Everyone Dies in the End

by Brian Katcher

  “Sherman Andrews,” he said, in a whisper. “This is a warning. We don’t give a second one. A certain party hired us to give you this message. You will stop researching David Gowen, his associates, and any other events connected with his life. Do not concern yourself with why. Just stop wondering about things that happened eighty years ago. Disobey and…”

  He stopped and bent over, leaving me in the clutches of his friend. When he stood up, he was holding an empty beer bottle, which he deftly smashed against the alley wall.

  For a moment, he examined the jagged neck in his hand. Then he brought it close to my face.

  I found my voice. “Please…” I begged. “No. Anything you say.” I was too scared to wonder who these guys were or why they cared about my research. I just wanted this to be over.

  The pretty man rolled the bottleneck in his fingers, as if feeling fine silk. Then, with great care, he laid the shard against my cheek. A tickling sensation ran across my face. There was no pain. Only when I felt the blood did I realize he was deliberately cutting me.

  “The last guy who crossed our employer lost an eye.”

  I could tell he was not joking. He was going to blind me right there in public.

  I began to squeal. A high-pitched, monotonous drone that came from some unconscious part of my brain. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t scream or struggle. I was the prison bitch, and these guys were about to have me.

  “What the hell!” bellowed a familiar voice. The two men jumped away from me. There in the alley, the door still swinging shut behind him, stood Aaron. And damn, was he pissed.

  My tormentors took off running. It didn’t seem like they were afraid; maybe they simply didn’t want to be seen. Aaron sprinted after them, but lost his footing when one of them hurled an empty crate at his feet.

  “Yeah, you better run, assholes!” he screamed after them.

  I collapsed among the cigarette butts and trash in the alley. Aaron jogged back to me. “Christ, Sherman, what happened?”

  “They…they wanted my wallet.” Then I started crying. I couldn’t help it.

  “Hey, it’s okay.” He knelt next to me. “Don’t sweat it, man. Looks like he cut you good. Next time just give it up, it ain’t worth getting stabbed.”

  “I’m fine.” The tears stopped as quickly as they came. I wiped my face with the back of my hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Sure man. You wanna call the cops?”

  “Nah, nothing would come of it.” We walked around to the front of the building.

  “Wait here,” said Aaron. “Lemme get L.J. and we’ll go home.”

  I leaned against the doorway, starting at every car that drove by, and wiping blood and snot from my face. A guy in a frat jacket passed into the bar with a date. When he looked at me, he laughed.

  I didn’t care. Half an hour ago, I’d just been a high school student who wanted to make a name for myself. Half a minute ago, two complete strangers were about to carve my eye out with a glass shard. How in the Christ had that happened?

  That photo. Rev. Gowen. It hadn’t been a fluke. It really was some kind of unsolved murder. Some conspiracy that had lasted almost a century. Something so secret and disturbing that some unseen person was willing to maim me to get me to stop snooping.

  This was big. If I could discover what was going on, I could go out and buy some trophy polish for my Pulitzer.

  Aaron and L.J. exited the bar and we wordlessly walked back to campus. I had something important to do back at the dorms.

  As soon as I got home, I’d burn that damn picture.

  – Chapter Six –

  That night, I dreamed. Lucid, realistic dreams, the soap opera type you bore your friends with the next day. A dream so lifelike you feel you must have lived it.

  I was standing in the quad at Mizzou. It must have been autumn; a blanket of brown leaves spread from the steps of Jesse Hall to the Engineering Building. Though no one was in sight, I knew the students would be breaking out their jackets and long pants for the first time that year. The fall term must have been well underway.

  Like most dreams, I was in a familiar place, and yet I wasn’t. This was the quad I’d crossed earlier that day, but something wasn’t right. The new addition to the Journalism Building was gone. In its place was a dilapidated shed. A huge elm, red and gold with the change of season, stood where an ugly piece of abstract sculpture had been. The flags of the United States and Missouri still flew atop Jesse Hall, but the United Nations banner was missing. And where were the smokestacks from the power plant? Since when was there a thick growth of ivy covering the ruined Academic Hall columns?

  From around the back of the Sociology Building walked four figures. They looked familiar, like second cousins you only see every couple of years. Where did I know them from?

  They walked in a purposeful group, silently, single file. The first man was short and squat, though somehow imposing. His long jacket covered what I could tell was a muscular body. He scowled as he passed me, as if he’d been wronged somehow.

  Behind him strode a portly man with the trashy dignity of a professor. The full beard, the glasses, the rumpled suit. He worked here, he studied here, he was happy here.

  The third guy was the only one of the group with a hint of a smile. Barely out of his teenage years, the young man chuckled to himself. Something amused him. A pack was slung across his back. It bounced against his ragged clothes as he bounded along.

  I almost said hello to the last man, he seemed so familiar. The well cut suit, the nervous gait, the troubled frown…where did I know him?

  The quartet passed quickly. While the first three men gave me no notice, the last guy actually stopped and looked toward me. But he didn’t look at me. He just looked.

  He couldn’t have been three feet away, but he kept staring in my direction blankly, like a man trying to find his car in a crowded lot. I inched closer.

  We were close enough to touch. As I was reaching out my hand to grab his shoulder, he turned directly toward me. When I looked into his eyes, I screamed.

  “Wake up!”

  I sat up in bed, my sheets soaked with sweat. The dorm room was dark. The only light came from my alarm clock: 2:11 AM.

  Just a dream. Just a dream.

  “You okay?” came a disembodied voice from the void. I screamed again until I realized it was L.J.

  “Sorry…sorry. Nightmare. A guy…guy with a glass eye.” Why had that frightened me so much?

  I stumbled out of bed. As the bad dreams faded away, my real life nightmare fell into focus. The confrontation behind the pool hall. The beating. Almost losing an eyeball.

  “You wanna talk about it?” asked L.J. Clearly he didn’t mean the dream, but what to him must have looked like an especially brutal robbery.

  “I told you, it was just a dream! They don’t mean anything. Hell, last night I dreamed I killed you in your sleep. When I woke up I was standing over your bed, holding a pillow.”

  When he didn’t respond to that, I left the room, pausing only to grab my cell phone.

  The lights in the men’s room burned harsh and uncaring. During the school year, this place would probably be filled with vomit and trash. Right now it was gleaming and spotless. I stared at my frightened reflection, the wild eyes, the Band-Aid Aaron had slapped under my eye.

  It ends here.

  I had no idea the magnitude of what I’d stumbled upon. Something huge. Something evil. Something secret. And someone out there desperately wanted me to stop investigating.

  Well, I didn’t have to be asked twice. I was leaving Columbia. Tomorrow. Maybe I’d never come back; there were other J schools in the state.

  I picked up my phone and dialed the number for AAAA Plumbing (the extra A is for All Night!). It was late, but Dad was always on call. When someone’s basement was filling with sewage in the middle of the night, they’d pay anything to the man who was willing to come out.

  “Quadruple A Plumbing!” said the chirpy w
oman from the answering service. “How may I—”

  “Janine? This is Sherman. Is Dad there?”

  “Oh, hi, honey. No, he’s on a job. Can I have him give you a call?”

  I pictured the pretty middle-aged woman, and wondered for the umpteenth time if she and dad were more than business associates.

  “Yeah. Have him call me. Soon as he gets back.”

  “Um, are you okay? If this is an emergency, I can page him.”

  Yes, yes, yes!

  “No, it’s nothing. Just tell him I called.”

  I pressed my forehead to the cold mirror. It would all be over soon. All be over.

  Outside the bathroom, I could hear the echo of footsteps. I tensed until they faded away.

  No one can get into this building, right?

  I just needed to stay calm. I’d pack in the morning, and then Dad could come pick me up.

  Dad, come get me!

  No. It wasn’t like that. No.

  The long-suppressed memories floated to the surface. I’d tried to forget this for over six years, but as a son of a plumber, I knew there are certain things you just can’t flush.

  I was eleven. Mom had already been gone for two years by then. Boy Scout camp. My first real time away from home.

  Yeah, I’d seen those guys smoking. And yes, I was the one who told the scoutmaster (a scout is clean, after all). I didn’t think anyone knew it was me, though.

  And the second night, waking up to a hand over my mouth. Strong arms yanking me off my cot. Four guys, hate radiating off of them like a campfire.

  The pillowcase in my mouth. Struggling as they dragged me from camp, the scoutmaster audibly snoring in his tent, just a few yards away.

  The rough wood of the pier, extending out into Lake Boumont. The steam coming off the icy water.

  “Please, guys…”

  “This’ll teach you to mind your own business!”

  “No!”

  Splash.

  I’d called Dad the next day, practically sobbing, begging him to come pick me up. And he had. Driven a hundred miles on short notice. Probably missed two or three jobs. I never told him what had happened. It might have been worse in his head; he probably thought I’d been buggered or something.

  And now it was happening again. I got in too deep, got scared, and now I was calling Daddy to take me home.

  But this was different! I had more to risk now than embarrassment and a set of wet jammies! Those guys in the alley were playing for keeps.

  Well, you wanted to play with the big boys. You wanted to be a real reporter. Here’s your chance, Sherm. Or are you going to run away again?

  Jesus. I was a seventeen-year-old junior reporter, and was already getting death threats. Stick that one in your pipe, Dr. Hopkins!

  My phone rang and I yelped.

  “Hello?”

  “Sherman? Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

  “Uh, nothing Dad.”

  “Talk to me! Janine said you called. What’s going on?” There was panic in his voice. If I was going to ask to come home, now was the time.

  “Uh…I butt dialed you. Sorry. She said you were still up, just wanted to say hi.”

  I could hear him sigh with relief. “Don’t scare me like that, boy!”

  “Sorry. Hey, um, Dad?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You ever get the urge to do something stupid?”

  I expected a funny comment in return, but his parent radar was up. “How do ya mean?”

  “Something risky. Something dangerous. But like you have to do it because you’ll be sorry if you don’t.”

  “I dunno, son. You need to be careful…”

  “Forget I’m your son!” I barked. “You’ve never backed away from anything in your life! I know you haven’t. So answer me honestly: was it worth it?”

  There was a long pause.

  “Totally worth it, Sherman,” he almost whispered.

  I hung up.

  Just one more day. A quick trip to the library and one more chance to see who those guys were.

  On the ledge under the mirror sat a khaki tote bag. It was Aaron’s; I remembered it from when he patched me up. He must have forgotten it. Rifling through it, I found the thing I’d noticed earlier: a beautiful, bone-handled straight razor.

  I took it back to the room with me. If those guys wanted to talk again, I’d be ready for them. A Scout is always prepared.

  Columbia, Missouri, September 9th, 1935—When a man enters the ministry, he must resign himself to a complete and total lack of privacy. A pastor is the spiritual leader of the community, after all. His congregation must be ever observant for signs of moral weakness or depravity. And should a man of God prove himself to be a man of this earth as well…there were members of every flock who’d wag their heads in public with a malicious twinkle in their eye. The loftier the pulpit, the further the potential fall from grace.

  Rev. Gowen had never really worried about that end of things. He did not drink, did not gamble, did not smoke. He did, however, have an unfortunate penchant for somewhat radical causes. The deacons were forced to rein him in every so often, when his sermons threatened to upset certain churchgoers. On these occasions, one of the church fathers would gently remind Gowen that his territory was Columbia; he needn’t concern himself or his flock with happenings in Germany or Africa.

  A wife would have been more effective in effacing his odd notions, but Gowen was well past thirty and still a bachelor. The ladies of the church frequently offered to introduce him to nice young ladies (or, as he approached middle age, nice young widows), but the reverend always declined. He simply had no desire to get married.

  Oh, he had the urges that plague all men, but he ignored them like a toothache or weak ankle. His domestic needs were few. The church provided him with a simple parsonage, and his housekeeper took care of what little cleaning and laundry there was. And a minister never wants for dinner invitations. As for the companionship that a spouse might bring…

  Rev. Gowen liked company and at times his tiny house seemed far too big. But he simply enjoyed his solitude too much. Since receiving his calling in high school, the Lord was his ally, his confidant, the only friend he ever needed.

  But sometimes friends drift apart. As Gowen sat down to his supper of hard salami and bread, he looked like a man utterly alone in the world. His non-bandaged eye had a hunted, beaten look. His hands shook. He would cut a piece of meat, then forget to eat it.

  After a half an hour, Gowen stood. He began to pace, the nervous movements of someone trying not to think. He thumbed through a Bible. Unfolded and refolded a newspaper. Poured a glass of water, then dumped it into the sink. Eventually he sat down at his desk and attempted to pen next Sunday’s sermon. Within a minute, he was mindlessly doodling.

  Throwing down his pen, he looked at a framed picture on his desk. It was a drawing of Jesus Christ giving the Sermon on the Mount, a gift from one of his congregation. Gowen stared at it intently, as if expecting to see something not immediately visible. He grew visibly agitated, scratching at his bandages, shuffling his papers. Suddenly, he slammed the picture face down, as if he could no longer stand to look at it. A lone tear trickled from his remaining eye and blotted the paper he’d scribbled on.

  Gowen stared at the sheet for a long moment, as if noticing for the first time what he’d drawn there. An odd design, something that looked like a capital E over a cross. The same logo he’d seen on the men who had beaten and degraded him. Gowen crumpled the paper. Then, mindful of his aching ribs, he stood and picked up the telephone.

  – Chapter Seven –

  It was easy to tell myself that I wasn’t going to be pushed around by those thugs from the alley. It was quite another thing to actually do it. I lay in bed, long after L.J. left for his classes. I half expected someone to jump out of the closet.

  Well, I’d been warned not to research Rev. Gowen. But how would they know, really? Maybe they’d check and see if I was still asking aro
und online, but I wouldn’t go that route. There were other options.

  I quickly dressed, pocketed my stolen razor, and trotted off to campus. Ran, more like. I avoided narrow passages between buildings and lonely streets. Even in broad daylight, I did not want to get caught alone.

  I breathed a sigh of relief when I reached the cellar-like Historical Society, then paused. If they cornered me in there, I’d be trapped. Of course, what were the odds that they’d know where I was?

  Probably about the same as catching me in some random alley, out with some guys I’d never done anything with before.

  Suppressing a shudder, I darted inside.

  I was pleased to see Charlie was working that day. She sat behind the counter, eating a McDonald’s salad and reading a civil defense manual.

  “Sherwin!” she squeaked, quickly dabbing her lips with a napkin. “I knew you couldn’t stay away from the action zone.” She bared her teeth.

  I lacked the energy to return her smile. “Hi.”

  “Sorry, I haven’t had a chance to look for those names you gave me.”

  “Forget it!” I lowered my voice. “That was nothing. Nothing interesting. I’m not interested anymore.”

  “Okay…”

  “So just don’t even bother. Forget I said anything about it.”

  She furrowed her brow. “If you say so…”

  “Because it’s not interesting.”

  She stared at me for a long time. “What did you do to your face?”

  “Quidditch injury. You got a searchable database of old local papers?”

  She brightened. “You bet. All the way back to the nineteen fifties.”

  My heart sank. “And before that?”

  “Microfilm. The reader’s in that alcove there. The Tribune’s in the green drawers, Missourian in the gray.”

  I nodded an indifferent thanks and sat down at the machine. I began searching in November of 1935, the date the photo was taken. It took me nearly an hour to read through every issue of both papers for that month, and I came up with squat. Switching gears, I searched for the dates on the back of the picture, beginning with the one that seemed to correspond with Sgt. Knowles. Two days after, November 16, 1936, I hit pay dirt.