Tell Sabra he can come get it himself.”

  The man wagged the gun back and forth as he chuckled.

  “Tough words for a queer in a suit. Anyways, we don’t serve Sabra anymore—he’s long gone. Kinda like what I expect happened to our dear Father Stevens.”

  Father Carter raised an eyebrow.

  “We serve the Crab now, and I’ll give you a little tip, seeing as you can’t seem to make up your mind: pay up. Pay up now, and continue to pay, because I don’t care what God you pray to, He ain’t gonna help save you from the Crab.”

  Greg couldn’t believe his ears.

  The Crab? What the fuck?

  It sounded like a terrible Batman villain.

  The Crab.

  Under other circumstances, it might have been funny. But it wasn’t, not with a massive silver pistol being waved around.

  “Yeaahhhhh,” Father Carter said. “I would. I would love to just pay you scabs so that you can keep this county in the dark ages. Seriously, that would be great.”

  He had a sarcastic smile on his face.

  The bikers looked none too amused.

  “But you see, there is one little problem with that.”

  “Oh ya? And what’s that?”

  “My man Pike here won’t allow it.”

  Three things happened next in such rapid succession that Greg didn’t know which occurred first.

  What was apparent was that the man with the gun squeezed off a shot and it echoed loudly in the church. But his bullet, clearly intended for either Pike or Carter, went awry. A man came out of the pews, a fat man with a red face and short brown hair that clung desperately to his forehead. His shoulder struck the biker in the kidney, knocking his arm with the gun in the direction of Greg, who was no more than a dozen or so paces away. There was no time to react, but thankfully the bullet whizzed by Greg’s ear. It hit something with a thunk and someone moaned, but before Greg could turn, Pike happened.

  The man lunged forward, closing the distance between him and the still standing biker with amazing speed. The way that the thin biker poised himself, by stepping forward with his lead leg and bringing his fists in front of his face to protect himself, it was clear that this wasn’t his first fight.

  But none of this mattered.

  Pike was just too fast.

  As Greg watched in amazement, Pike’s left foot shot forward and hit the other man’s lead knee head on. The biker cried out, and he doubled over, trying to protect his injured leg that was bent the wrong way. Greg was amazed that he was still standing. Pike struck again, only this time he did so with his fist. He delivered a devastating uppercut to the man’s chin.

  Even with the sound of the gunshot still echoing in his ears, Greg heard the man’s jaw snap together. Shards of shattered teeth and blood flew from the biker’s mouth as his eyes rolled back in his head. The man was unconscious the second the blow landed, and Pike quickly hopped backward to avoid the man’s bloodied face and jaw from ruining his suit.

  If that wasn’t enough, something even more bizarre happened next. The remaining church members suddenly rose out of their crouched positions and flooded toward the fallen man.

  Then they were on him, delivering their own not as effective, yet damaging punches and kicks to the unconscious biker.

  “A new Askergan!” Father Carter shouted. “A Modern County, where the Devil is exorcised from this land!”

  Greg felt himself being yanked again, and turned in time to prevent himself from falling on top of Corina.

  “Jared!” the girl screamed, and Greg followed her gaze.

  The bullet had struck the man that she had been supported by in the thigh, and he was on the ground moaning, using both hands to try and stem the bleeding.

  Jared.

  And then it hit Greg. He knew this man; he had fought beside him, and he had been at the house when they had burned it to the ground.

  Jared had helped him fight off the crackers at the police station.

  Greg’s mind started to spin… there were too many connections, too many coincidences in this shithole of a county.

  To steady himself, he squeezed Corina’s arm even harder. Regardless of Jared, the man called Pike, Father Carter, or the two bikers, he would not let go.

  Kent.

  Thoughts of his son continued to run through his head, from the years he had spent raising the boy from a tiny red-headed baby through his awkward teen years.

  Kent. Kent. Kent.

  Then someone grabbed his arm, and he shouted.

  The muscular biker had since dispensed of the man that had tackled him, and he had somehow crawled over to Greg without him knowing. And now he was standing directly behind Greg. His first instinct was to struggle, but the man’s grip was iron, and he knew that it would be futile. Instead, he focused all of his efforts on keeping his hand locked to Corina’s arm.

  I found you, and I won’t let you go.

  But Corina had ideas of her own. She yanked her arm from Greg’s grasp, and at the same time swung her leg around—Greg didn’t get a chance to see if it was the artificial one or not—maintaining her crouched position. She instead made contact with the back of the biker’s ankle, sweeping the unsuspecting man’s legs out from under him. When he fell backward, the biker maintained his grip on Greg’s arm, and together they toppled.

  Greg landed hard on top of the biker, back to belly, and he heard the man’s breath forced out of him in a whoosh. The back of his head cracked against the biker’s teeth, and Greg felt four individual points dig into his dirty scalp and hair. Grunting, he started to roll off the man, intent on scrambling to his feet and grabbing Corina again, but this time she came to him.

  Sliding across the floor, Corina shoved Greg off the biker with her feet, and then slid her legs on top of the muscular man with all the fluidity of a highly rehearsed dance routine. Perpendicular to the biker now, she slid one leg over his face, and the other over his chest. Corina wrapped her hands around the man’s wrists just before he rolled away from her. Then she lunged backward, pulling her body straight, and bending the biker’s elbow joint in the most perfect arm bar that Greg had ever seen.

  All of this happened so quickly that the biker still hadn’t had a chance to catch his breath from the fall before he was locked in the tap-worthy position.

  Only this wasn’t an octagon, and there was no tapping here.

  Corina’s face went red with the effort, and the man grunted beneath her, the sounds muffled by her leg that was laced over his face. Greg could see the inside of the man’s elbow turning red with the pressure, but he was fighting the move using brute strength by flexing his biceps. But this could only last so long, Greg knew; eventually his strength would run out and his arm would snap like a dry twig.

  Greg went to scramble to his feet, but he froze. Although Corina had trapped the biker’s left arm, and was indeed in the process of hyperextending and without question leading to a break, it was the biker’s other hand that gave him pause.

  “You shot Jared!” Corina screamed, the cords standing out on her neck as she pulled even harder with her hands, arching her back for additional leverage.

  The biker mumbled something in response, but Greg didn’t catch it at first.

  He was too busy staring at the gun that was aimed directly at his midsection.

  The biker grunted and shouted again.

  This time Greg heard the words loud and clear.

  “Let me go, or I’ll kill him.”

  Corina evidently heard this as well, as she temporarily released some pressure on the biker’s arm. She didn’t go as far as to let go of his wrist, but she did sit up a little to survey the situation.

  Greg was still on his side, frozen during the process of pushing himself to his feet. The biker was in the cross position,
ironic in this place of worship, one arm still locked between Corina’s legs, the other outstretched and aiming the gun at Greg’s gut.

  Greg met Corina’s stare, and guilt washed over her pretty, if tired, features. Then she let go of the man’s arm, and Greg knew that his first impression—that this girl had, in fact, killed Kent—was completely accurate.

  Once released, the biker quickly stood, keeping the gun trained on Greg at all times. His other arm, Greg noticed, hung a little lower, and he seemed reluctant to bend it.

  “Get over here,” the biker demanded, and Greg had no choice but to oblige. He stood, took one step forward, and the biker reached out with his injured arm grabbed his shoulder, spinning him around. Clearly, although his arm was sore, to Greg’s detriment, it was still functional.

  Corina stood too, and Greg seized the opportunity to grab her by the arm as before, squeezing tightly, refusing to let go.

  “Let her go,” the biker hissed in his ear. He snaked his arm around Greg’s throat, putting just enough pressure to make breathing uncomfortable and swallowing impossible.

  An image of Kent, lying on the metal gurney, his face purple, burst blood vessels around his eyes, flashed in his mind.

  This is how I die; asphyxiated, just like you, Kent. And while it isn’t at the hands of Corina, she is here—she is here all the same. It is her fault once again.

  “No,” he croaked.

  Even when he felt something cold and round against his temple, he refused to let go of Corina.

  Instead, for reasons that could only be explained by guilt, Corina allowed Greg to pull her toward him, spinning her around as the biker had done to him just moments ago. And then he too put his arm around her throat.

  It was a bizarre situation, a hostage taking a hostage, but Greg refused to let go.

  During the entire scenario—from Corina putting the biker in an arm bar and then letting it go, to Greg being taken hostage with a gun to his head and him grabbing Corina around the neck—Pike had remained calm, standing near the other biker’s fallen body. The other parishioners had since risen from the fallen biker, their arms—all of them, from the men, to someone that couldn’t have been into his teens yet, to an elderly woman—but sleeves of blood. Whatever instinct had had them cowering in the pews when the bikers had burst through the doors was gone now, and probably forever. Now they stood beside Pike, with Pike, their bloody arms hanging at their sides, awaiting instruction.