by David Beers
For someone her size, Lucy was incredibly strong.
“Who are you?” Goleen asked.
He was sweating profusely, which was something Lucy hadn’t thought about. The temperature outside was in the eighties, and already she felt her own brow growing wet. If she didn’t get the man some water, he’d die before she could do what was needed.
“I’m Lucy,” she said.
“What are you doing, Lucy?” Goleen said. His voice was strained, but obviously trying to remain calm.
Lucy walked by him and went to the bag that sat against the back wall. It was a baseball bat bag that she’d bought for seven dollars at a used sports store before she went to work on Mrs. Brown. She slung it over her shoulder and walked back in front of Goleen.
“I’m preparing you for the person you’re going to meet.” No stutter, not even the thought of one.
“Lucy, please. Listen to me. I have a kid and a wife. Whatever …,” the man let out a short sob, nearing the edge of a breakdown, but regained control of himself. “Whatever you’re going to do. Let’s just talk about it first, okay?”
“Sure,” Lucy said. She placed the bat bag down and pulled out the tripod. That had put her back two hundred dollars, but it was worth it. The Lord needed a way to speak to the world, after all. Money didn’t matter to Lucy. Did the bird stress about where its next meal would come from? No. And didn’t God love His children more than the birds? So why would Lucy worry?
“What … What are you going to do with that?”
Lucy was setting up the camera about ten feet from Goleen. “I’m going to record you.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s essential.”
“But why?” the man said, his voice straining louder.
“The Lord once looked for a single good person in Sodom and Gomorrah. He said if one good man could be found, then he’d save the cities. The only thing was, they couldn’t find one. God was forced to destroy the city and anyone in it. He even turned Lot’s wife into a pillar of salt—“
“Because she looked back!” the man shouted. “Because she disobeyed God’s order!”
Lucy smiled and looked out from behind the camera for a second. “That’s right. Some people, fake Christians as I call them, believe all those stories from the Old Testament are just that, stories. They’re just meant to show a meaning. Not me. Every word of The Bible is true as far as I’m concerned.” She was quiet for a second and looked through the camera lens. She had no knowledge of her stutter’s disappearance. “God has commanded me to do something, and that’s the only why that matters. It’s not that I’m afraid He’ll turn me into a pillar of salt, though He could if He wanted. It’s that when God says to do something, you do it.”
“Look, please. Please. Just listen to me. I believe in God. I pray every day. I love him with all my heart. He doesn’t want you to do this. What about thou shalt not kill?”
Lucy looked down at her feet, still smiling. “I wonder if lambs could speak, would they say the same at their sacrifice?” She looked up at Goleen. “I think they would have.”
Lucy went to her bag and pulled out a ski mask, setting it to the side for a moment. She then pulled out a long, black shirt and a pair of men’s sweatpants. She put them both on, her arms moving in jerky spasms as she did. Lucy didn’t see Goleen’s head cock to the side, surprised—even given everything happening—at the way she moved.
Finally, she put the ski mask over her face.
“Alright. Let’s get started.”
Chapter 7
Stuttering had been the first noticeable problem Lucy faced as a child, though of course, it stemmed from something else. She never considered what that might be, and neither did anyone else in her life.
The stuttering started when she was around eight years old.
She didn’t remember the first time she couldn’t get a word out correctly, but she did remember the first time Daddy caught wind of it.
He, Mommy, and Lucy had all been sitting at the kitchen table. Lucy even remembered the food that lay before them: mashed potatoes, green beans, and meat loaf.
“C-c-can you puh-puh-pass the mashed puh-puh-puh-potatoes?”
She didn’t notice how different her words sounded; she was only concerned with getting her food. When her father didn’t move, she looked up from the bowl she’d been asking for. Daddy was staring at her.
“What did you say?”
“Cuh-cuh-can—”
“STOP!” her father shouted and slammed his fist down on the table. The silverware bounced in front of Lucy. She felt her bladder suddenly grow full. “Say it again.”
Tears shot to Lucy’s eyes, welling there and making her parents appear hazy. She knew not to doddle, though. “C-c-c-c-c—” but she couldn’t get the word out. She stopped, pausing briefly, and then tried again. “C-c-c-c-c.”
The only noise that came from her mouth was the sound cuh.
“Shut up,” Daddy said. “Shut your mouth.” He looked over to Mommy. “This is your fault, you know that? All the babying made it so she cain’t even talk now.” He turned his glare back on Lucy. “You’re not getting a single piece of food until you can say it right.”
The tears spilled from Lucy’s eyes then. They rolled down her pale cheeks like huge rain drops down glass. She didn’t want to try speaking again, because she knew what the result would be. Lucy wasn’t going to be able to say anything without stuttering, especially not now.
“Say it again.”
“D-d-d-daddy, puh-puh-puh-please.” She could barely talk at all, was almost unable to get anything out.
“SHUT UP! STOP THAT DAMNED STUTTERIN’!”
Lucy sat there without saying another word. Her father didn’t break eye contact, not when he put more food onto his plate, or when he chewed. No one said anything for the rest of dinner, and Lucy’s plate remained empty. She knew better than to get up and leave, though. Daddy might need to tell her to quit stuttering, but not that it was a very bad idea to leave without his permission.
Finally, when her father had finished his third plate, he stood and walked out of the kitchen.
Lucy’s mother dutifully started cleaning up, not glancing over at her daughter. It took Lucy a moment, but she began picking up the silverware and food as well, just as she did every night.
Lucy didn’t want to upset Daddy any further.
Chapter 8
“How bad is it?”
“It’s bad, sir,” Tommy said.
“With what was in the paper this morning, do you believe this is religious? They’re calling the killer The Priest.”
Tommy rarely received calls from Director Alan Waverly. Tommy, Luke, and Christian had all met with him during Bradley Brown’s spree, but since then, Tommy might have seen one or two emails from the man.
Now, though, the three of them were in Tommy’s office, and Waverly’s voice filled it through the speakerphone.
“Yes, we think this is religiously based,” Luke said. “There’s really not any other way to view what happened.”
“Okay, just so I’m straight on what exactly happened, because I have this damned press conference in three hours: the victim is Ryan Goleen. Four hours ago a video arrived at three national newspapers, as well as Christian’s doorstep. The video shows a ritualistic killing. Right now, we have no other leads, though obviously we think this is connected to the murder of Bradley Brown’s mother. Am I missing anything?”
“S-,” Christian tried to speak, but only a whisper came out. He cleared his throat and spoke again. “Sir, there’s more. I, umm, I went to high school with Ryan Goleen.”
Tommy’s mouth dropped open. His eyes flashed to Christian and he caught a small smile appearing on Luke’s face as he did. They’d been working on this all morning. They had no body, but The Priest—as the press was calling the murderer—had been happy to show the camera the dead man’s ID.
And the whole time, Christian didn’t say a word about knowing the
man.
Has he said much in the past four hours?
Christian stared at Tommy’s desk.
Five seconds passed and then Waverly said, “What was that?”
“I went to high school with him.” Christian didn’t blink. Didn’t move in the slightest.
He’s in shock, Tommy thought.
“Jesus Christ, Windsor. Were you going to tell us this?”
“I, um. I’m sorry. I ….”
“Sir,” Tommy said, “can you give us one second, please?” He didn’t wait for an answer but hit mute on the speakerphone. “Hey, Christian, look at me.” The kid’s face slowly turned to his. “What you say over the next few minutes is extremely important for your career. We can worry about all the rest later, but right now, you need to turn that mind of yours on, okay?”
Christian looked dazed.
“Do you hear me, Christian?”
The kid blinked and Tommy saw him come forward a little bit.
“There. Tell Waverly what you know and I’ll get him off the phone. Don’t worry about anything besides this one conversation, you got it?”
Christian nodded.
“Sorry about that, sir,” Tommy said. “We’re here.”
God bless him, Christian wasted no time. “I’m extremely sorry, sir. I wasn’t one hundred percent certain it was the same person until right before this call. I should have looked it up sooner and I apologize, but to be honest, I didn’t even recognize the name at first.”
Another pause from the Director’s side. “I need to know what you know about him.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll have it in a report to you within the next hour.”
Waverly sighed, but his voice didn’t soften. “Within the hour, and then the three of us talk in two more. Everyone understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Tommy said, the other two echoing him.
The speakerphone clicked and the line was finished.
“Jesus,” Tommy said, leaning back in his chair.
Luke adjusted his own some, turning it so that he faced Christian. “An interesting turn of events.”
“I don’t know why I didn’t say anything. Everything I just told Waverly was bullshit. I knew it was him from the moment I saw the video. The guy … I didn’t have much trouble in high school with people. I did their homework, let them copy from me, and that pretty much protected me from bullies. Except Goleen. He put me in a coma.”
Christian wasn’t looking at either of them, but had gone back to staring at the desk.
“He went to juvie for a little while. The guy’s family life was horrible, but I think he found religion in juvie. When he got out he made it a point to apologize to me … I just stared at him. We never spoke again.”
“This … changes things, Christian,” Tommy said. “It means whoever is doing this is doing it to people that have harmed you, or tried to harm you. We’ve got an hour to get a report to Waverly, and in it, we need every single name of anyone who has ever bullied you, or could ever be considered an enemy.”
The night had grown late and the room was dark except for the television screen. Luke made sure to get a copy of the video before he left, downloading it onto a thumb-drive. The three didn’t leave the office until nearly two, even Christian pushing through his exhaustion to get everything Waverly asked for.
Luke was alone now and he wanted to see the video again, because it was—in its own way—glorious.
He hit play on his remote and the stereo system took control, rushing the silence away.
They called the murderer a ‘priest’, but as Luke watched him move across the screen, he wondered if the papers were correct about that. The perpetrator certainly took great lengths to make their body look androgynous, but Luke thought the frame beneath the baggy clothes was that of a woman. A thin one, and clearly having abnormalities with her nervous system. Perhaps The Priestess was a better moniker.
The gender didn’t really matter at the moment, however.
The Priest had obviously put a lot of work into planning this, wanting to truly create a show.
Luke watched as Goleen was stretched upward, first by his left hand and then by his right. The Priest had attached rings at the top of the metal room, and then tossed a thick rope through each one. Apparently, he or she was extremely strong, able to hoist a fully grown man up by pulling the rope through one ring, tying it off, and then moving to the other side.
Ryan Goleen hung suspended ten feet in the air.
Not quite a cross, but close.
The Priest disappeared from the camera frame for a few moments and then came in from the side carrying a baseball bat. She swung it at the right knee; Goleen’s breaking bones echoed in the small metal chamber. Their noise was quickly drowned out by the man’s screaming, however. The Priest wasted no time—the screams didn’t matter in the slightest to him or her. The bat came down on the second knee cap.
Unnecessary, but symbolic.
Christ died for the sins of men, but not a bone on his body had been broken. This man clearly wasn’t Christ, but a sinner like those who hung beside Christ; he would endure the same punishment as all Roman criminals.
“This man broke one of your laws, didn’t he?” Luke said.
The man continued screaming but Luke hit fast forward, cutting off the horrific noise. He turned the speed up to five times, as the video covered multiple days. The Priest came back sometimes, using a ladder to give the man water before leaving.
Ryan Goleen simply hung in the air until he suffocated, his lungs collapsing inside his chest. An extremely painful way to go, like drowning, except over a much longer time period. And poor Mr. Goleen also had to deal with his shoulder ligaments slowly ripping apart.
“I wonder,” Luke said. “Is Christian your God, or is your God pointing you toward Christian? Is there even a difference?”
Christian sat in his mother’s living room. He couldn’t imagine going to his house. He had moved out of his mother’s at twenty-three, and only because she somewhat forced him. It wasn’t that she said he couldn’t stay, but she knew when it was time for him to leave, and in her own way, she nudged him out.
She simply raised his rent until it was cheaper to live somewhere else.
Tonight, though, he found himself needing to be near her.
“Do you want some milk, honey?” she said from the kitchen. The moment he told her he was going to spend the night, she had started busying herself with dinner and dessert. It didn’t matter if he was staying one night or two weeks, he would have more food than he could eat.
“No.”
Christian stared at the television, an older program he didn’t recognize was on. He never had much use for television, though his mother enjoyed it. After what happened today, it didn’t matter what was playing.
“Dinner should be ready in a half hour,” his mother said as she walked into the living room. She was approaching her sixties, though she always looked a decade younger. Christian thought it was because she never worried, which meant he’d probably look ten years older when he was her age.
“What’s bothering you?” she said, taking a seat next to him and putting her hand on his leg. No one else moved like that around him, and he wouldn’t have known how to react if they had. With his mom, though, it all felt natural.
“You’re still not watching the news?”
“Nope. Not since that Bradley Brown nonsense. It scares me too much, thinking about the people you’re trying to catch. If it’s something I need to know, I figure Carla down the street will let me know.”
“She didn’t come talk to you today?” he asked.
“No. Now tell me, what’s going on?”
“You remember when I was put in that coma?”
“No. When did that happen?”
“This is serious, Mom,” Christian said. “Don’t joke. The kid that did it to me, his name was Ryan Goleen.” Christian shook his head for a second, trying to gather his thoughts. He’d been a step behind the entire d
ay. “Okay, first, Bradley Brown … Look, I don’t know any other way to say this—”
“Honey, I’m your mother. Just talk to me,” she said.
He nodded. She was right. This wasn’t work and he didn’t need to have a preamble or disclaimer.
“Bradley Brown’s mother was murdered,” Christian said. “Her head was put in a box, and then put on my doorstep. I didn’t tell you what happened, only that people around me might be targeted. Today, a video showed up of Ryan Goleen. He was tortured before they murdered him. The video was delivered to my house, as well as to some pretty big newspapers.”
His mother didn’t gasp or remove her hand and put it over her mouth. She knew better than to do something like that when Christian was in such a state, and he was glad for it. She was bedrock, and he needed that now.
“Has anyone given a reason for it?” she asked after a few seconds.
“No.”
“And have you been able to see anything about it? About the man killing these people?”
He knew what she meant; had he gone inside his mansion? He shook his head. “I don’t want to.” He felt himself about to break, the tears that had been threatening to swell all day finally rising up. “This is my fault. It’s different than last time, Mom. These people are dying because of me.”
“No, no, honey. No, they’re not.” His mother took his head in her arm and pulled it to her neck. At twenty-five years old, Christian cried while he held his mother, without a single thought of embarrassment. “These people are dying because a crazy person is killing them. If someone put Carla’s head on my doorstep, would you say it’s my fault?”