Odd Hours

FORTY-SIX

INSIDE THE RECTORY, AS I ENGAGED THE LOCK, I hoped the coyotes didn’t have a key. I noted with relief, there was no pet door.

Tidy, cheerful, the kitchen contained nothing that identified it as that of a clergyman.

On the refrigerator were a collection of decorative magnets that featured uplifting though not spiritual messages. One declared EVERY DAY IS THE FIRST DAY OF YOUR LIFE, which seemed to me to be an excuse to remain infantile.

I did not know what to do next.

Nothing unusual about that.

Hoss Shackett might have been on his way to see Reverend Moran when he heard me break the sacristy window. He could show up here at any time.

Currently more deranged than usual, alarmed, desperate, the chief might even have decided that, after all, he had to kill the minister, who had witnessed my arrest.

Considering all that had happened since I had been taken into custody and how totally the chief’s plans had fallen apart, killing Reverend Moran no longer made any sense, if it ever had. But that was the way of a sociopath like the chief: He could pass for normal year after year-until suddenly he no longer could.

Intending to locate the minister and warn him, I left the kitchen-and heard people talking. I prowled swiftly room by room until I arrived at the half-open door of a study, off the entrance foyer, where I stopped when I recognized Charles Moran’s voice.

“The Lord is with us, Melanie.”

A woman laughed tenderly. She had the kind of musical voice that on certain words trembled toward bird song. “Charlie, dear, the Lord is at all times with us. Here.”

“I don’t know that I should.”

“Jesus himself imbibed, Charlie.”

They clinked glasses, and after a hesitation, I pushed open the door and entered the study.

Reverend Moran stood beside the desk, wearing chinos, a tan turtleneck, and a sports jacket. He looked up from his drink, his eyes widening. “Todd.”

“I’m not here to harm you,” I assured him.

The woman with him was attractive but with a hairstyle twenty years behind the times.

“Mrs. Moran?” I asked, and she nodded, and I said, “Don’t be afraid.”

To my surprise, Reverend Moran drew a pistol from under his jacket, and to my greater surprise, he shot his wife dead.

He turned the pistol on me. In answer to my astonishment, he said, “She poured the first drink. She’d have suggested I pour a second.”

I noticed the brand name on the bottle: Lord Calvert.

The Lord is with us, Melanie.

Charlie, dear, the Lord is at all times with us.

“And when my hands were busy fixing the drink, she would have pulled the pistol under her jacket and shot me.”

“But. She. You. Your wife.”

“Of eighteen years. That’s why I could read her so well.”

“Dead. Look. Dead. Why?”

“The way this blew up, there’s not going to be enough money for both of us.”

“But. You. Church. Jesus.”

“I’ll miss the church. My flock.”

“The bombs? You? Part of that?”

Chief Hoss Shackett announced himself and cured my incoherence by slamming the flat of his hand so hard against the back of my head that I stumbled forward and fell too close to the dead woman.

As I rolled onto my back and looked up, the chief loomed behind his mutant-pink-zucchini nose. “You knew he was part of it, shithead. That’s why you came here in the first place, nosing around.”

Earlier in the night, I had arrived at the church with the dog, out of that unusually dense fog that had been more than a fog, that had seemed to me like a premonition of absolute destruction.

On consideration, it made sense that if my blind wandering with the golden retriever had been a kind of waking premonition, then I might have found my way to a place that was associated with the truth behind that hideous vision.

Shackett pointed his gun at me. “Don’t get cute.”

Looking up at him, my ears ringing, I said, “I don’t feel cute.”

Reverend Moran said, “Kill him.”

“No flying furniture,” Shackett warned me.

“None. No, sir.”

“Starts moving, I blow your face off.”

“Face. Off. I hear you.”

“Kill him,” the minister repeated.

“You sucker-punched me before,” Shackett said.

“I felt bad about that, sir.”

“Shut up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You see my gun, shithead?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where is my gun?”

“In my face, sir.”

“Where it stays.”

“I understand.”

“How long to squeeze a trigger?”

“Fraction of a second, sir.”

“See that chair?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If that chair moves?”

“Face. Off.”

“See that desk set?”

“I see it, sir.”

“If that desk set moves?”

“Good-bye face.”

“Kill the bastard,” Reverend Moran urged.

The minister was still holding his pistol.

His hand was twitching.

He wanted to waste me himself.

“Get up,” Shackett ordered me. “You’re gonna talk.”

As I obeyed, Reverend Moran objected. “No talk.”

“Control yourself,” Shackett admonished the minister.

“Just kill him, and let’s go.”

“I want answers.”

“He won’t give you any.”

“I might,” I assured them. “I will. I’d like to.”

Shackett said, “Coast Guard’s reporting the tug is beached.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“I’m not talking to you, shithead.”

“My mistake.”

Reverend Moran said, “Beached where?”

“The cove at Hecate’s Canyon.”

Reverend Moran said, “Could we-”

“No. Coast Guard’s all over it.”

“Kill him,” Reverend Moran said more ferociously.

“When it’s time.”

Reverend Moran said, “It’s time now.”

“It’s not time,” Shackett said.

“It’s not,” I agreed.

“Hoss, it’s over,” the minister said.

His gun hand shook like a Pentecostal receiving the spirit.

“I know it’s over,” Shackett said.

“Do you really know it’s over?”

“Oh, I really know,” Shackett said.

“We gotta fly,” the minister said.

Shackett said, “We have a little time.”

“I want to be gone,” Reverend Moran insisted.

“You can’t wait five minutes?”

“I want to be gone now.”

“You want to be gone now?”

“Right now, Hoss. Gone. Now.”

Hoss Shackett shot Reverend Moran in the head, said, “Now you’re gone,” and had his gun back in my face before I could blink.

“This is bad,” I said.

“You think this is bad, Harry?”

“Oh, I know it’s bad. Very bad.”

“It can get worse.”

“Yes. I’ve seen how it can.”

The Reverend and Mrs. Moran were not bleeding. This did not mean they were not human.

They had not had time to bleed. They had died instantly. Neat corpses.

“I want what you’ve got,” Shackett said.

“What have I got?” I asked.

“The juice.”

“What juice?”

“The stuff makes you psychic.”

“There’s no stuff.”

“What did you call the power? The furniture power?”

“Telekinesis.”

“I want that. I want the juice.”

“I told you-one shot, it’s for life.”

“That was bullshit.”

If only he knew.

No bull was involved.

I can produce it without a bull.

“One shot,” I insisted. “Then they have you.”

“You say the government screwed you?”

“I hate them. They screwed me good.”

“Where is my gun?”

“It’s in my face, sir. May I ask a question?”

“Hell, no.”

I nodded and bit my lip.

He glared at me. “What?”

“Why didn’t the coyotes tear you to pieces?”

“What coyotes?”

“When you let them into the Sunday school.”

“Don’t try to make me think you’re crazy on drugs, Harry.”

“I wouldn’t, sir.”

“That would be as pathetic as the amnesia crap.”

“Yes, sir.”

“My point is, if the government screwed you, then you would have sold out for twenty-five million.”

“They would have killed my family.”

“You’re not married.”

“No. It’s my brother.”

“Who cares about a brother?”

“We’re twins. We’re so close.”

“I don’t buy it, Harry.”

“He’s paraplegic, see.”

“So what?”

“And he has a learning disability.”

“A what?”

“And he lost an eye in the war.”

“What’re you pulling here?”

“Iraq. My other brother, Jamie, he died there.”

“Did that chair just move?”

“No, sir.”

“I thought I saw it move.”

“No, sir.”

“If it moves-”

“Good-bye face. Yes, sir.”

“You’ve got a one-eyed paraplegic brother.”

“Yes, sir. With a learning disability.”

“Does he have a harelip, too?”

“No, sir.”

“The first thing you said was true.”

Astonished, I said, “It was?”

“You know it was.”

“And what first thing was that, sir?”

“That the drug facilitated psychic powers for twelve hours.”

“Twelve to eighteen. Yes, I remember saying that.”

“I thought you would.”

“That’s why you’re the chief of police.”

“Don’t try sucking up to me, Harry.”

“No, sir. That wouldn’t work with you.”

“I’d love to blow your face off.”

“I can feel your passion, sir.”

“You take a pill a day,” he said.

“Yes, sir, a multivitamin.”

“The psychic pill. The tele-what pill.”

“Telekinesis, sir.”

“You take one a day.”

“I guess I have to admit it, sir.”

“Did that inkwell just move?”

“No, sir.”

“Where is my gun?”

“It’s in my face, sir.”

“If that inkwell moves.”

“Good-bye face. Yes, sir.”

We had developed an intricate litany.

You would have thought we were in a Catholic rectory.

“So you have to admit it, do you?”

“Yes, sir. I have to admit it.”

“So you have a supply of the pills.”

“Yes, sir. I have quite a supply.”

“I want those pills.”

“I should warn you, sir.”

“Warn me what?”

“Telekinesis isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.”

“Look at my face, Harry.”

“I feel bad about that, sir.”

“Shut up, shithead.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I think it’s everything it’s cracked up to be.”

One of the redheaded gunmen appeared in the doorway behind Hoss Shackett.

“Oh, Lordy,” I said.

Shackett grinned. Some of his teeth were broken.

Way to go, Mr. Sinatra.

I wished Mr. Sinatra would deal with the redhead.

But he had probably moved on to Paradise. Just my luck.

“You’re in a corner now, aren’t you, Harry?”

“I can’t catch a break.”

The new arrival was the redhead with the methamphetamine teeth.

“Don’t try that trick with me, Harry.”

“What trick, sir?”

“Pretending someone’s behind me.”

“Someone is behind you, sir.”

“So I’ll turn and look, and you’ll go for me.”

“No, sir. He’s a friend of yours, and no friend of mine.”

“Where’s my gun, Harry?”

“It’s in my face, sir.”

“Give me your pills.”

“I don’t have them with me, sir.”

“Where are they?”

“In my pillbox.”

“Where’s your pillbox?”

“Chicago.”

“I’m gonna blow your face off, Harry.”

“Not without those pills, sir.”

“I’ll torture it out of you. Don’t think I won’t.”

“I haven’t mistaken you for a nun, sir.”

“Stop scamming me with the over-the-shoulder look.”

“No reason to scam you, sir. He’s really your buddy.”

The redhead disproved my contention by shooting Hoss Shackett in the head.

I let out an expletive that seemed to have come from the people I had been associating with, not from me, and I staggered back from the dead and toppling chief. Staggering, I fell; and falling, I fell upon the minister’s dead wife.

I heard myself spewing exclamations of disgust and horror as I tried to get off the dead woman, but it seemed as though she grabbed at me, clutched me, and by the time I crawled away from her on my hands and knees, I was gibbering like someone who had barely escaped the House of Usher or any other place of Poe’s creation.

“Get up,” said the redhead.

“I’m trying.”

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked.

“What’s wrong with me?”

“Are you spastic?”

“Are you blind?”

“Don’t speak harshly to me,” he said.

“Do you see all these dead people?”

“Do they bother you-dead people?”

“You have no idea,” I said.

“They are just people, except dead.”

“What-then I’m just a corpse, except alive?”

His smile was ghastly. “Yes, precisely.”

I had invented a neat organizational chart for these people. The redheads were bottom-feeders. Utgard was middle management. Shackett was at or near the top. If I ever hosted a dinner party, I assumed I knew exactly how they should be seated.

Instead, this redhead’s attitude suggested that he not only had the temerity to whack the chief but also the authority. His rotten teeth seemed not to be proof of low status, after all, but perhaps a fashion choice.

“Do you have to point that gun at my head?”

“Would you prefer I point it at your chest?”

“Yes. In fact, yes.”

“You’ll be just as dead either way.”

“But I’ll be a prettier dead this way.”

“It’s loaded with door-busters.”

“If you’re going to kill me, just do it.”

“I didn’t say I was going to kill you.”

“You’re not going to kill me?”

“Most likely, yes. But one never knows.”

“What do you want from me?” I demanded.

“First, I want to talk to you.”

“This never works out well.”

“Have a seat.”

“What-here?”

“On the sofa.”

“I can’t talk with dead people.”

“They will not interrupt.”

“I’m serious about this. I’m freaked out.”

“Don’t speak harshly to me,” he said.

“Well, you just don’t listen.”

“That is unfair. I listen. I’m a good listener.”

“You haven’t been listening to me.”

“You sound just like my wife.”

This was interesting.

“You have a wife?”

“I adore her.”

“What’s her name?”

“Do not laugh when I tell you.”

“I am in no mood to laugh, sir.”

He watched me closely for signs of amusement.

The gun had a large bore. It probably would bust doors.

“Her name is Freddie.”

“Why, that’s delightful.”

“Delightful like funny?”

“No, delightful like charming.”

“She is not a masculine woman.”

“The name implies no such thing,” I assured him.

“She is entirely feminine.”

“Freddie is a nickname for Frederica.”

He stared at me, processing what I had said.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked.

“Absolutely. Frederica, Freddie.”

“Frederica is a nice feminine name.”

“Exactly my point,” I said.

“But her parents only named her Freddie.”

I shrugged. “Parents. What’re you gonna do?”

He stared at me for a long moment.

I tried not to study his teeth.

Finally he said, “Perhaps we can talk in the kitchen.”

“Have you left any dead people in the kitchen?”

“I could find no one there to kill.”

“Then the kitchen will be fine,” I said.