"Purge the Evil" - a novel

by Bill Dunn

(Note: this is a work-in-progress attempt at writing a novel. Feedback, critiques, plot suggestions are more than welcomed.)
 

CHAPTER 4

Sunday, October 24th, 9:10 p.m.

Three men sat on worn folding chairs in the Service Department of Wilkins Ford-Nissan. One florescent light flickered overhead, casting odd shadows throughout the large room, where a half dozen cars were parked in the bays, waiting to be worked on first thing Monday morning. The oil stained concrete floor was cold on this chilly fall night. The men could have sat in the pleasant showroom area, but there, large plate glass windows faced the street. The Service Department was located in the rear of the building. No one driving past the dealership would be able to detect that people were on the premises at this odd hour. Tom Wilkins, the owner of the facility, rose from his chair and asked, “Does anyone want more coffee?”

A fidgety man wearing a red fleece pullover looked up and said, “No, no thanks. That’ll just keep me up. I’ve got to get to bed soon. You know, 3 a.m. comes really early!” Tom Wilkins rolled his eyes.

Dave “Pit Bull” Peterson loved being the voice of Hartford morning radio. His 5:30 a.m. to 10 a.m. show was consistently the top-rated program in the market. The one thing Dave had never gotten used to, even after more than twenty years, was the 3 a.m. alarm clock. As a result, at least five times each day he would say to someone, or occasionally to no one in particular, “You know, 3 a.m. comes really early!” Waking up in the dead of night was a brutal but necessary chore. Dave needed the time to read four newspapers and surf dozens of websites. By the time his show began, when most people were still asleep or just beginning to stir, Dave was in full “Pit Bull” mode, ready to rail against everyone and everything for the next four-and-a-half hours. From the studios of WCTR in downtown Hartford, 640 on your AM dial, The Dave Peterson Show could be heard throughout Connecticut and Western Massachusetts.

“Pit Bull” Peterson relished being one of the only conservative media voices in a very liberal region. The format of his morning drive program was officially news-sports-weather-traffic. But at least two-thirds of each show was devoted to Pit Bull’s blunt opinions and his often heated exchanges with callers, guests, and prominent political figures. Dave’s signature phrase, “You’re making my HEAD EXPLODE!” was first shouted in exasperation in the early 1990s during an interview with the then-governor of Connecticut, Lowell Weicker. Peterson’s impromptu outburst caused Weicker, already frustrated with the Pit Bull’s pointed questions and disrespectful attitude, to hang up the phone in mid-interview. Now the phrase was Peterson’s trademark. Whenever he said it during the show, the studio engineer played the sound effect of a nuclear explosion. When people saw him on the streets of Hartford, they would affectionately yell, “Pit Bull! You’re making my HEAD EXPLODE!” Dave always smiled and waved. He loved the attention.

Tom Wilkins turned to the other man seated, a man wearing a blue windbreaker jacket and a dark baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, and said, “How about you, Ray? You want any coffee?”

Ray Bradford, a captain with the West Hartford Police Department, ignored the question. “Where the hell is he?” he muttered.

Pit Bull Peterson turned to Bradford and said, “So, Captain Ray, everything went OK, right?”

Bradford turned his head slowly and starred at Pit Bull. “I already told you. No problem. Mission accomplished.”

“Wow, wow,” Peterson said nervously. Both of his feet tapped uncontrollably on the floor. “After all this time just talking and talking, we finally did it. We finally put our plan into action. So Ray, how did it feel when you, you know, did it?”

Captain Ray Bradford was not a “feelings” kind of guy. The younger officers on the WHPD referred to him as “Old Stone Face”—behind his back, of course. Bradford was a tight-lipped, clenched jaw, intense cop who successfully kept his emotions bottled up deep inside, except for the emotions of disgust and anger. Actually, Dave Peterson was not a “feelings” kind of guy, either. He was extroverted and emotional, yes, but oftentimes he implored his liberal callers to “stop feeling and start thinking—for once!” He believed feelings were fine, but following feelings alone made for bad decision-making, not to mention bad public policy.

Bradford stared at Peterson again. He said nothing.

Peterson needed an answer. “Well, how did it feel?”

Realizing Peterson would pester him forever, Bradford finally offered a slight smile and said in a monotone voice, “It felt…right.”

There was a knock at the door, which came from the far corner of the service area. “There he is,” Tom Wilkins said as he walked into the darkness toward an entry door next to the last of four roll-up garage doors.

When Wilkins opened the door, a tall man with a thick shock of silver hair came inside. “Come on in,” Wilkins said loudly. Then, as he shook the man’s hand, he added in a low voice, “You scared the hell out of me this morning, G.W. I thought you were about to announce our secret plan to the whole damn church!”

Rev. G.W. Morton nodded. “Don’t worry, Tom,” he said. “I was a little fired up, but I’d never do anything that stupid.” The two men walked over to the lit part of the room.

“Sorry I’m late, gentlemen,” Rev. Morton said. “Our Sunday night service went a little longer than scheduled.” Wilkins rolled his eyes again. He loved his pastor, but everything the good Reverend did went longer than scheduled.

The four men sat down on the folding chairs and faced each other. They looked like a card game without a table. Rev. Morton spoke first. “I heard it on the news this afternoon. Seems everything went according to plan.”

“Yup, sure did,” Tom Wilkins answered. “Captain Ray was perfect.”

They all looked at Bradford, and he gave a slight nod.

“What about the weapon?” Rev. Morton asked.

“Done,” Wilkins replied. “I’ve already disassembled it and melted some of the parts with that  welder over there.” He pointed to a long bench with many different tools and machines. “By midnight the pieces will be at the bottom of three different lakes.”

“Good,” Morton said.

Dave Peterson could hardly contain himself. He was shaking with pent-up energy and nervousness. He stood up and paced behind his folding chair. “Man!” he exclaimed. “It’s real now. It really happened. Jeez, I can barely believe it. Do you realize…because of us, a guy is actually…dead?!”

“A scumbag is dead,” Captain Bradford corrected.

“David, you’re not having second thoughts, are you?” Rev. Morton asked.

“No, no, of course not,” Peterson quickly replied. “It’s just…I dunno. We, we finally crossed the point of no return. After months of planning, now it’s real. And I’m just wondering,” he paused and slumped back into his chair, before continuing slowly, “I’m just wondering if we’re doing the right thing.”

All three men reacted to Peterson’s comment, but each reacted differently. Captain Bradford gave Peterson yet another icy stare, the kind of stare he reserved for traitors, cowards, or for young patrolmen who did not follow his orders immediately. Tom Wilkins buried his face in his hands, shook his head, and grumbled, “Dammit, Pit Bull, It’s too late now for that kind of crap.”

Rev. Morton did not react with anger or frustration. He knew Peterson was having a momentary crisis of faith. He could recognize the symptoms a mile away. And he knew how to build up a person’s faith—that was his calling in life. He also knew getting angry at the person was never effective. He slid his chair closer to Pit Bull and began speaking.

“David, it’s alright. You’re feeling some conflict. Your guts are churning, aren’t they?” Peterson nodded. “You’re an honest, decent, hard-working, law-abiding American. You love your country, and you know right from wrong. All your life you’ve strived to do right and avoid wrong. But now you’re conscience is perplexed, and it’s asking you a simple question: ‘Is shooting a man to death wrong?’”

Peterson exhaled and said, “Yeah, I know we’ve gone over it a million times, and I know in my head we’re doing what we have to do, but in my guts it just feels…I dunno, I guess it feels kind of like…murder.”

“OK, now you’re being honest, Dave,” Rev. Morton said. “That’s good. But, as you know, this is not a simple situation, and so, simple questions can be misleading. We are living in extraordinary times, with extraordinary problems. Problems that demand extraordinary actions. No one knows better than you how messed up our society is right now. You talk about it all the time on the radio. And you do a great job, by the way, of analyzing the situation.

“For the last forty years evil has been allowed to flourish in America.” Rev. Morton got up from his chair. Whether he knew it or not, he was shifting into preaching gear. “The police do a heroic job trying to protect honest citizens,” he said while gesturing toward Captain Bradford. In reply Bradford scowled and continued to stare at Peterson.

“But when the police arrest dangerous criminals, what happens? The bleeding heart whiners feel sorry and make excuses for the poor dears. Then slimy, godless A.C.L.U. lawyers manipulate the system, and make a mockery of justice. The next thing you know the dangerous animals are back in circulation, just waiting to wreak more havoc on innocent people.

“David!” Rev. Morton declared forcefully, startling all three men. “We are in a war. A cultural war. A spiritual battle of good versus evil. You are on the side of good. I’m on the side of good, as is Tom and Ray. Our little secret group with our secret plan is on the side of good. We are soldiers of righteousness. We are taking extraordinary steps here because we have to. If the criminal justice system worked properly, we wouldn’t have to take these extreme measures. But it’s not working properly. It’s completely broken down. Evil men—murderers, rapists, drug dealers, deviants—are now running the show. And good, decent folks are forced to cower in fear behind locked doors. Well, that situation is wrong, my friend. Very wrong. What we are doing, what we really have been forced to do—what we are called to do—is to right a terrible wrong. If our government leaders allow themselves to be hamstrung by perverted lawyers, and if they refuse to purge the evil, then it is our divinely-ordained duty to do it for them! We must, David, we must purge the evil from among us! It is the only chance our society has of surviving!”

Dave Peterson took a deep breath, exhaled, and smiled weakly. “Yeah, you’re right. We have to do it. Too many innocent people are dying. If we really care about our country, we have to get rid of the scum. We really have no choice.”

“Damn right we have no choice,” Captain Bradford said, more animated than he had been all evening. “The time for choosing is past. We’re all in this now—till the end. And no one—do you hear me, no one…!” he looked at Dave Peterson as he spoke, “…is gonna screw this thing up! Understand?”

The other three men nodded vigorously. Rev. Morton nodded with joy, certain that he was engaged in a holy undertaking. Tom Wilkins nodded with determination, certain that it would take a lot of effort to carry out this difficult mission. And Dave Peterson nodded in fear, certain that the menacing figure staring at him, Captain Ray Bradford, was truly psychotic. As Peterson looked at Bradford’s tight, grim face, a single thought kept swirling through his mind: This man, less than 24 hours ago, put a bullet into the head of a total stranger—and he’s not the least bit fazed by it!

After a long pause, Tom Wilkins said, “C’mon, it’s getting late. Let’s start planning our next move.”

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