by J. S. Bailey
Phil rose from the couch and approached a bookshelf leaning against one wall. After squinting at the spines for a moment or two, he withdrew a large brown photo album and propped it open on the coffee table. “Randy isn’t much of one for taking pictures,” he said as he flipped through the pages, “but Lupe, Carly, and my wife like to give him snapshots to save. Come on, I know it’s in here . . . there.” He turned the album so Bobby could see an enlarged photograph of a group of people posing in rows on a beach, some dressed in swimsuits, some in shorts and t-shirts. “This was taken during a party we had on the coast a few years ago. You could say it’s our whole little family. Let me know if you recognize anyone.”
Bobby picked up the album and held it closer to his face. On the bottom row at the left, Randy and Lupe leaned against each other smiling as they sat barefoot in the sand. To their right sat Carly Jovingo (dressed in a somewhat revealing orange bikini, Bobby noted), a couple of women Bobby didn’t recognize, Phil, and a blond, pigtailed toddler who was probably his daughter. In the back row stood some men and a few teenagers. A shriveled man with frizzy gray hair and stooped shoulders sat in a beach chair off to one side with arthritic hands folded together in his lap.
Bobby pointed. “That isn’t Graham, is it?”
“Strike one. That’s Frank Jovingo, and he just turned a hundred and one years old last month. This man here beside him is also Frank Jovingo, but we call him Frankie to avoid further confusion. He’s Frank’s grandson and Carly’s father. Are you sure you don’t recognize anyone?”
Bobby scrutinized the men in the back row. One of them looked like the middle-aged guy he’d passed in Randy’s driveway that morning, but he couldn’t be certain. A gray-haired man with a slight paunch around his middle standing next to him looked a decade or two older. “I’m not sure.”
Phil picked up the album and turned it to another page. “Try again.”
Bobby found himself staring at a bunch of four-by-six prints from that same beach party. In one shot, the women were all playing a game of sand volleyball, and in another, the gray-haired man with the paunch sat in a lawn chair sipping at a blood-red drink that had a stalk of celery poking out of it like a straw. Bobby could see his features more clearly in this image. He had laugh lines around his eyes, which were a pale shade of blue. He wore gray shorts and a brown, short-sleeved button-up shirt with a pack of red Pall Malls poking out the top of the breast pocket.
“This is Graham,” he said. “Isn’t it?”
“Good call.”
“And you said he’s seventy-five years old?” The man in the picture looked a decade younger than that.
“He was only seventy-two when this was taken, but yes. He liked to joke that his Bloody Marys helped keep him looking young, but you should see him when he walks. Shuffles around like the most decrepit person who ever lived. Based on what I know now, it had to be an act.” Phil looked at Bobby with a questioning gleam in his eyes. “Do you know where you’ve seen him?”
“Give me a minute.” Something about the lines in Graham Willard’s face reminded him of someone—but who? He squinted. He moved the album away from him and turned it at an angle. He pictured the man sitting in a booth at the Stop-N-Eat sipping a Bloody Mary, but they didn’t serve alcohol there, so the image didn’t help him.
Then he remembered that the woman Randy questioned at Lupe’s apartment complex said that a dark-haired man entered Lupe’s unit.
In his mind, he pasted black hair onto Graham’s head. He replayed the gravelly voice that came out of Randy’s cell phone.
“Nice to meet you, son,” the old man said, though those weren’t the words he used to address Randy. “Come on, I’ll give you a tour of the place.” In his mind’s eye, Bobby saw the man inserting a key into a lock and pushing open a door. “I’m afraid it’s not that big, but if it’s just two of you in here, that should be okay, right?”
Bobby’s eyes widened, and he clapped a hand over his mouth.
“Where have you seen him?” Phil pressed, his expression intense.
Part of Bobby’s mind went numb with the realization that not only had he met Graham before but also wrote him a check every month to pay for his and Caleb’s occupancy in the bungalow on Fir Street. “I don’t believe it,” he said. “It’s Dave.”
“WHO’S DAVE?”
Bobby’s pulse thumped like the hooves of an out of control horse. “Dave Upton. He’s my landlord. He drops by about once a month to make sure everything is okay with the house.”
“Graham’s daughter Kimberly’s last name is Upton.” Phil placed a hand on his chin, brooding. “You’re sure he and Graham are the same person?”
Bobby looked at the photograph again and nodded. “I’m about a million percent sure.”
“Then you’ll find it interesting that the Graham Willard I knew owned quite a few rental houses over the years—just not one on the street where you live.”
“You said he ran a drug store.”
“He did that, too. But he must have other houses under this Dave name. That’s how he’s avoided the police. After he tried to kill Randy, he ceased being Graham Willard and became this other person instead.”
“Wouldn’t his other renters know he changed his appearance? They should have suspected something was up. I met him at the end of June last year. When did he try to kill Randy?”
“On June fifteenth, so he would have already been evading law enforcement when you met him. And I agree that someone should have suspected something, unless you happened to be his only current renter.”
Phantom fingers crawled across Bobby’s skin and down his spine as he remembered something that Dave—no, Graham—had told him while he and Caleb read through the rental agreement. “He said the woman who lived there before us had become too sick to live by herself so she moved into a group home.” He swallowed. “You don’t think he—”
“I don’t know what to think.” Phil was already moving over to a dormant PC sitting on a side table. “But I’ve got an idea. Please pray it works.”
RANDY FINALLY found the place Graham indicated on the phone. A steep hill rose up from the south side of the road, and the north side consisted of a seemingly unbroken expanse of forest except for the place where a narrow gravel drive met the road.
He eyed the number on the battered mailbox and turned.
A metal gate that had been left open guarded the lane. Brambles grew close on each side, and if he hadn’t known any better, he would have thought he was returning to his own home.
The structure at the end was most definitely not his house. It had two stories, yes, though the similarity ended there. Cheerful yellow siding made the house stand out like a highlighter, and the wide front porch housed a wooden swing covered in a flowery cushion and some pots spilling wave petunias over their edges.
Graham would have wanted people to look at this house and feel welcome. Come on buddy, pull up a chair and we’ll be great friends.
The thought disgusted him.
An old barn, weathered and unpainted, loomed behind the house. The sight of it made uneasiness stir in Randy’s gut.
Be calm, the Spirit said to him.
“I’m trying.”
He got out of the car and slammed the door. The sound of it echoed off the sides of the house and barn and seemed to whisper through the trees before dissolving into silence.
He closed his eyes and listened.
Randy hadn’t had the time to tell Bobby everything about his gift of Tongues. While it was true he could comprehend any human speaker and speak with him or her in turn, he also had a vague understanding of the languages of animals. It wasn’t anything defined like human speech—more like vague ideas voiced by whatever sound the animal could produce—and it didn’t always make sense to him because the brains of humans and animals were so vastly different from one another.
Animals did have the tendency to express their awareness of a human presence, which Randy could pick up from them easi
ly enough.
Some birds perched in a nearby tree chattered about something they had seen. He strained to hear better. People. They had seen people, but now they didn’t know where they were.
A lot of help that would do him.
Several minutes passed. “I’m here, Graham,” he called. “Just like you wanted. So where is Lupe?” He took a step forward. “I know you’re in there. Are you going to come outside with her, or am I supposed to come to you?”
Nothing.
He prayed that Bobby and Phil would decipher his hastily-concocted clues, and soon. It had been so tempting to break the promise he had made to Graham, but in order to be the Servant, one had to be as sinless as possible. Christ would not lie to save a soul. Randy wouldn’t, either.
Lupe, please be okay. The woman he had chosen to be his bride had gone through more hell in her twenty-six years than most people could imagine. For most of her life, people had used her for their own gain, and now was no different. Like the johns and pimp who had used Lupe like a piece of meat in Nogales, Graham was using her to draw Randy in.
Which was why he would have to do his best to outsmart his former mentor. He would whisk Lupe away, call the police on Graham even though he had little faith in them, find a replacement, and then wed his beloved. With Graham behind bars, Randy would finally refurbish the outside of his house so he and Lupe would have a nice place to raise the children they hoped to have. Parenthood would be a whole new adventure unto itself since neither he nor Lupe had grown up in traditional homes. But they would love their children and nurture them, and life would be good.
But first things first.
He set off toward the house, wondering if Graham watched him while hidden just out of sight. He rapped on the door and stepped back. When nobody answered, he knocked again, and when a third knock didn’t bring anyone to the door, Randy gave the knob an experimental turn and swung the door inward. Beyond it lay a dim room full of the amorphous outlines of covered furniture.
He glanced behind him to make sure he wasn’t about to be ambushed. Then, maintaining utmost caution, he stepped inside.
FATHER PRESTON sat at his kitchen table mulling over the explanation Tony gave him yesterday. It’s not what you think, he’d said. Yes, that was all very good. It wasn’t what Father Preston had thought. Surprise, surprise. Tony had only performed the actions he’d thought were right at the time.
But after praying about it the rest of that day and all morning so far, Father Preston decided he didn’t quite like the things Tony had told him. He had tried to place himself in Tony’s shoes. What would he, Father Preston, have done in that situation?
He would have notified the family first and foremost, even it had taken him all day to track them down and bring them the news.
Scratch that. He would have refused to become involved in the first place, even if that meant he would be killed for it. Tony claimed to be an unwilling participant who feared for his life. Father Preston had suggested calling the police right then, but Tony had balked at that. No, he’d said with palpable fear in his eyes. I have to talk to the girl first. Then we can go to the police.
Father Preston suggested that he should hurry up and do it, then.
The more he prayed about Tony’s situation, the more God revealed to him that something about this whole ordeal was horribly wrong.
He prayed he was wrong.
Father Preston picked up the telephone and dialed up Ratchet Brothers Funeral Home. Perhaps his suspicions were unwarranted. But perhaps not.
A soft female voice answered. “Thank you for calling Ratchet Brothers. How may I help you?”
“Pattie? This is Father Preston.” Many parishioners let Ratchet Brothers handle their loved ones’ memorial services, so he was well acquainted with those who worked there. “I wondered if you could help me out with something for a minute or two.”
“Sure thing, Father. What is it you need?”
He prayed that God would forgive him for the white lies he was about to tell. “I heard a rumor that one of our parishioners, a Patricia Gunson, had passed away, but nobody in her family notified me of the death. I wondered if they had contacted you about it.”
“The name doesn’t ring a bell. Let me check.” He heard some tapping and clicking in the background as Pattie pulled up the information on a computer. “No, she’s not here that I can see.”
“Were you at work yesterday? Maybe whoever was there forgot to record the information about the arrangements.”
“I was here all day, Father. Either the family chose a different funeral home, or you overheard a very unkind rumor.”
Father Preston’s stomach felt like it was full of knots. “I suppose I’ll find out. I do have one more question, though.”
“Yes?”
“Have you seen Father Laubisch? I thought he told me he dropped by there yesterday afternoon, but now I’m not so sure he did.”
“You mean Father Anthony?” Pattie sounded confused. “No, he wasn’t here yesterday at all. Why?”
Father Preston had always found it amusing how people insisted on referring to the younger priest by his first name when he preferred being addressed in the old-fashioned way, but today he found no humor in it. “Never mind. It’s nothing. And thank you for your help.”
“Not a problem. You have a good day, Father.”
“You too.”
They disconnected, and Father Preston set the phone down.
Tony, as he called the priest in private, had lied to him.
He began to see red. The younger man had done much more than fail to tell the truth.
There was only one thing left for him to do. Father Preston called the police.
RANDY CALLED out again once he had closed the door behind him. “Graham?”
The floor creaked beneath his feet as he stepped further into the room. All the curtains had been drawn. A sliver of sunlight fell onto the floor through a narrow gap in the fabric, illuminating thousands of dust motes dancing lazily through the air.
He found a light switch and flipped it on. Other than a coffee table, an armchair, and a couch covered in a dingy white sheet, the front room was empty. The floor consisted of imitation hardwood laminate. Footprints in the dust showed where someone had recently passed through from the front door to the kitchen. Judging from the shoe size, it had been a man.
He listened for any sign of movement but could hear none. Where was Lupe?
As a precaution, he withdrew his knife and held it at his side.
Randy glided from room to room, noting that in no way could this be Graham’s primary residence. The only thing in the bathroom indicating that someone ever used it was a roll of toilet paper perched on the edge of the bathtub, and after a brief inspection of the kitchen cabinets to sate his increasing curiosity revealed a couple boxes of out-of-date crackers and not much else, he began to wonder just what it was that Graham used this house for.
A search of the second floor and the basement revealed neither answers nor the man himself.
Randy returned to the first floor and stared out one of the rear windows at the barn. A crooked weathervane in the shape of a rooster sat at the pinnacle of its roof, creaking back and forth in a light breeze. The windows appeared dark. They reminded him of eyes.
The barn. That was it.
Lupe was in the barn.
Goosebumps spread across his flesh, but they were quickly dispelled by a reassuring warmth that rose up within him.
Be brave, my child.
Randy nodded and swallowed a knot of fear. He couldn’t lose his head now.
Lupe’s life depended on it.
RANDY LEFT the house through the front door and took slow steps around the side toward the barn. An old hand pump sat to the left of the barn next to some wooden pallets overgrown with weeds. None of this looked like a place Graham Willard would call home. He’d probably gotten the property for cheap and left it as it was, nice porch swing, junk, and all.
Th
e ground had been disturbed behind the hand pump and pallets. The rectangular areas of overturned earth did not make Randy think that Graham had been planning on starting a vegetable garden. He caught sight of a newly-dug pit that had earth piled next to it and quickly averted his gaze.
He wondered if he had just seen his own grave.
His feet stopped in front of the barn door and refused to continue onward.
Father, give me strength.
He pictured Lupe as she was on the day he proposed to her. She had been as radiant as an angel. He didn’t know what would happen to her if he didn’t survive this. Phil and Allison might take care of her. They were good people. And it wasn’t as though his and Lupe’s parting would last an eternity. They would be united again in heaven—not as husband and wife, but as children of God.
The part of him that was pure instinct told him he needed to run away before he ended up with a bullet in his head. The part of him that wanted to protect Lupe from harm made him step forward.
After all, there was no guarantee he would die today.
The barn door hung on sliders. A rusty green sign emblazoned with the John Deere logo hung crookedly in the center of it from a single bolt.
He counted to ten before dragging it open.
The barn breathed the smells of dust, mold, and old straw at him.
He stepped inside.
In the spill of light entering the large, open space from half a dozen windows, he could see a figure at the far end of the barn bound to one of three central posts supporting the second-floor loft.
His heart nearly sprang into his throat. The slender figure had been wrapped in some kind of cowl so he couldn’t see her face. Her back faced him; her head slumped to one side like she’d fallen asleep sitting up.
Bile rose from his stomach. Graham had done something horrible to Lupe—conked her on the head, injected her with a tranquilizer, what did he know?—and now she sat bound and seemingly as lifeless as a corpse.
It was so silent that Randy could hear his pulse’s pounding rhythm in his ears. “Hey,” he whispered.