"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 31

Thursday, November 25th, 3:30 p.m.

            While thousands of families across West Hartford were enjoying Thanksgiving feasts, at four particular homes in town the atmosphere was less than festive. Inside the modest three-bedroom ranch of Capt. Ray Bradford, the mood was somber. Bradford’s sister and brother-in-law from nearby Newington were over to share the holiday with the police captain and his teenage daughter. Tina, however, was convinced she had nothing to be thankful for, the stress and uncertainty of being pregnant now compounded by the stunning murder of her boyfriend.

            Not surprisingly, at least to everyone except Capt. Bradford, his words of comfort did not in any way bring comfort to Tina. She knew her father was by nature a cold and distant man, but she did not imagine he could be so unfeeling as so say, mere minutes after she heard the tragic news, “Well, you’ll be better off without him anyway.”

            For his part, Bradford was in a reasonably good mood. He was frustrated that his daughter was so upset, and he was genuinely confused as to why she could not see things the way he did. But overall he felt pretty satisfied. He was glad the secret vigilante group members had gotten some things out in the open, acknowledge recent glitches, and re-dedicated themselves to being even more effective with their important work.

#

Three miles away, in the upscale northern part of town, Pit Bull Peterson sat on his couch staring at a football game on television. His wife and teenage son were concerned because he had been so uncharacteristically quiet at dinner. During a typical meal, Pit Bull often amazed people by being able to speak more words than everyone else at the table combined, and still not miss a beat shoveling food into his mouth.

            Pit Bull’s family figured he was simply tired. After all, he had been required to attend an inordinate number of evening meetings the past few months—the duties and responsibilities of being a high-profile media personality, he had explained to them. Actually, Pit Bull was indeed tired, very tired. He hadn’t been in bed nearly enough in recent weeks, and when he was in bed, much of the time was spent lying awake staring at the ceiling. If he wasn’t such a gifted talker with decades of experience in broadcasting, he never would have been able to continue his morning radio show. Over the years, whenever Pit Bull was ill or exhausted or just distracted, he was capable of doing his show, as he often called it, on “auto-pilot.” On those occasions very few people—other than the in-studio engineer—even noticed he was not on top of his game.

            Pit Bull’s sagging demeanor was partially the result of a lack of sleep, and mostly the result of emotional stress. As he gazed at the TV screen, pretending to be interested in the final minutes of the Packers-Lions game, his mind was weighing his options. He couldn’t pretend the activities of the secret group had been a bad dream, no matter how much he’d like to. It all had really happened. He certainly couldn’t quit the group, even though he’d love to do that, too. Capt. Bradford would surely hunt him down. He smiled grimly as he pondered how Bradford might do it, and envisioned the headlines: “Radio host slain during parking lot mugging.” He wondered if his funeral would draw a large crowd.

            Turning himself in to the authorities was not a valid option either. That would not only ruin his career and bring shame on his family, it most likely would cause him to spend the rest of his life behind bars. Although Pit Bull now realized he simply did not have the stomach for the kind of violent work the group was doing—especially after his own terrible mistake of shooting an innocent man—he had to admit that overall, he was still convinced the group’s goal was good. Because he was on top of every news story in the state, large or small, no one knew better than Pit Bull Peterson that the criminal justice system was broken. And until it was fixed, something had to be done with the lawless punks who were terrorizing honest, hard-working citizens.

            It’s just that Pit Bull didn’t want to be part of that “something” anymore. It took a special kind of person to fire bullets point-blank into another human being. Bradford certainly was that kind of person; apparently Wilkins and Morton were, too. But Pit Bull now knew that he was not. While sitting on the couch, he resolved to go along with the group, support them the best he could, but he would not under any circumstances carry out another mission himself again. If the other three men insisted that Pit Bull take his next turn, he would act so flustered and panicky they would have to change their minds. Except he wouldn’t be acting.

#

The Morton home, as usual during holidays, was a beehive of activity. Mrs. Morton had to feed nine hungry mouths, various friends and family members, but as usual she prepared enough food for 30 people. Among the guests, for the third year in a row, were the Morton’s daughter and son-in-law who flew in from Texas. Except this year they brought along something special: a seven-month-old baby boy. Rev. Morton was proud as punch of his grandson. He had jumped on a plane and actually missed Sunday service last March when the child was born. This was the first time he had seen the child since the spring, and as hard as he tried to be joyful and exuberant, it was noticeable to all that the tall man with the wavy silver hair was subdued.

            Rev. Morton, too, had not been sleeping very well. He had lost count of the number of times in recent weeks that he had found himself wide awake at 2 a.m., also staring at the ceiling. He would lie there for hours, hoping to fall back to sleep, but mostly thinking and praying and wondering and worrying. He often dozed off finally just before it was time to get up. Then he’d spend the rest of the day operating in a sleep-deprived fog.

            Rev. Morton and Pit Bull Peterson not only had sleep problems in common, they shared similar outlooks about the actions of the secret group: they both believed the group was doing good work. Rev. Morton had been surprised at how stressful it was to carry out his mission, and he really didn’t look forward to his next turn, but he truly believed the Lord was guiding them. He truly believed conditions in society were so desperate that God had suspended His “turn the other cheek” and “love thy neighbor” commands for the harsh but necessary “purge the evil” command. It simply had to be done, he was convinced, to keep civilization from disintegrating. The reverend proudly reminded himself that he always made a point of praying for the group’s target before each mission.

            Besides lack of sleep and stress, Rev. Morton was not his usual boisterous self because of concerns about yesterday’s secret meeting. He was quite surprised when Capt. Bradford and Tom Wilkins expressed enthusiasm for picking up the pace, that is, increasing the frequency of the missions and expanding the criteria for who qualifies as a potential target. If anything, Rev. Morton thought the group might best be served by slowing down the pace. Operating more quickly would only make them more reckless, he thought. They must stick to their original plan of being very careful and methodical. If the group went off half-cocked and starting popping every punk they stumbled upon, they would surely be caught.

            Trying to cast the worries from his mind, Rev. Morton lifted his baby grandson from a playpen, just moments after the colicky child had finally drifted off to sleep. This caused the baby to howl in protest. Mrs. Morton and her daughter raced into the living room and looked incredulously as the big man cradled the infant against his shoulder, trying unsuccessfully to hush the little bundle of noise. The two women did what countless people have done over the years: they looked at the reverend, shook their heads in disbelief, and rolled their eyes.

#

At the Wilkins home, not too far from Pit Bull’s house in the north end, a dozen family and friends meandered from the dining room toward the living room. When Mrs. Wilkins announced the five types of pie available for dessert, most of the guests groaned, already gorged on her fine turkey dinner.

            Mrs. Wilkins was a wonderful cook. She took great delight in feeding her loved ones. Not too many years ago she thought she would not have the opportunity to do much cooking anymore. At that time she was convinced the plans for her life were just about ruined. She knew for a fact her marriage was ruined. No matter how many times Tom had promised that he would stop drinking and stop carousing with strippers and prostitutes, he never kept his promise. She knew she had to divorce him, and at the time she was so angry she vowed to make sure it was such a messy and public divorce the wealthy car dealer would be humiliated in the process.

            But then something remarkable occurred. Tom Wilkins, in complete desperation, had barged into the office of Rev. G.W. Morton over at the Faith Cathedral. Within weeks there was a noticeable change in the man. Within months the Wilkins’ marriage was well on its way to being healed and the Wilkins family became one of the most grateful and active members of the Faith Cathedral community.

            The past few years had been heavenly for Mrs. Wilkins. The family business, the car dealership, remained quite profitable despite a lackluster economy. Most of all, she and Tom were doing what she had always dreamed about: they were growing old together, respectable, happy, and peaceful.

            In recent weeks, however, Mrs. Wilkins had become concerned. Her Tom was working too hard. He was coming home late at night. It was not like the bad old days, she was certain, when he would stagger into the house at 2 a.m., drunk as a skunk and smelling like cheap perfume. Now he just came home at 11 p.m. or midnight, tired and stressed out. He was laughing less and scowling more. The hectic Christmas season would begin in earnest tomorrow, Mrs. Wilkins thought, and she prayed her husband would find the time to rest and relax a bit. Little did she know that behind the serious, somber face he wore during Thanksgiving dinner, Tom Wilkins was making plans to increase the level of his stressful nighttime activities. And unbeknownst to his friend Pit Bull Peterson, Tom Wilkins had already decided Pit Bull was too flustered and panicky to be a dependable triggerman. Pit Bull would’ve been thrilled to know Wilkins was planning to suggest to the others that their nervous friend could continue to help the group, but just not with a gun in his hand anymore.

#

At yet another home in West Hartford, inside Anna Rivera’s second floor apartment, Fr. Dan Cavanaugh sat in a high-back chair in the living room and sipped a cup of coffee. To his left sat Det. Mike Cavanaugh, also drinking coffee. Anna sat on the couch, directly across from the priest. Next to Anna was her daughter Maria, who was bored to tears by the conversation of the three adults, and periodically let her mother know how much fun she was not having.

All week long Anna had persistently begged Fr. Dan to join her and Maria for Thanksgiving dinner. Part of him wanted to accept her invitation immediately, but part of him knew it wouldn’t be wise to go inside her apartment. What if at the end of dinner Maria ran off to visit her friends, leaving them alone? He repeatedly made excuses. But then Anna explained how sad it had been the first Thanksgiving after her husband died, and how it would be unbearable for her and Maria to have their first Thanksgiving alone, without Luis. So the priest reluctantly relented, then quickly insisted that his brother should join them. After all, Mike had to work on the holiday. The cop could stop by and dine with them while keeping an ear to his radio, couldn’t he? Anna happily agreed. The more the merrier.

            It had been a lovely dinner. The two brothers told all kinds of stories about each other—some of the stories even true. A couple of times Anna laughed so hard she almost cried. The people in this home, unlike the people in four other homes across the town, forgot about all their troubles and burdens—at least for a couple of hours. Mike forgot about the wave of murders in the community and his nagging suspicion that a young religious zealot might be the killer. Fr. Dan forgot about the bizarre confession he heard, and his fear that the man who sat a few feet away in the confessional was not fully repentant and might kill again. Anna, for the first time in weeks, did not feel an aching sadness in her soul, the unimaginable pain a parent endures after burying an offspring.

            After enjoying dessert and moving to the living room for coffee, Mike’s radio crackled once again, this time with the dispatcher using a more urgent tone of voice. “Gotta go,” Mike announced after listening to the message. “Car crash on Farmington Avenue.”

            “Yes, I should be going, too,” Fr. Dan said as he stood up. He gave Maria a brief hug, then gave Anna an even briefer hug, strategically leaning across the coffee table so only their shoulders and arms could come in contact. “Thanks so much, Anna,” he said. “Everything was great.”

            Everyone said goodbye simultaneously, and the two brothers hustled down the stairs to the sidewalk. Before turning left toward his cruiser, Mike looked at Fr. Dan and said, “See you, bro’. Hey, by the way, if you hadn’t noticed, she is so hot!”

            Fr. Dan shook his head and scowled. “You knucklehead,” he laughed. “See ya.” Then the priest turned to the right and walked toward his car. That was great, he thought. I had a great time with Anna, and because we were never alone I hardly had a single lustful thought the whole time. He smiled and added, Maybe we can just be friends after all. We just have to make sure we’re never alone together. Yeah, that’s it.

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