Servant

by J. S. Bailey

  He stood up. He would have to put this out of his mind before he went mad.

  He wanted to tell Randy what the girl on the phone said about Trish. Thing was, the guy’s phone would be stuffed in a bag of rice right now after its altercation with a puddle last night. Randy had used Bobby’s phone to call his friend Phil. Phil might know how Bobby could get ahold of Randy with a different number.

  He found a number he didn’t recognize on the list of outgoing calls. Selected it. Hit the call button.

  Six rings later, Phil Mason’s recorded voice said, “This is Phil. I can’t come to the phone right now. You know the drill.”

  Beep.

  Bobby opened his mouth. “Uh, this is Bobby Roland. We met last night at Randy’s place. I really need to talk to him right now, but I think his phone might still be dead. Do you know how I can get ahold of him? Thanks.”

  He disconnected and tried Randy’s number in case his phone had been resurrected overnight. It went to voicemail without ringing.

  The phone rang in his hand as soon as he hung up. Phil Mason was calling him back.

  “Hello?”

  “Bobby?”

  “That’s me. Is Randy with you?”

  “Not at the moment. What’s this about?”

  “A certain thing that happened at his house last night.” These days one never knew who might be listening in. Mention a dead body in a basement over the telephone, and you could have a SWAT team banging your door down within ten minutes.

  “Ah.” This was followed by something else, but a burst of static made it impossible to make out Phil’s words.

  “What was that? Sorry, you’re cutting in and out.”

  Something garbled. Then, “—me at the library parking lot in fifteen minutes. You know where it is?”

  “What?”

  “The library. Over on Twelfth Avenue.”

  Bobby often went there to borrow CDs. “I know where it is. I just couldn’t hear the first part of what you said.”

  “Meet me there. Fifteen minutes. I drive a burgundy Taurus that’s probably older than you are. You can’t miss it.”

  The line went dead.

  Bobby hesitated. Did he really want to get involved with these people? Not particularly, but it looked like the only way he’d be able to tell Randy what he’d learned was to meet up with Phil.

  A meeting like that wouldn’t take long—no more than a few minutes. He could be back home to continue figuring out what happened to Caleb in no time.

  Bobby threw on a clean pair of jeans and a navy blue t-shirt, tucking his phone and wallet into his pockets. He ran a comb through his hair, checked himself in the bathroom mirror, decided that waiting another day to shave was fine by him, and stepped out into the strangely cloudless day.

  Lunchtime traffic clogged the streets, making him about five minutes late for the rendezvous. The library parking lot was so packed Bobby had to park almost at the far corner of the lot out by the road.

  Which coincidentally was right next to the only burgundy car in sight.

  Bobby backed into the space and killed the engine. Phil’s car sat to the left of him. The man tapped away at his phone but laid it down when Bobby waved to get his attention.

  Phil beckoned to him with one finger.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Bobby said when he climbed into the Taurus’s passenger seat. The black zippered tote bag Phil carried last night sat on the floor at his feet. “Traffic was killer.”

  “Don’t worry; you’re fine.”

  “Is your daughter feeling better this morning?”

  A faint smile lit up Phil’s features. “Thankfully, yes.” Then he folded his arms and stared straight through the windshield at the row of cars in front of them. “Who are you, really?”

  The question caught Bobby off guard. “Bobby Roland. I already told you.”

  “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

  “Robert Jackson Roland?”

  “I don’t care what your name is. I want to know who you are.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  Phil threw him a brief glance. “It isn’t that hard to figure out. I need to know who you are as a person so I can decide whether or not we can trust you.”

  “We?”

  “Just answer the question.”

  Bobby still didn’t know what the man wanted to hear. “I’m from Cincinnati,” he said.

  “They have good chili, I’ve heard. Go on.”

  “I play the electric guitar.”

  “Professionally?”

  Bobby shook his head. “I wish.”

  “What else?”

  “I like to travel. That’s how I ended up here. Growing up we didn’t go many places. Mostly Kentucky and Michigan. As soon as I turned eighteen I left home so I can see as much of the world as possible before I die. You don’t get to see much of creation when you don’t go anywhere, you know?”

  Phil nodded. “You’re a man of faith, then?”

  “Sure.”

  “Are you a man of good character?”

  This interview was getting stranger by the second. “I don’t know. I’ve never stolen anything and I’ve never killed anyone, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Have you ever lied?”

  Bobby thought about his phone call to the campus bookstore. “Yes, I have. Now can we talk about why I’m here?”

  Fatigue lined Phil’s pale face. “I understand you only met Randy last night.”

  “That’s right. I needed a new job and my roommate—” Bobby’s chest tightened—“found the maintenance listing and thought I should give it a try.”

  “Then you understand why I find it strange that you would end up at Randy’s house after midnight, only a handful of hours after meeting him for the first time.”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Most are.”

  “It’s complicated, too.” Bobby started drumming his fingers on the armrest as he waited for Phil to get to the point.

  “This is a complicated situation,” Phil said. “You understand why we can’t trust just anyone who walks into our lives the way you just did.”

  “Sure I do. Randy’s been trying to hide from a friend who tried to kill him.”

  “Graham Willard.” Phil sighed. “He shot Randy twice in the shoulder and left him for dead. Don’t you remember hearing his name on the news?”

  “I must have missed it.” Bobby could see why Randy had acted so paranoid when he’d tackled him in the church lot. “That’s awful.”

  “What’s more awful is who Graham was to him. He let Randy live in his house for free for five years. Randy grew up in foster care, so Graham was like his adoptive grandfather. With the way they acted around each other, you’d think they were two peas in a pod.”

  “Until last year.”

  Phil dipped his head.

  “What would make Graham snap like that?”

  The blond man shrugged, and they both fell silent.

  “About why I called you,” Bobby said when it was apparent Phil had no desire to continue the previous discussion. “I found out some things about Trish.”

  Phil nodded, all business once more. “Hold that thought. Randy needs to hear this more than I do. But first let me see your phone.”

  Bobby didn’t know why Phil would need it, but he slid it out of his pocket and handed it over.

  “How old is this?” Phil asked as he flipped it open and examined the screen.

  “About four years. I never saw a reason to upgrade.”

  “So there’s no GPS on here.”

  “Nope.”

  Phil returned the phone and held up a black paisley bandanna that had been lying on the seat beside him. “I know this is going to make you uncomfortable, but we have to do this in order to maintain absolute secrecy.”

  Bobby blinked. Phil held the bandanna out for him to take. “What do you want me to do with it?”

  “First,” Phil said, “you need to get down on the fl
oor in the back seat. Then you’ll tie this over your eyes so you can’t see anything, and then I’ll put a blanket over you so any passersby won’t know you’re there.”

  His pulse quickened. Phil was going to kidnap him!

  Bobby grabbed the door handle, but Phil said, “Wait.”

  “Only if you tell me why you feel the need to tie me up.”

  “I won’t be tying you up. You will be covering your eyes so you can’t see where we’re going.”

  “And where’s that?”

  “It’s called a safe house. If you know where it is, it might not be safe anymore. Normally I’d just stick you in the back of our van, but unfortunately the transmission in it went out last week and I’m still waiting for it to be fixed.”

  “I don’t want to do it.”

  “Then you don’t get to talk to Randy, because that’s where I took him this morning after picking him up from Lupe’s apartment. If you don’t want to see him, then get out and go home. I was going to have lunch at home with my wife and daughter and already told them I won’t be able to because something came up—that something being you.”

  “You’re going to steal my keys and wallet.”

  Phil rolled his eyes. “Just get in the back seat. You still have your phone. If I so much as make a move to take your things, you have my permission to call the cops on me. Deal?”

  “Deal,” Bobby sighed.

  GRAHAM WILLARD was a busy man. That’s what other people couldn’t understand. To them he was just another seventy-five-year old retiree who’d spent four decades running the Trustworthy Drug Store in Hillsdale before selling it to some foreigners. His years were waning. He should be put away in a retirement home so he could dawdle away the time playing checkers with deaf World War II veterans old enough to be his parents and widowed housewives whose children found it too much trouble to take care of them.

  His daughter Kimberly had hinted at the idea of selling the house. “Daddy,” she’d say, “don’t you think it’s time to move into a group home? That house is so big with only you and that boy living in it, and you know he’s old enough to get a place of his own.”

  One of her main concerns was his difficulty in climbing and descending the stairs. Kimberly just knew he’d fall and break his hip one of these days, or maybe his neck if he were extra unlucky. And she would just die if she showed up one day when Randy wasn’t home and found her old daddy sprawled at the bottom of the staircase like a broken doll.

  Kimberly didn’t know Graham’s infirmity was all an elaborate act that made him grin inside like a mischievous schoolboy. Graham was almost as fit as he had been twenty years ago, in part because he exercised in secret almost every day, shunned red meat, and took the proper dietary supplements to ensure he received all the nutrients his aging body required.

  His only vice other than the Bloody Marys were the cigarettes. If he ever found the willpower to quit, he’d probably feel as young as fifty again. Maybe younger.

  When Graham botched Randy’s murder, he severed all contact with Kimberly so she wouldn’t turn him in. Even though Graham loved his daughter, he did not miss her. He did miss Stephanie, the estranged one he hadn’t heard from since she left home at the age of eighteen. But not Kimberly. She was too nosy. Maybe she had suspected something all along and wanted to uncover the truth for herself, but Graham would never let anything slip.

  “How do you feel today?” he asked the woman seated with him at his dining room table. Her skin was sallow, her head wrapped in a pink bandanna in such a way it reminded him of a turban. She could have been a fortune teller if she’d worn a shawl and gold hoop earrings, though if she truly had the ability to predict the future she would have run from him the moment they met.

  Her thin lips twisted into a smile. “I feel at peace. No matter what happens to me, everything will be okay.” She paused to sip at the hot tea Graham had set in front of her. “Jim, have you ever wondered what it’s like to die?”

  Graham smiled when she used the false name he’d given her. “Every day of my life.”

  “Don’t you find that unusual?”

  “Not at all. It’s a healthy thing to ponder one’s own mortality. Those who think they’re immortal in this flesh are the unusual ones.”

  To his surprise, the woman laughed. “I just can’t stop thinking about it. Will I even feel myself dying, or will I simply be here one moment and there the next without any awareness of a transition?” She took another drink and shivered. Her mug was nearly half empty.

  Graham shrugged. “And there’s always the possibility of a purgatory, you know that? How does that make you feel?”

  She lifted a hairless eyebrow. “You Catholics will never make sense to me. If there’s a purgatory, we’re living in it right this second. God knows life is hard enough as it is.”

  “Whoever said I’m Catholic?” Graham took a long draw from his own tea and licked his lips in an effort to subconsciously tell the woman she needed to hurry with her drink. He was eager to get started.

  “It was just . . . a thought.” She blinked, shook her head, and drank again. “Goodness, I feel like I need a nap.”

  “Or maybe your time is just coming sooner than you expected.” Graham loved the part when they finally caught on, and at that point it was always too late for them to do anything about it.

  She started to laugh, but her face froze in an awkward expression somewhere between a smile and a frown. “Did you put—”

  Graham stood up, rounded the table, and caught her under the arms just as she started to slump out of the chair. She weighed about as much as a bag of leaves. He hoisted her limp form into his arms and carried her down the squeaking stairs to the basement, where the operating table awaited its use. He had repeated this ritual so many times he barely gave it any thought. Find a potential victim, either at a homeless shelter or elsewhere. Get to know them. If they had close friends and family, dump them and find somebody else. If not, gain their trust. Invite them over. Give them a drink and words of reassurance.

  Then let the experiment begin.

  This woman called herself Mary, which Graham found humorous because of the drink in which he so loved to indulge. He laid her out straight on the table and buckled the leather straps across her body so she would be unable to escape when she awoke.

  He did not feel guilty about killing her. She had stage three lung cancer and would not last long anyway. He was merely doing her a service by ending her suffering sooner than she anticipated.

  The pink bandanna slid off her head and onto the plastic-covered cushion that ran the length of the table to provide the woman as much comfort as possible while she passed, revealing a scalp as smooth and white as a bird’s egg. Graham gently secured it back into place so Mary wouldn’t feel ashamed he’d seen what the cancer-killing drugs did to her body. He believed in helping people maintain their dignity as they died—as long as their name wasn’t Randy Bellison.

  Next Graham selected a thick rubber band from amid the clutter on his workbench and tied it around Mary’s right arm just above the elbow. The veins in the lower part of her arm popped up blue and cordlike.

  Graham’s only regret about the procedure he had so often repeated was that he had not yet found a way to deaden their pain. Novocain might have worked, but he wasn’t about to go raiding a dentist’s office and risk being arrested for breaking and entering. He had lived under the radar for so long that he knew which risks to avoid. Selecting his victims and transporting them to this house was dangerous enough in itself.

  The attempt on Randy’s life had been the rashest decision Graham ever made. He hadn’t been thinking clearly then. In retrospect, he could have staged Randy’s murder to look like an accident in order to throw suspicion away from himself, but instead he’d placed himself directly into the spotlight by choosing a gun he wasn’t used to using as the murder weapon and then fleeing like a fool.

  Mary’s eyes fluttered open like startled moths, jarring him from his reve
rie. Her gaze darted from the rafters to the workbench to Graham himself. Though he didn’t think it possible, her face grew paler.

  He approached her side wearing a sympathetic smile. “Don’t be afraid, Mary. Everything is going to be okay.”

  The look in her eyes told him she believed otherwise.

  “Don’t you have anything to say?”

  Her head shook almost imperceptibly from side to side.

  Graham waited. This Mary was an interesting one. Some of them had wailed and screamed and tried to flail their way out of their predicament, but here was a woman already resigned to her fate.

  “I need you to talk to me,” he said. “Will you do that? It’s very important that you do.”

  She drew in a ragged breath. “What do you need me to talk about?”

  “What it’s like. I need you to talk for as long as you can. Tell me everything you see while it’s happening.” He held up the razor-sharp knife, and the pupils in Mary’s eyes contracted into black pinpricks. “I sharpened this earlier today, so you might only feel a slight sting. I’m sorry if it hurts more than that. I don’t want to cause you an unnecessary amount of pain.”

  A tremor took hold of Mary’s body. “Why are you doing this?”

  Not wishing to delay any longer, Graham pressed the tip of the knife into the vein visible in the crook of her arm and slid it downward to her wrist. The blade passed through her paper-thin skin with the ease of a hot knife through butter. “Because I have to know.”

  Tears welled up in both of her eyes, but she didn’t cry out, even though he could tell the cut had caused her a great deal of discomfort. “If you want to know what it’s like to die, then why don’t you kill yourself instead?”

  He didn’t answer her. Blood left her cancer-ridden body at such a pace it already pooled on the plastic cover and soaked into the woman’s clothing. Some had splashed on Graham’s shirt. He would burn it after he’d cleaned up everything else. “Tell me what you see,” he urged her. “Is there a tunnel of light? Do you see loved ones? Angels?” The face of God himself?

  She let out a whimper. Her eyes closed and her lips began to move in silent prayer.

  Graham’s pulse thudded in his eardrums. Soon. Soon! This one had to talk. So many of them didn’t. Some spouted words that would have gotten his mouth washed out with soap had he uttered them as a boy. One claimed to see a field full of purple cows wearing halos. Yet another spoke of long-dead friends Graham cared nothing about.