"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 9

Thursday, November 4th, 4:30 p.m.

Rev. G.W. Morton sat in a silver Nissan Maxima parked on a quiet stretch of Flatbush Avenue, near the intersection with Oakwood, in a section of West Hartford that is part industrial, part low income residential neighborhood. The car was supplied by Tom Wilkins from his used car lot. In the right hand pocket of Rev. Morton’s black overcoat was the Glock pistol, given to him by Capt. Bradford. In his left coat pocket was a flashlight. On his hands were black leather gloves, and on his head was a grey tweed touring cap to cover his prominent silver hair. Rev. Morton kept a watchful eye on the sidewalk alongside Flatbush Ave., looking for any sign of his target, a young man called “Jitterbug.”

The secret vigilante group had agreed the next target should be a drug dealer. After reviewing a sizable list of possible targets provided by Capt. Bradford, they chose a 19-year-old man known to everyone in the area as “Jitterbug.” The nickname came from his days as a football and basketball star at Conard High School. Jitterbug could have gone on to play college ball, but why bother with college, he reasoned, when you can make close to $75,000 per year tax-free selling drugs. From all accounts Jitterbug was a very kind and polite young man, something Rev. Morton hoped to capitalize on. Jitterbug only had two flaws: he liked to sell cocaine to 8th graders, and he liked to get 10th graders pregnant. Word was that at least three infants currently being pushed in strollers around neighborhood streets by unmarried teenager girls looked an awful lot like Jitterbug.

The target was selected in large part because he had regular habits. Almost every afternoon Jitterbug played basketball at the Charter Oak playground, where he dazzled the other kids with his quickness and shooting touch, and also set up numerous drug deals. Just before dark he would walk the two blocks along Flatbush Ave. toward his house, where his mom was preparing dinner. After dinner he would kiss his mom on the cheek, tell her he was going to hang out with some friends, and leave to complete his many lucrative transactions. Another habit that made Jitterbug the target of choice was the fact he always wore a red New York Yankees hat with white pinstripes. It would be easy for Rev. Morton to spot him.

Rev. Morton reached down with his left hand and pulled the lever that releases the hood latch—for the fifth time. He knew the car’s hood was already unlatched, since he had opened the hood 20 minutes earlier. At that time he had draped an extra spark plug wire across the engine and then gently lowered the hood, making sure it did not click shut. During the time Rev. Morton sat waiting, only three people had passed, two teenagers on foot and an adult on a bicycle. On the side of the street where the Nissan was parked, beyond the sidewalk, was a chain link fence. Behind the fence was an open lot, overgrown with weeds, where a factory once stood. On the opposite side of the street was a two-story factory building that spanned an entire block. The factory had no windows facing the street. No one could see Rev. Morton unless he or she walked right up to the car. This is the perfect spot to conduct the “mission,” he thought. Very quiet street. Then he reminded himself of the firm instructions Capt. Bradford had given him: “We’re not in a hurry. We can always do it another day. If there is anyone else on the street, abort the mission.”

To drown out Capt. Bradford’s voice, which was replaying in his head, Rev. Morton began to pray. Quietly he said, “O Lord, please make my hand firm and my aim true. Please guide me as I do your work here on earth. In Jesus’ name I pray, Amen.” Instinctively he closed his eyes halfway through the pray. When he looked up after saying “Amen,” he saw a figure walking down the sidewalk. The car was facing west and the setting sun made it difficult to see in that direction. A few moments later, as the figure drew to within about 50 yards, Rev. Morton saw that the figure was bouncing a basketball as he walked. The red baseball cap perched sideways on the figure’s head caused Morton to blurt out loudly, “That’s him!” He hurried out of the car and lifted the car’s hood. He pulled the flashlight from his coat and leaned over, pretending to look at the car’s engine, but instead he concentrated on the bouncing sound as it drew nearer and nearer. The sound of Rev. Morton’s heart pounding in his chest almost drowned out the sound of the basketball.

When the young man with the basketball was about ten feet away, Rev. Morton stood up straight, shook his head, and said loudly, “Darn it!” Even as he intended to gun down a total stranger, the good Reverend could not bring himself to use profanity.

Jitterbug slowed down and looked at the middle-aged man with the disabled car, noticing that he was very well-dressed, with a shirt and tie, black overcoat, tweed cap, and polished wing tip shoes. Jitterbug instantly pegged him as a salesman who was visiting one of the nearby factories. With a pleading tone in his voice, Rev. Morton said, “Excuse me, do you know anything about cars?”

Jitterbug shrugged and said, “A little. What’s the problem?”

Rev. Morton took a step away from the car and replied, “I’m not sure. It just won’t start.” Jitterbug stepped off the sidewalk and reached down to set the basketball on the road against the curb, so it wouldn’t roll away. He took the flashlight from Rev. Morton’s extended hand. Spinning his cap directly backwards, with the bill in back like a baseball catcher, Jitterbug leaned toward the engine and began looking for anything out of the ordinary. As the young man bent over in front of him, Rev. Morton pulled the Glock from his coat, reached out his arm to less than a foot from Jitterbug’s head, and squeezed the trigger.

Nothing happened. The trigger wouldn’t move. The safety is still on! a panicky voice screamed inside Rev. Morton’s head. Just then Jitterbug turned. Rev. Morton lurched his right arm down alongside his leg, as if snapping to attention. “What the hell is this?” Jitterbug said. Morton stared at him.

Jitterbug raised his hand, which held the loose spark plug wire. “What is this?” he asked again.

Rev. Morton stared at the wire. He was frozen, like a soldier on guard duty, but his mind was racing, on the verge of panic. Jitterbug had not seen the gun. Morton pressed the black gun, held by his black-gloved hand, against his black overcoat, hoping the weapon would blend in and not be visible. The sun had just dipped below the horizon and it was getting darker by the moment. Rev. Morton tried to remain calm, but his heart was pounding like a jackhammer. He could feel his forehead getting clammy with sweat. Finally, he cleared his throat and said weakly, “Uh, I don’t know. Where’s it supposed to be connected?”

Jitterbug turned back toward the car and said, “Well, man, it’s suppose to be over here, uh, somewhere…”

Rev. Morton’s right thumb quietly pushed the gun’s safety to the off position. Jitterbug continued, “…but it don’t look like anything’s missing there…”

Once again Rev. Morton raised his right arm to within a foot of Jitterbug’s head. He squeezed the trigger, which this time did move. A loud explosion burst from the weapon. A 9mm slug tore directly through the center of the interlocking N-Y logo on the cap, then through the back of Jitterbug’s skull. After ripping through the entire length of his brain, the slug came to a stop just behind the left eye.

Jitterbug’s lifeless body slumped onto the car engine. Blood seeped from under the baseball cap and down his neck. Rev. Morton stood still, the only movement coming from his chest, which heaved in and out with his rapid breathing. After a second or two, he sprang into action, noting with puzzlement that the gun blast had sounded more like the shooting range boom and echo rather than the higher pitched crack he had expected in the great outdoors. He quickly shoved the pistol into his coat pocket. Then he grabbed Jitterbug by his belt and pulled him off of the car, careful not to get any blood on his overcoat in the process. The body fell to the road and settled against the sidewalk curb, right next to the basketball. Rev. Morton reached onto the motor and grabbed the loose spark plug wire and flashlight. He closed the hood, then hopped into the car and turned the key. The engine roared to life. He backed up about five feet, to make sure he did not run over Jitterbug’s body. Then he pulled forward and away from the curb, and drove down Flatbush Avenue. At the end of the road he took a right. A few blocks later he took another right. As he drove, his shaking hands put the gun, the flashlight, the spark plug wire, and his gloves into a blue plastic bag.

Rev. Morton steered the Maxima north onto New Park Avenue. He noticed that he was drenched in sweat. His breathing finally had returned to normal, and his hands had stopped shaking, but he could feel that his undershirt was soaked. His mind stopped racing a bit, and he began to replay in his head the events of the preceding five minutes. Only then did Rev. Morton realized that he had never checked to see if anyone else was on the street when he began speaking with Jitterbug. The Reverend’s damp undershirt suddenly felt freezing cold.

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