"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 32

Saturday, November 27th, 8:35 a.m.

            Fr. Dan Cavanaugh entered the parish rectory through the kitchen door after saying morning Mass. There was no old, cold coffee in the coffee maker from earlier in the morning, so he rinsed out the glass pot and prepared to brew another batch. As usual in recent years, he could not quite fathom that the Christmas season had arrived in earnest once again. Where had the fall gone? It seemed as if Labor Day had been just a couple of weeks earlier. While saying 8 a.m. Mass, Fr. Dan realized the vigil Mass he would say later in the afternoon would be for the first week of Advent. Advent already! He hadn’t even prepared a homily yet. Maybe one of the Advent homilies he had delivered in a previous year could be recycled this weekend. He made a mental note to search the directories of his computer for something appropriate.

            After setting up the coffee maker and turning the switch to “on,” Fr. Dan turned on the clock radio on the kitchen counter. The final bars of “Frosty the Snowman” came out of the little speaker, which then segued into Bing Crosby singing “White Christmas.”

            “I’m not ready for this,” Fr. Dan muttered out loud. White Christmas? It’s gonna be 60 degrees today, he thought. It’s still November, for crying out loud. At least wait until mid-December before playing non-stop Christmas carols. Sheesh.

            The priest reached over and turned the dial on the radio, tuning in a different station. An advertisement for a special deal on Ford pickup trucks came on. That’s more like it, Fr. Dan thought. He sat down at the kitchen table, where a pile of paperwork waited. He started to sort through the documents, making one pile of items he had to work on during the weekend and another pile that could wait until Monday. He put each pile into separate manila folders.

            “And don’t forget, a new F-150 pickup makes a great Christmas gift!” the radio ad concluded. Fr. Dan look up at the radio and shook his head and chuckled. I surrender, he thought.

            Then another voice began to speak from the radio. “OK, we’re back. It’s now eight-forty-three on this lovely Saturday morning. We’re doing a live remote broadcast from the spacious showroom of Wilkins Ford-Nissan.”

            Fr. Dan look up again. Wilkins Ford? Hmm. He closed one of the manila folders and leaned back in his chair and focused his attention on the radio.

            “I just love getting out of the studio once in a while, my friends,” the voice said, “and I can’t think of a better place to kick off the Christmas season than in the showroom of my dear, longtime friend, Tom Wilkins. Tom, come over here a minute, please. Put on those headphones. No, sit right there, in front of that microphone. That’s it. Now, Tom, how long has your family owned this car dealership?”

            “Well, Pit Bull,” another voice said, more tentative and softer, “my dad started the company in 1953. Back then he was over on New Park Avenue. Then he moved to this location in about 1970, I think.”

            “That’s right, Tom,” the other voice said, quicker and louder. “You and I have been doing live broadcasts from this showroom for at least 25 years now. And we sure do love being here.”

            “Yeah, well,” Wilkins said, “we love that you’re here, too, but you and your crew sure make an awful mess with all these wires and electronic stuff all over the place.”

            “Oh Tom,” Pit Bull laughed. “You’re making my head explode! We have a lot of equipment, yes, but we also help you sell a whole bunch of new cars, now don’t we?”

            Fr. Dan sat up straight in his chair. “What did you just say?” he whispered toward the radio. “‘You’re making my head explode’? That voice, that…that’s you!” The priest jumped up from his chair and strode over to the counter. He leaned forward so his face was no more than a foot away from the radio. “You! You’re him!” he yelled at the radio. “You’re the guy who confessed. You’re the shooter!”

            For the next fifteen minutes Fr. Dan stood in the center of the kitchen and stared at the radio. He concentrated on every word, trying to compare the voice he was hearing with the voice he heard a week earlier in the confessional. It was definitely the same person. As he listened, he heard the voice break for a recorded commercial by saying, “We’ll be right back after these messages. You’re listening to a special Saturday edition of the Dave Peterson Show on WCTR, 640 AM, and I’m your host, Pit Bull Peterson.”

Fr. Dan grabbed a pencil and scribbled on scrap piece of paper: “Dave Peterson, pitbull?, WCT-something?, 640.”

            A little later on he heard Pit Bull describe for the audience what great friends he and Tom Wilkins were. The radio host and the car dealer thought alike, acted alike, and their families vacationed together. Over the years, he explained, the two men had worked together on countless events, fund-raisers, charitable banquets, and many other projects.

            “‘Many other projects’?” Fr. Dan muttered. “Tom Wilkins. Wilkins Ford…Oh my God. If Mike thinks someone at Wilkins Ford is involved in vigilante shootings, I bet it’s this guy, the owner of the place!”

            Fr. Dan paced around the kitchen. “What should I do? What should I do?” he said. “I’ve got to tell Mike. But I can’t tell Mike. I learned about this in the confessional. I’m sworn to secrecy. Dammit!”

            The priest was practically quivering with frustration. The information he now possessed was bubbling up from within him. He wanted to climb up onto the roof of the rectory and shout it at the top of his lungs. Actually, he just wanted to call his brother and tell him, and then let the law enforcement professionals take over. But he knew he couldn’t do that. He was sworn to secrecy. Finally Fr. Dan sat back down at the kitchen table and pounded his fists onto the two manila folders, looking very much like a 49-year-old man pretending to have a two-year-old type temper tantrum. Except he wasn’t pretending.

            In the background Pit Bull continued to chat away, interviewing guests, discussing the latest news stories, and pitching the benefits of owning a Ford automobile. He was in a great mood this morning, after getting a good night’s sleep for the first time in ages. His firm decision to refuse to conduct any more missions eased some of the guilt he had been experiencing after gunning down the wrong person. However, he would soon be in a much less enjoyable mood. Tom Wilkins had decided to wait until after the broadcast to tell his good friend Pit Bull about the phone conversation he had had with Capt. Bradford late Friday night. When Wilkins explained to the police captain that he believed Pit Bull should not do any more shootings, Bradford had exploded in a rage. “We’re all in this together, just like we all agreed!” he had shouted. “No one weasels out on the group now, understand?! And if anyone does,” Bradford had added in a measured, quieter voice, “he will be my next target. Understand?”

            Tom Wilkins knew exactly how Pit Bull would react to this news, which is why he decided to wait until after 10 a.m. to tell him. No sense ruining the show, he thought. After all, these live remotes cost me an arm and a leg. I might as well let Pit Bull sell a few cars while he’s in a good mood.

            Pit Bull sat at a table in the center of the showroom, surrounded by computers, wires, and microphones. He happily held court, as only he can do. Across the room Tom Wilkins sulked, his stomach churning with anxiety. Across town, Fr. Dan sat at his kitchen table and also sulked. His stomach also churned with anxiety.

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