by J. S. Bailey
Bobby shook his head. “He told me he was meeting a woman in her twenties. He said he couldn’t wait much longer, and that if she showed up later, to give her this.” Bobby pulled the paper with the phone number out of his pocket and passed it to Randy, who scrutinized it like one trying to solve a cipher. “He said his name was Paul, only it really wasn’t. Like an alias, I guess.”
Randy handed the paper back to him. “This is a bit unusual, but what does it have to do with us?”
“He knows who you are and said something about needing to talk to you. When he came inside, he was calling for you and Father Peter, or Perry, or something.”
“The priest there is Father Preston,” Phil said with a flicker of interest in his eyes.
“Yeah, that was it.” More of Paul’s words from last night came back to him. “Only he called you Mr. Bellison, so I’m guessing he isn’t someone who knows you well.”
Randy rubbed at his chin. “Many people know me by name and know I was employed by the church. I still don’t see why this sent you running back here.”
“I’m not finished yet.” Bobby cleared his throat. “Paul said if anyone other than the woman showed up asking about him, I should pretend I never saw him even if they tried to torture it out of me. I didn’t think it was normal for a guy dressed up all in black like some kind of agent to show up at a church saying things like that.”
Phil’s eyes grew wide, but Randy remained calm. “When you say ‘agent,’ what exactly do you mean?”
“He had on sunglasses and dark clothes.” Bobby paused to sip at the coffee for a few moments. “I don’t think he was actually an agent. He just seemed like he was trying to disguise himself. He acted like someone was after him, which makes me wonder if someone was after the woman he was supposed to meet, too. She never showed up.”
“I can see why you wanted to come see me,” Randy murmured. He propped his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his hands. “Did he have any identifying marks you can remember?”
Bobby racked his memory for anything about the man that would set him apart from others but came up with nothing. “He had short brown hair, was of average height and build, and drove a dark-colored car. I kind of followed him when he left. He lives on the east side of town.”
Randy gaped at him. “You left the church unattended to go tail someone? What if he’d caught you?”
Bobby hadn’t expected Randy to respond favorably to that news. “Nothing happened, okay? But the guy lives at 2128 Maple Road, or at least that’s the place he stopped at. I thought that knowing where he was staying might help us.”
Phil gave a thin smile. “You’re starting to become far more interesting than a bad penny.”
“He’s going to be a fired bad penny if Father Preston ever catches wind of what he did.” Then to Bobby Randy said, “Did you at least lock the doors when you went out?”
Bobby’s face flushed. “I didn’t have time. If I’d let him get too far ahead, I wouldn’t have been able to follow him.”
“What did you hope to accomplish by doing this?” Phil asked.
“I don’t know. It just seemed like the right thing to do.” And now that he was telling Randy and Phil about it, his actions made even less sense to him than they had when he’d actually committed them. “If it makes you feel better, I checked the whole building when I got back to make sure no one snuck in.”
Randy leaned back in his chair. “What you did may have been dumb, but I’d be a liar if I said I wouldn’t have been tempted to do the same thing. I still wouldn’t do anything like that again because Father Preston has the unfortunate tendency to learn every single thing that is said or done under that church’s roof.”
“But it wasn’t under its roof,” Bobby said. “It was outside on the road.”
A muscle twitched in Randy’s cheek. “Which makes it even worse.”
“So you don’t know anyone who lives at that house?”
Randy glanced toward the ceiling as he ruminated. “Maple Road, you said? A few parishioners live out that way, but I don’t see why any of them would be engaging in some kind of illicit meeting on church property.”
“Paul never said it was illicit. And I didn’t get any bad vibes from him. Not horrible ones, anyway.”
“No offense,” Phil said, “but I wouldn’t hold much stock in personal feelings for someone you’d never met before.”
Speak for yourself. “You don’t understand.” Bobby knew they wouldn’t believe him, but he couldn’t keep his premonitions a secret any longer now that Randy had let him in on secrets of his own. “I can sense things other people can’t. That’s how I knew something was wrong with Randy’s car the other night.”
Creases formed in Phil’s forehead. “You’re clairvoyant?”
Bobby cringed at the term, which conjured images of old women bending over crystal balls telling the future to people who were too stupid to know they were being ripped off. “No. Nothing like that. I don’t read palms and I don’t conjure spirits. I just get these strong premonitions sometimes. It’s like a fire starts burning inside me and I know I have to be on full alert for whatever is about to happen.”
“This has happened before?”
“Lots of times.”
“Tell us about it.”
Bobby took a deep breath. Of course it would all come to this sooner or later. If they thought he was some kind of monster, then so be it. “I had this neighbor in New York—I already told Randy about this. His name was Tyree. I told him not to go out one night because I knew he’d be hurt if he did. He brushed me off like it was nothing, and I found him shot to death in the parking garage the next day.” A knot rose in his throat and he banished the painful images to the back of his mind before he became misty-eyed and made a fool of himself.
Phil nodded, looking surprisingly sympathetic. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Bobby cleared his throat again. “That’s okay. But it really got to me. I knew Tyree died because I hadn’t been firm enough with him. If I could have convinced him that he was about to die, maybe he would have listened to me. He might still be here today.”
“I don’t advise you to linger over the things that might have been,” Randy said. “You’ll make yourself sick with regret. How old was Tyree?”
“About forty. I’d only just moved in so we didn’t know each other well. I think he just took me for a dumb, scared kid from the country and that’s why he didn’t believe what I said.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Not all of my premonitions have turned out that way, though,” Bobby said, changing the subject as quickly as possible. “When I was in high school my brother Jonas wanted me to take him to see some new superhero movie, and I said it would be more fun if we stayed home and had a cookout instead. I had this gut feeling we would’ve died if we’d driven anywhere that night. Later on my stepmom turned on the TV and there was breaking news footage of a fatal accident that happened between our house and the theater. If we’d gone, we would have been in the accident, too.”
“So these premonitions don’t tell you the future,” Phil said. “They just warn you that harm is imminent.”
“Right.”
“Have you always had them?”
“Not always, no. The first one I can remember happened right after my dad died. It was so sudden. His death, I mean. And I was there when it happened. It messed me up really bad for awhile.” He could feel his eyes brimming with tears again as he saw his father drinking that final glass of lemonade in their kitchen.
“Do you think the shock of his death somehow opened you up to a higher power that enabled you to foresee unpleasant situations?” Phil asked.
Bobby had often wondered the same thing but never thought about it in those exact words. “It’s possible. The first premonition I had was maybe two weeks after he died. I knew I had to go outside all the sudden, and when I stepped out the door I saw our neighbors’ two-year-old walking out into the street. She got
their door open while her mom was taking a nap.”
“How long ago did your father pass away?” Randy asked.
“It’s been six years. I was fourteen.”
“And not once in those first fourteen years did you have premonitions of any kind,” Phil said. All traces of skepticism had vanished from his voice.
“Not that I can remember.”
The three of them were silent for several moments as Randy and Phil digested what he told them. Finally Randy said, “I’d like to know more about this gift of yours. It reminds me of the gift of Prophecy, with some obvious differences.”
Bobby shrugged. “That’s really all there is to say. And I wouldn’t call it a gift.”
“Yet it’s already saved multiple lives, my own included. If that isn’t a gift, then I don’t know what is.”
“If it were a gift, I wouldn’t feel like wetting my pants every time it happens.”
Phil snorted. “You have so much to learn. Randy told me you know some things about the mantle of Servitude, which I admit concerns me since you aren’t one of our number and have no apparent desire to join us in that respect. But do you think the gift of being able to cast out evil spirits is warm and cozy? We use the gifts we’re given because they’re meant to be used in service to God and to others, not because they make us feel good.”
Having the power to expel demons didn’t sound much like a gift either, but Bobby wasn’t going to argue about it. “It would be nicer if it felt good,” he said.
“If that were the case, we’d be tempted to use our gifts for our own personal gain, which isn’t something that Servants are permitted to do.” Phil glanced to Randy. “It is okay to be talking about this, right?”
Randy dipped his head. “No secrets between friends, new ones included.”
“That’s news to me,” Bobby said. “And if you aren’t keeping secrets anymore, why haven’t you told me why this was a bad time for me to show up?”
Randy’s expression darkened. “Our friend Roger was just here discussing our options with us. He thinks we should conduct a search of all the former Servants’ homes to see if any of them have stashed Trish’s body away. I understand his reasoning, but still. We have to trust each other. And that isn’t my definition of trust.”
“How many former Servants are there?”
“Of the ones still living and in contact with us? Five. There’s Frank, Graham, Roger, Frank the Second who some of us call Frankie, and Phil.”
“What if Graham’s the one who took her?”
“He doesn’t know where this house is. I bought it after he tried to kill me.”
Bobby couldn’t believe Randy would be so naïve. “Anyone could find out where you live. He knows where you worked, right? He could have followed you home one night to see where you’ve been staying.”
Randy shook his head. “I thought about that many times, which is why I always made sure I wasn’t being followed. I’m more cautious than you make me out to be.”
“He could have looked up real estate records and found you.”
“And he could have hidden a tracking device on my car and followed me that way,” Randy said, his voice suddenly laced with sarcasm. “I don’t think this is Graham’s doing.” But then his expression faltered. “I mean, if he knew I was here, he could have come in and killed me any time he wanted. Why would he come in and take a body when I’m his intended victim?”
No one had an answer to that.
“What I want to know,” Bobby said, “is why someone who acted like your friend shot you and left you for dead. Maybe if you can figure that out, you can figure out why he would do everything else.”
“I think,” Randy said, “we would need a real clairvoyant to find the answer to that.”
LUPE AWOKE staring at a mint green wall. Here and there chips had fallen out of it to reveal an older sky-blue paint beneath it.
A tiny black ant crawled in a zigzagging line up to a windowsill and disappeared into a crack where the caulking hadn’t been properly smoothed over.
The walls in Lupe’s bedroom were a cheery peach in color. She was not at home.
She jolted upright and forced herself back against the headboard, as if leaning against the wall would offer her any additional protection from the monster that dwelled in the house with her.
Graham had said such terrible things to her yesterday, and then to top it all off he’d locked her in this room so he could go off by himself and bury that poor woman he’d killed.
A cruel voice inside her head wondered if he had dug a grave for Randy as well.
She had to give Graham a little bit of credit. The bedroom where he’d imprisoned her had an attached bathroom, though she’d been unable to find any towels or shampoo; and the bar of soap perched on the edge of the tub had a shriveled look as if it had sat there unused for years.
She climbed out of the bed (who all had slept here over the years, and had they been prisoners, too?) and went to the window. Last night she had tried in vain to see if any neighbors were in view, but from that vantage point all she could see were trees and the green lawn below.
That didn’t mean there weren’t homes lurking just out of sight down the road. When dusk fell and the sounds of Graham traipsing around on the ground floor had ceased, she’d flicked the bedroom light on and off in the SOS pattern in the hope that someone driving by would notice the blinking in the window and come to her aid, but if anyone had seen it, their suspicions hadn’t been aroused.
She’d tried to open the window. It wouldn’t budge. She’d looked for something heavy so she could smash out the glass and climb down the outer wall to safety, but the room was sparsely furnished and the only thing that would have been remotely solid enough to do the job was the bedside lamp.
If she’d tried to break the window with the lamp, she would have only smashed the latter to smithereens, and the sound of it would have sent Graham storming to her room with a gun in hand.
Right now, however, she wanted to determine the position of the sun in the sky. She would have to be at work before long, and Graham had said he’d give her a phone so she could call in sick.
Then he would go out to kill Randy, but where and by what method, Lupe did not know.
Tears welled up in her eyes. Even though it had not been her intent, she had betrayed the only man who had ever loved her. Again.
She glanced back at the wall, where another ant climbed its way to the crack beneath the windowsill. If only she could shrink down to their size and follow them, she could get out of this confounded house. But if she did find a way out, what would she do? Hitchhike her way back to town and pray that whoever picked her up wasn’t a worse creep than Graham? At least the old man hadn’t physically harmed her.
Yet.
She sat down on the edge of the bed and crossed her arms. Surprisingly, her stomach growled—she hadn’t thought she could ever be hungry in this place. Last night when Graham had heated up a bowl of Campbell’s soup for her, she’d barely eaten half of it before her stomach could take no more.
Her reluctance to eat had stemmed in part from the fact that she didn’t know if Graham had laced her food with poison or not. He’d promised he wouldn’t hurt her, but the promises of a murderer were worth next to nothing.
Judging by the light in the sky, the time was midmorning. Where was Graham? He couldn’t have just left her here to starve. A small part of her hoped he would forget to have her call the restaurant. Her worried coworkers would then contact Randy, though neither he nor any members of law enforcement would know where to find her.
Minutes ticked by at the pace of a snail. She had to eat something soon or she would start to feel faint.
It occurred to her that Graham might have died. The days of his youth had expired before Lupe’s birth, and carrying the deceased woman’s body outside for burial had to have been a strain on his aging heart.
If he really was dead, he wouldn’t mind if she knocked out the window.
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She would have to check first.
Lupe rapped on the bedroom door. “Graham?” she called. “Are you out there or not?”
At first this was met with silence, but then came the sound of someone stirring on the floor below. Floor beams creaked and footsteps ascended the carpeted flight of stairs and stopped on the other side of the door.
“What do you want?” came Graham’s gravelly voice, the mock politeness of yesterday wholly absent.
“Two things: breakfast and my phone call.”
Graham did not reply. His footsteps receded to the ground floor, and Lupe could hear him rummaging around in the kitchen. She didn’t know if he was going to bring breakfast to her room or if he would allow her to dine below like last night.
When Graham returned a minute later, she expected him to pass her a granola bar or something similar, but instead when he unlatched the door and swung it inward, the only thing in his hand was a gun.
She opened her mouth to object but he cut her off. “Walk ahead of me down the stairs,” he said. “We’re going to the kitchen.”
Lupe set her mouth in a firm line as she emerged from the room and walked to the stairs. Graham followed a few steps behind, no doubt with the gun aimed at the back of her head. She turned left at the bottom of the stairs and made toward the kitchen only to behold an empty table. No breakfast of any kind had been prepared for her.
She didn’t know what to make of that.
“Sit down,” Graham said, moving toward the counter and plucking up a small black cell phone.
Lupe did as she was told. “You don’t have a landline?”
“Landlines can be traced. What’s the number?”
She started to ask why she couldn’t dial the number herself, but then it occurred to her that in reality she could have dialed any number she pleased and pretended to talk to her manager. A 911 operator would have thought it odd indeed if she had phoned them saying she would be unable to come in to work.
Deciding it best to cooperate at the moment, she recited the number to him and he entered it into the phone. Graham held the device to his ear, waited, and at last gave a nod as he shoved the phone into her hand.