Servant

by J. S. Bailey

  Bobby had to ask the one thing he dreaded to say. “Do you think Graham could have gotten to her already?”

  Randy must have been thinking along the same lines, because his face turned gray. “We should head out there to check on her. That’s the first place he’d look for me.”

  He and Phil both glanced at Bobby as if seeking his approval. Bobby shifted his weight from one foot to the other, not wanting to make a decision that would condemn any of them to an early grave. “I don’t know if that’s the right thing to do.”

  “Well, I say it is,” Phil said, striding across the room and picking up his tote.

  “Wait.” Randy’s eyes went out of focus for a moment. His shoulders relaxed, and some of the lines vanished from his forehead. “The three of us need to stick together,” he said, looking at both of them. “No matter what happens.”

  “Even me?” Bobby asked, surprised they would want to take him with them.

  “You’re the one who makes us three, right?”

  “I don’t want to mess anything up.”

  Randy cocked his head. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “I don’t know, I mean . . .” Bobby trailed off, not sure what to say. “What use could I possibly be if I went to Lupe’s?”

  “We were talking about gifts,” Randy said. “Do you know what mine is?”

  “You drive out demons.” Bobby wished he’d hurry up and get to whatever point he was trying to make.

  “Yes,” he said, “but there’s one other ability I’ve been blessed with since before I became the Servant. I can understand any language I hear. French, Spanish, Swahili, Arabic—anything. I can speak them, too, even though nobody ever taught me. It’s a form of the gift of Tongues.”

  Bobby didn’t know what this had to do with anything. “But I’ve never heard you—”

  Randy held up a hand. “And when Phil was the Servant, he could heal wounds and illnesses with a touch and a prayer. That’s called the gift of Healing.”

  “And just so you’re clear on this,” Phil said, “it isn’t only Servants who are blessed with gifts like these. I met a man in Vancouver who could discern spirits, and one of my aunts could pray in angelic tongues.”

  That was all very nice, and it would have made an interesting discussion some other time when nobody they knew was in danger. “I still don’t see the point.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Randy said. “Bobby, you have a gift that forewarns us of danger. I’ve been told that Martin, Phil’s predecessor, had a similar gift; only instead of seeing future dangers he was able to tell people the specific things they needed to do to remove themselves from present hardship. Am I right?”

  Phil gave a slow nod. He stepped back from the door and gave them his full attention. “Martin helped many people turn their lives around after they were no longer possessed.”

  Martin wasn’t one of the names Randy had mentioned when listing the former Servants whose homes would be searched for Trish’s body. “What happened to him?”

  Pain wrote itself across Phil’s face. “He went up to Portland to help a single mother he’d cleansed get a job and a place to live. He told her that she and her children would be able to pull themselves out of poverty if she got a job as a secretary at a certain office even though another position she came across would have paid her more. Her ex-husband saw her and Martin together, assumed he was her new boyfriend, and murdered him.”

  Bobby was sorry he asked. “Did she get the job?”

  “Yes. She eventually was promoted, got remarried, and now she and her new husband help run a women’s shelter where, consequently, I met my wife Allison.”

  Bobby’s mouth became dry. “I’m not Martin.”

  “No,” Randy said, “but you’ve been very helpful to us already. I’d like for you to come along, but it’s your call.”

  Bobby hesitated. If he went with the pair, he might cross paths with Graham Willard. If it came to violence, Graham might try to kill him simply for associating with the wrong crowd.

  Which was actually the right crowd, but that wouldn’t matter, would it?

  Like Randy had said, Bobby could decline their offer. He could stay put in the bungalow and mind his own business. Because what was Graham to him? A perfect stranger. Meddling in the affairs of someone he didn’t know could only lead to trouble.

  But isn’t that what you’ve already been doing?

  He silently chided himself. There he was, doing it again: weighing the pros and cons of being a decent person. He wondered what his father would think, and suddenly he was hit with the realization that he had no idea what Ken Roland would have thought of him in this situation. His father had always been something of a self-sufficient man, and though he’d been kind enough to his family, aiding strangers didn’t seem like something he would have rushed to do.

  After working sixty hours a week for twenty years and fathering two children, Ken Roland had died of a heart attack on the kitchen floor. His wife and children were the only things of worth he’d left behind—his years of labor at the General Electric plant may have paid the bills, but Bobby couldn’t see anyone looking back and saying, “Ken Roland—now there was a man who made a difference!”

  Going with Randy and Phil to a place where Graham might be was a frightening prospect, but if Bobby’s presence helped save Randy’s girlfriend, then his moments of fear would have been worth it.

  “I’ll come,” he said, surprised at how light he felt when the words left his mouth. “But I’m scared about what might happen.”

  “It takes guts to admit that,” Randy said. “I can’t guarantee this day will end with all of us in one piece, but Phil and I will do our best to make sure you stay safe.”

  Said the man who’d been unable to protect himself from Graham.

  Randy continued. “Besides, you haven’t had any new premonitions yet, right? We could all be worrying about nothing.”

  His words made panic edge its way inside of Bobby again, snuffing his temporary courage like a flame in the wind. “I don’t get warned about every tragedy that happens. We could all die if we go to Lupe’s.”

  “But nothing has told you that,” Randy said.

  “Right.”

  “Then what are you worried about?” He took a swig from the pop can and pocketed his phone. “Let’s get going.”

  GRAHAM WAS seething.

  He maintained the speed limit as best he could, even though his foot yearned to stomp the accelerator all the way to the floor. The nerve of that girl. Who did she think she was to call him a coward? He should have killed her then and there just to have a little peace.

  Truth be told, Lupe was nothing more than a pawn. Once he eliminated Randy he would have no further use for her. If only he could decide whether or not to kill her as he had the others.

  As he drove to Randy’s new home, his mind began to wander. Graham had learned the location of the ramshackle house after asking his grandson Jack (the illegitimate son of Stephanie, the daughter he hadn’t seen in more than two decades) to do a real estate search for properties owned by Randall Bellison. He’d nearly laughed with delight when Jack informed him that a small home had been sold to someone by that name only five months after Graham shot Randy. He could even click on a picture and see what the house looked like. Privacy truly did not exist in this day and age when satellites could zoom in far enough to see someone sunbathing naked by their swimming pool and any crook with an Internet connection could find where anyone lived.

  He had thanked Jack for his service and offered to pay him if he would stay on to help him in his other pursuits. Jack agreed.

  Now here was a boy who could make his grandfather proud.

  The young man had shown up on his doorstep in an air of mystery one day claiming to be one of Stephanie’s offspring. Startled, Graham had pressed him for information that only the son of Stephanie could know. What color is her hair? What color are her eyes? What kind of food could she never live without? Where
is the scar she got when Lisa wrecked the station wagon?

  Graham thought he’d catch the boy in a lie, but Jack answered all questions correctly and without hesitation. In his wallet Jack even had a family photo of a younger version of himself, Stephanie, and a red-haired girl that would have been taken a decade earlier. Graham did not believe the photo had been faked—and seeing his Stephanie after so many years, even if in a picture, had brought tears to his eyes.

  Jack did bear some resemblance to the Willard clan. He shared Graham’s and Stephanie’s crystal blue eyes, and like Stephanie Jack had wavy hair that was an indeterminate shade between blond and light brown. “How did you know where to find me?” he’d asked. “I’ve been in hiding for months.”

  Jack had grinned at him. “I have my ways, and it’s probably best for both of us if you don’t know what they are.” He had gone on to say he’d been looking for Graham ever since his name appeared in the news—not because he wanted Graham to be arrested, but because he wanted to learn more about the devious man who’d fathered his mother. Jack wanted to learn some “pointers” from Graham, he said. Pointers that might aid him in his own endeavors.

  When Graham pressed Jack for information about where he was staying and what he did for a living, Jack slyly changed the subject.

  Graham let the matter drop. If Jack felt the need to guard himself, then so be it.

  About a week later Jack asked why Graham had felt the need for Randy to die. They ended up discussing Randy and his kind for hours, and Jack had nodded in sympathetic understanding. He couldn’t stand holy people, either. It was no wonder Graham had wanted to get rid of the man.

  When Jack discovered the location of Randy’s house, he’d asked Graham why they couldn’t go and kill him then since Graham wanted to put an end to him so badly, but Graham had stalled. The time wasn’t right. Randy’s piety had been a poison in Graham’s veins those last few months before he’d tried to kill him, and he wanted Randy to suffer for it just like Graham had been made to suffer.

  He’d loved Randy once, perhaps even more than he loved Jack now. But someone like Graham couldn’t live with Randy forever. It was like living in a vat of acid.

  Lupe’s words echoed in his mind as he drew closer to his destination. You’re an old coward.

  Was he?

  No, of course not. Delaying Randy’s murder was done out of necessity, not fear. And the reason he hadn’t stayed behind when he shot Randy last year to ask him what he saw as he died was because . . .

  Graham blinked. Had he truly been afraid to see his young friend die? Was that why he’d run?

  His pulse pounded in his ears. The driveway lay just ahead.

  I am not a coward.

  He slowed the car and turned.

  THEY DECIDED to take Bobby’s car because Graham was less likely to recognize it than Phil’s Taurus. Bobby found little reassurance in their choice of vehicle since Graham might drive by the bungalow and spot Phil’s car in the driveway there. The man could break in and wait for them with a gun in hand, ready to blow away the first person to step through the door.

  “Randy,” Bobby asked, “do you have any weapons on you?”

  Randy patted his hip. “I’ve got my knife. What about you?”

  “There’s a knife block on the kitchen counter.”

  “I was hoping you’d have something a little more substantial than that.”

  Bobby held his palms up and shrugged. “When would I have ever needed to own something that could kill someone?” Up until a couple of days ago, a crazy old man who packed heat ranked close to alien invasion and asteroid collision in his list of worries. “Is a knife even going to help if he’s still got his gun?”

  Randy raised an eyebrow. “Would you rather face him empty-handed?”

  He resisted the urge to scowl. Bobby went to the knife block, unsheathed one of the medium-sized blades, and slid it into his pocket. He felt so stupid—what if it poked through the lining and stabbed him in the leg? Some hero he would be. As a precaution, he slipped it back out and wrapped it in a dish towel before returning it to the pocket, only now the increased bulk from the towel made his pants bulge on one side.

  Even though nothing about the situation was remotely humorous to Bobby, Randy’s eyes sparkled with mirth. “And to think when you jumped on me in the parking lot the other night, I thought you’d been paid to be an assassin.”

  Bobby’s face flushed. “I’m a loner, not a fighter.”

  “I think you mean ‘lover,’” Phil said, hanging on to his tote bag as if it were his only friend. Bobby wondered what else other than a stethoscope it contained.

  “I meant exactly what I said.” Bobby squared his shoulders, feeling much like a mouse who had just armed himself with a toothpick. “Do you want a knife, too? There’s plenty for everyone.”

  Phil declined with the shake of his head. “I’ll pass on that.”

  The pair of Servants—the current and the former—stood side by side, and Bobby gave them a brief appraisal. Randy’s shaggy, coffee-colored hair and black attire would make him stick out like a punk in a nursing home, and Phil looked as though he had just left an office, what with his khaki pants and nice polo shirt. Something in Bobby’s gut told him they should tone down their appearances just in case Graham passed them on the road. He may not have known Bobby’s car, but he would definitely recognize his passengers if he got a good look at them.

  “I think you should disguise yourself a bit just in case he sees us.”

  “How do you propose we do that?” Phil asked.

  “Easy. You’ll put on some of my clothes.”

  Phil threw Randy a look of desperation. “We don’t have time for this.”

  “No, no, I like it,” Randy said. “I’m just curious as to how I’m going to squeeze into something that fits him.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll find something.” Bobby hurried into his bedroom and started tearing through his closet. Pants, shirts, more pants. Randy was right. He was much stockier than Bobby. None of Bobby’s clothes would fit him.

  Knowing that waiting longer might spell certain doom for Lupe, Bobby yanked a Muse shirt off of a hanger for Phil and plucked an old Cincinnati Reds baseball cap off of the closet shelf for Randy. He rushed back into the living room and thrust the items at each of them respectively. “Sorry. I could have found something better if we had more time.”

  Randy jammed the ball cap over his head without objection. “It works for me. I hate baseball.”

  Phil took off his glasses and polo and slipped on the Muse shirt. “I still don’t see the point of this. Graham would have to be blind not to know who we are.”

  “I know it’s not foolproof. This is just so he doesn’t notice you right away in the car. But if you don’t think that’ll work, you’re welcome to hunker down in my back seat like we’re going to the safe house. It’s up to you.”

  The pair declined the offer. Bobby wasn’t surprised.

  So off they drove, keeping their eyes peeled for any sign of the old man. “He has to be living somewhere close,” Randy said as he gazed out the passenger window. “But not too close. He has to have a place that’s isolated enough for him to come and go without much notice.”

  “Or he could have altered his looks so much that nobody has recognized him from the pictures the news kept broadcasting last year,” Phil said.

  Randy folded his arms. “Or both. Bobby, turn here.”

  “I remember.”

  The apartment lot was only half full when they arrived. Bobby slowed down and parked close to Lupe’s unit. He didn’t see the gray sedan anywhere. “Should we wait out here?” he asked.

  Randy nodded. “One of us can act as lookout, and the other two of us can stay inside with her. That’s her Prius over there.”

  “I can keep watch,” Phil said as he unbuckled. “I’ll take the driver’s seat so I can take off after him if I need to.”

  Bobby’s insides squirmed like fishing bait in a bucke
t as he followed Randy to the apartment door. “Has Lupe been doing better since the other night?”

  Randy rapped his fist on the door and stepped back, his face grim once more. “Certain unfortunate circumstances have limited my opportunities to talk to her.” He knocked again when the door remained unanswered. “Come on, Lupe. Let us in.”

  Bobby turned and faced the parking lot. Phil sat behind the wheel of Bobby’s Nissan with his gaze trained on the parking lot entrance, and the image of “Paul” doing nearly the same thing at the church flitted through Bobby’s head, giving him a jolt.

  Bobby blinked. Were Phil and Paul the same person? No, of course not. Paul had brown hair, and Phil was a blond. Phil had a deeper voice, too. And if Phil barged into the church like that, he would have called for Randy, not Mr. Bellison.

  Behind him, Randy held his cell phone against his ear. “Come on, Lupe,” he said. “Tell me you’re in there.” He let out a huff. “Voicemail again.” He dug around in his pocket and withdrew a key ring. “God, if you’ve let anything happen to her . . .”

  Bobby held his breath as Randy unlocked the door and swung it open. Please let her be okay, he prayed as he followed Randy into the living room.

  The room was still. Furniture, knickknacks, receipts, and stacks of mail showed all the trappings of an ordinary life, yet Bobby had the sense that something here was not ordinary; that something had gone terribly wrong.

  The shades in the front room were drawn. Bobby flipped on a light switch so they could see better.

  “Lupe?” Randy called out. “Are you in here?”

  A purse sat on the coffee table next to a cell phone. Bobby didn’t want to think about what that might mean.

  He followed Randy down a short hallway into a bedroom that smelled like potpourri. “Lupe?”

  The bedclothes lay in disarray, and no one rested beneath them. Bobby only felt a minimal amount of relief. “Where could she have gone?”

  A hoarse note colored Randy’s voice. “I don’t know.”

  “What should we do?”