City of Heretics (27 page)

“Mr. Crowe--”

“Shut up and listen. It’s like this. Those mental deviants you have doing your dirty work? The only reason you’ve snagged them away from their true calling of being stupid sick fucks is that they’re weak-minded. You get it? They have no will of their own. Probably never did. Hell, that’s probably why they became crazy to begin with-- lack of any real… what?… personalities of their own? They were all powerless little shits, afraid of their own shadows, and so they picked up guns or knives or machetes and started killing the things that scared them. They’re pathetic. Don’t you see that?”

Welling started to interrupt, but Crowe said, “Wait, I’m not done. They’re scared little boys, looking for meaning. And so you show up in their lives and tell them that God Himself thinks they’re special. God Himself has a plan for them. And they behaved exactly like any armchair psychiatrist could’ve predicted. They came running to your side. And now, instead of acknowledging that somewhere deep down inside they’re actually sub-human scum, they get to pretend that they’re---” Crowe started laughing, “-- Sacred Executioners.”

The little speech had tired him out, and the laughing didn’t help. Welling watched him, the benevolence on his face tightening into barely suppressed anger, and Crowe grabbed up the jug again and drank.

Welling stood up very quickly and slapped the jug out of Crowe’s hands and across the room.

Crowe looked at him dully.

Welling’s fingers were balled into fists and his face was red. In a clipped tone, he said, “And you, Mr. Crowe? Just how are you any different from them?”

Crowe said, “I’m not afraid.”

“Everybody is afraid, eventually.”

“Maybe. But…” and he laughed again, “… I’m not there yet.”

Welling struggled to control his temper, said, “All I have to do, Mr. Crowe, is call out for Larry, or Stone, or anyone of them, and they’ll come running in here to kill you. They’d love to do that.”

“So why don’t you?”

He licked his lips. With forced calm, he sat back down, adjusted his trouser legs. He said, “Because I’m trying to save you. I’m a man of God. And I see such… potential in you.”

Crowe sighed and lay back down on the little cot. He was tired and hungry and cold as hell.

Welling said, “Those men you dismiss so easily are much more than you think they are. Stone, for instance? He and his partner, Eckstine, once cut a swath of blood and vengeance through the Pacific Northwest, back in the ‘70’s, that would amaze you. They were corporate executives, once, before losing their jobs and… losing their way. Individually, they committed murders of no importance or imagination, but once they met-- quite by accident, actually-- they realized they had a bond, and the friendship they formed was remarkable. Together, they killed over sixty people. Just… random people. Until the Church of Christ the Fisher found them, about ten years ago.”

“Now they kill sinners,” Crowe said, looking at the wall.

“Exactly. They serve a divine purpose. You can imagine how lost Stone feels, now that his friend and confidante is dead. And Larry? He worked in the Southwest. Was a hired killer, much like you, for many years. Reliable and steady. Until he began losing sight of his motivation-- which was profit, initially-- and began killing because it made him feel better. The Church found him about four years ago, and turned him into an instrument of God.”

His voice was making Crowe sleepy. Crowe closed his eyes.

“And the same is true of Nick, poor tortured Nick, who you killed. And also Kondrashev and Nathan.”

Crowe mumbled, “Who?”

“Kondrashev, the one you referred to as Metal Face. And Nathan is the young man in the parka.”

“The one who hit me with the baseball bat. Gonna have to remember that.”

“And, of course, there’s Peter,” Welling said.

Crowe opened his eyes, turned his head to look at Welling. He said, “Peter. You know, Murke is all I want from you. You realize that, yeah? You give me Murke and this could all be over.”

Welling shook his head.

Crowe forced himself back up, sat on the edge of the cot. Welling watched him very carefully. Crowe was feeling better, stronger, with each passing minute, but made a point of still seeming weak and sick.

He said, “If it was Larry I wanted, or Nathan, or Metal Face--”

“Kondrashev.”

“--you’d hand them over, wouldn’t you? Just to get rid of me. But not Peter Murke.”

“I wouldn’t betray any of them.”

Crowe smiled. “Yeah, Welling, you would. But not Murke. He’s the only one still completely loyal to you, isn’t he? The others are losing confidence in you, they don’t like the way you’re handling things in Memphis, and they’re ready to jump ship. But not Murke. He still worships you, doesn’t he? And you can’t let that go.”

“They are all my flock,” he said. “I love them all. None of them are more important or more valuable than any other one.”

“Has it really come to that, Welling? Are you really that ridiculous and insecure?”

The anger in him flared again. “You want ridiculous and insecure, Crowe? You want to see how ridiculous and insecure I am? I’m going to have Larry come in here right now and slit your fucking throat.”

“Sure, call Larry.”

He jumped up. “Better yet, I’ll do it myself!”

Crowe looked up at him. “Sure,” he said. “But you can’t. You’ve never killed anyone in your whole life. You’ve had your ’flock’ do it for you. You don’t have the guts to kill me, Welling.”

Welling glared, trembling, and Crowe knew he was right. He decided to press it home a little more.

He said, “God’s wrath is… well, it’s just too big a job for a little man like you.”

For a long moment, Welling stared, eyes bulging behind his glasses, and then he spun on his heel and stormed for the door. He jerked it open, barked, “Larry!”

Larry was waiting. “Kill him?” he said.

Welling glanced back at him, seething. He struggled with himself for a second, and said, “No. But… hurt him. Hurt the cocksucker,” and was gone.

Larry rushed into the room, swinging his good fist, and clocked Crowe in the right temple. Crowe dropped back onto the cot and was out.

Again.

Natural light was streaming in through the little casement window when he came to. His head and his eyes ached, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as the first time. He wondered if he was getting used to being knocked fucking senseless.

Peter Murke was sitting on the edge of my cot, watching him.

They stared at each other for long seconds, Crowe baffled and Murke shy or something.

Finally, in his croaking sick voice, Crowe said, “What… the fuck… are you doing?”

Murke’s fishy face turned pink with embarrassment, and he said, “Wha? Nothing. I ain’t doing nothing. I’m just sitting here, man, that’s all.” His voice was nasal and whiny and strangely child-like.

Crowe managed to push himself up and slightly away, toward the wall. “Well,” he said. “Back the fuck off a little, will you?”

Murke stood up and took a step away from the cot. “I didn’t mean nothing. I’m not gay or nothing like that. I was just, you know, sitting there.”

Crowe rubbed his right temple, felt dried blood caked there. He felt awful, but at least he was fully aware of his surroundings and didn’t feel like throwing up.

It was still cold in the room, and he was still in his underwear and tee-shirt. A fresh jug of water was on the wooden chair. He slid over to reach it, had a long drink, while Murke watched uneasily.

Crowe burped and looked up at him and said, “Thanks for the water.”

He nodded. “No sweat, man, no problem. How you feeling, bro?”

“All things considered…” Crowe shrugged.

Murke frowned, and Crowe realized Murke didn’t know what he meant.

Not a bright boy, Peter Murke.

He sat up and looked around the room. The old plastic jug that Welling had knocked out of his hands was still there, in the corner. The towel he’d used to clean himself up was also still there, stiff and disgusting, in the middle of the room. The only thing different was the light in the ceiling-- it was off now, replaced by gray daylight.

Crowe thought about standing up but couldn’t muster the energy. He said, “How long do you folks plan on keeping me here?”

Murke said, “I don’t really know. Sorry. I think Mr. Welling is figuring out what to do with you or something.”

“Deciding whether or not to kill me?”

He shrugged. “I reckon so.”

“And what are you doing here, Peter?”

Murke said, “Well… I asked Mr. Welling if it would be okay if I talked to you, like.”

“About what?”

He shrugged again. “I dunno. Stuff. You know. Is that okay? I mean, is it okay if we talk?”

Crowe sighed. “Sure. Talk away.”

Murke licked his thick wet lips, scratched his belly. “I kinda wanted to ask you, Mr. Crowe. I wanted to ask you why?”

“Why what?”

“Why you… why you want me? I mean, what do you want with me? Mr. Welling told me you came here for me. Is it because of your girlfriend?”

“Why do you think, Peter?”

“I’m sorry about her, I really am. I just got… I got carried away. But it’s okay, you know. She’s with Jesus now. I did a good thing, when you really think about it, right?”

Crowe didn’t know how to respond to that one, so he didn’t.

Murke said, “Our world is a veil of sorrows, right? That’s what the Bible says. I think. Or that’s what Mr. Welling says the Bible says. I don’t really know, but I believe him.”

Crowe said, “I don’t know either. Sounds about right, though.”

He perked up a little, hope gleaming in his bulging eyes. “So… so you aren’t mad at me, then? For killing her? You understand, don’t you? I mean, I had to do it. The… the Holy Ghost took over my body and I couldn’t… I couldn’t stop cutting.”

Crowe’s stomach twisted and he had to look away from him.

He could hear the disappointment in Murke’s whiny voice when he spoke again. “You are mad at me, aren’t you? Please, please don’t be mad.”

Crowe made himself look at him again. Tears glittered in Murke’s eyes. Crowe said, “I’m not mad at you.”

“Really?”

“Really. I don’t see any reason you and I can’t be friends, Peter.”

Murke’s face lit up. “Wow, that’s so cool of you. I really, really appreciate it.”

Crowe forced a grin. “So what’s next, Peter? Is Welling going to have you kill me now?”

Murke turned red, looked away. “I… I dunno, Mr. Crowe. I surely hope not. I wouldn’t wanna kill you.”

“No? Why not?”

“Well… cuz. Well. I sorta… you know, I sorta admire you. I always have.”

Crowe felt his grin drop away. “What?” he said.

“Don’t take it the wrong way, Mr. Crowe. I’m just saying, you know? I mean, I knew all about you, from the people I… from the people I ran into, you know? I heard about you and everything.”

“What the fuck are you saying?”

Murke took a step toward the cot, his hands out in a sort of pleading gesture. “I know it sounds stupid. Ha. I just mean that… well, when I was… what you call, researching, before Mrs. Vitower and everything, I heard a lot about you. How you were so cool, right? And how you could hurt people just as much as you wanted and no more, and how you could even kill people sometimes and get away clean. You had, like, a reputation and everything.”

“Jesus,” Crowe said.

“And I remember thinking, right,” he said, stumbling over his words now, “I remember thinking, ha. Wow, that Crowe guy, what a bad-ass, right? What a cool customer. I wish I could be that cool, right?”

Crowe couldn‘t meet his gaze anymore. Again, he looked away.

Murke said, “Stupid, right? I know it sounds retarded. But it’s not, like, gay or nothing. I don’t want you to think I’m a fag or something. I’m just saying--”

“Shut up,” Crowe said.

“I just mean--”

Crowe stood up and screamed at him, “Shut the fuck up! Just shut up! Get out!”

Murke jerked away, startled, but didn’t move for the door. Crowe said again, “Get out!” and Murke started shakily for the door, saying, “I’m sorry, Mr. Crowe, I didn’t mean to offend you,” and then he was out and Crowe fell back on the bed, holding his aching head in his hands.

Crowe slept for a while. When he woke up, the room was just going dim and the ceiling light snapped on, cold yellow light pushing against the gray.

He sat up in the cot, feeling cold and miserable. The jug of water was still there. He took a long sip of it, and the feel of it sloshing around in his stomach reminded him of how hungry he was. Did they plan on starving him into submission?

For a long time he only sat there, shivering and thinking. When the sliver of sky outside the casement window had gone completely black, he stood up and stretched.

Everything hurt. Not just the wounds in his back and shoulder, but his head and every muscle in his body. The pain killers would’ve been extremely welcome right then.

He started examining the room. Aside from the cot and the wooden chair, it was completely bare. He picked up the chair, examined it. It would make a decent weapon if the room was a little bigger and he actually had room to swing it around. As it was, though, it wouldn’t do him much good. He set it back down and started pacing around.

He went to the door and gently tried the knob. Locked. From the other side he could hear someone moving.

The ceiling light was recessed. He looked up at it. Conceivably, it could be yanked out and… he don’t know… thrown at someone.

Yeah, that would help.

He climbed up on the cot and examined the casement window. It was locked tight, but even if it had been open it was way too small to get through. No escape option there.

Another drink of water, another tight stroll around the room. No ideas. He sat on the wooden chair and looked at the casement window.

He stood up again, walked around some more, sat back down.

After what seemed about two hours, he climbed back in the cot and went to sleep again.

The next time he woke, it had all come clear.

He got up and went as stealthily as he could to the door and put his ear against it. Someone was snoring, very lightly, which meant that there was only one guard. If there had been two, one of them would surely have kept the other awake.