"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 36

Monday, November 29th, 6:45 p.m.

            Dave “Pit Bull” Peterson kissed his wife on the cheek and said, “See you later, honey. Have a good time.” She waved goodbye and walked from the kitchen into the garage. Pit Bull stood in the doorway watching her. As she opened the door to her car, he called out, “I’m not sure when I’ll be home from my meeting, so don’t wait up for me.” She nodded and smiled. The Holy Name Society meeting at St. Mary’s Church usually lasted at least 90 minutes, which meant Mrs. Peterson would not be home until close to 9 p.m. After heading out to his meeting, Pit Bull had no idea when he would return home—or if he would return home.

            After being told by Tom Wilkins on Saturday afternoon that Capt. Bradford absolutely refused to consider letting Pit Bull take a more limited role in the secret group’s activities, Pit Bull had gone into another deep funk. Mrs. Peterson noticed that her husband’s demeanor was even more subdued that it had been in the last couple of weeks, if that were possible. Completely out of character, he sat on the couch and silently stared out the window for long stretches of time. When Pit Bull offered to accompany his wife to Mass on Sunday morning, Mrs. Peterson was at first delighted. After all, he never attended Mass unless it was a major holiday and unless she begged him repeatedly. But then she realized something was wrong. Pit Bull seemed to be on the verge of tears as he sat in the pew during Mass. And again, completely out of character, he would not talk about what was bothering him afterward. Mrs. Peterson almost decided not to attend the Holy Name Society meeting this evening. She wasn’t sure if she should leave her husband home alone. But in the end, he convinced her to go.

            After Mrs. Peterson drove away, Pit Bull went into their bedroom and opened a closet door. He moved some shoes and boxes out of the way and located a small steel box tucked away in the back corner. He dragged it out of the closet and put it on the floor at the foot of his bed. Then he fumbled with his key ring until he found a small brass key. He got down on one knee and used the key to open the gun safe. The lid popped open, revealing a silver Smith & Wesson 9mm pistol and a magazine clip loaded with ten rounds.

            Pit Bull stared at the gun. Once again, as he had done multiple times in the past two weeks, he envisioned himself raising the gun to his head and pulling the trigger. He truly felt that he deserved such a fate after what he had done. But he quickly put that idea out of his mind. He knew that would be the easy way out of his predicament. Also, he couldn’t bear the thought of his dear wife coming home and finding his bloody body sprawled on the floor.

            Taking a deep breath, Pit Bull removed the gun and clip from the safe and put them on top of the bed. He closed the safe and returned it to the back corner of the closet. Then he grabbed a heavy jacket from the closet and put it on. He snapped the clip into the hand grip of the pistol and pulled the slide back, loading a bullet into the chamber. He tucked the gun into his jacket pocket.

            As he walked out of the bedroom, Pit Bull noticed his cell phone sitting on top of his dresser. He reached over and grabbed the phone, and mumbled, “I don’t want to talk to anybody tonight, but I’d better bring it.” He flipped the phone open and pressed down on the “off” button until the phone shut off. Then he slipped it into his pants pocket.

            Pit Bull slowly walked from the bedroom to the kitchen and toward the garage. His hands were already beginning to quiver. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was confront Capt. Bradford. But he had made up his mind. He was going to tell the police captain in no uncertain terms that he was done. He was not going to participate in the group’s missions anymore, and that was final. If Bradford would not let him leave the group voluntarily, Pit Bull was prepared to threaten that he would go to the authorities and tell everything. And if Capt. Bradford took that claim especially badly and tried to shoot Pit Bull—as Tom Wilkins had implied might be the case—then Pit Bull would try to defend himself with the pistol in his jacket.

            It was a tough decision to make, but Pit Bull had concluded that even if he was unsuccessful in defending himself and the cold-blooded Bradford ended up gunning him down, it would be a better fate than living with the guilt that had been eating him up since the night he murdered a completely innocent man. Tonight Pit Bull would confront Capt. Bradford—and Tom Wilkins and Rev. Morton, too, if necessary. But one way or another, after tonight Pit Bull Peterson no longer would be a member of the secret vigilante group. He just hoped this did not mean that in the process he would no longer be alive.

            It was still almost two hours before the secret meeting was due to begin in the service area of Wilkins Ford. Pit Bull didn’t want to sit around his house waiting, so he decided to stop by a nearby tavern for a couple of doses of liquid courage. He didn’t drink too often, but if ever there was a time he needed help to calm his nerves, this was it.

            As Pit Bull backed his car out of the garage, he did not hear the phone ringing in his house. Across town, sitting at his desk in his car dealership, Tom Wilkins held a phone receiver to his ear and muttered. “C’mon, Pit Bull, answer your phone.” After six rings, the recorded voice of Mrs. Peterson came on and cheerfully instructed the caller to leave a message.

            Wilkins swore under his breath and hung up the phone. Then he dialed Pit Bull’s cell phone number. After one ring Pit Bull’s voice came on and said, “Sorry I can’t take your call. Please leave a message at the tone.”

            “Dammit,” Wilkins said. When the tone finally sounded, he recited into the phone, “Pit Bull, it’s me, Tom. Listen, no meeting tonight. Don’t bother coming over. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Understand? No meeting tonight. Bye.”

            After hanging up the phone, Wilkins thought, Damn, I hope he gets the message. I don’t know what Bradford has in mind, but whatever it is, I don’t want Pit Bull wandering right into the middle of it.

            Pit Bull drove toward a small tavern about a half mile from his house. As he drove he decided it was too close to home and someone might recognize him there, so he continued driving until he reached Prospect Avenue. He turned right, heading south on Prospect and continued to drive. After a few miles he saw the Spigot Café ahead on the left. “That looks like a good spot,” he whispered. He parked around back and entered the pub.

            Barely a half dozen patrons were scattered throughout the tavern. The big screen TVs on the walls displayed the Monday Night Football pre-game show. In another hour, dozens more people would be in attendance to watch the game and enjoy the establishment’s food and drink.

            Pit Bull entered the bar and pulled a baseball cap down low over his eyes. He did not want anyone to recognize him. He hopped up onto a bar stool directly in front of a mid-sized flat screen TV just above the shelves of liquor bottles. There was no way he could’ve known he was sitting in the same seat where Eddie Dykes enjoyed his last evening of drinking exactly 36 days ago. When the bartender walked over, Pit Bull ordered a shot of Jack Daniels and a draft beer.

            The bartender returned with the drinks, and Pit Bull put a 20 dollar bill on the bar and said, “Thanks.” He lifted the shot glass to his lips and sucked in its entire contents. The liquid burned in his throat and caused Pit Bull to start coughing uncontrollably. The bartender glanced at him and snickered. Pit Bull grabbed the beer and gulped down about half the glass. Compared to the whiskey, the beer tasted like water.

            After the coughing fit finally ended, Pit Bull cleared his throat and wiped the tears from his eyes. Man, he thought, I haven’t done that in a long time. I forgot how powerful this stuff is. To the bartender’s surprise, Pit Bull waved the empty shot glass in his direction and said, “Another, please.”

            Pit Bull sat back and took a deep breath. He unzipped his jacket. As he did, he felt the bulge of the pistol in his jacket pocket. Hey, that’s illegal, he thought. Even though I have a pistol permit, it’s illegal to bring one inside a bar. Then he laughed out loud. “Illegal,” he said softly as he shook his head. Oh yeah, he thought to himself. You wouldn’t want to break the law by bringing a gun into a bar, now would you? his mind thought in a sarcastic, self-accusing tone. Of course, you didn’t seem to care too much about legal or illegal when you shot that innocent kid in the back, did you?

            After the second whiskey, Pit Bull’s hands stopped shaking and he was beginning to feel a bit more relaxed. He called for a third drink and another beer. Then he glanced at his watch and calculated that he could stay at the bar for another half hour before it was time to go to the secret meeting at Wilkins Ford. Pit Bull looked up and stared at the TV. The sights and sounds of the TV program were hitting Pit Bull’s eyes and ears, but nothing was getting through to his brain. Inside his head, all he could think about was Capt. Bradford, and whether or not their impending confrontation would result in shots being fired—and if so, who would walk away and who would not.

            A steady stream of people entered the bar, as the opening kick-off drew near. Pit Bull started to feel crowded. He finished the last bit of whiskey—sipping carefully now—and then finished the last of the beer. He put another 20 on the bar, not sure if he still owed anything. He slipped off the bar stool and stood up. He legs felt a bit wobbly, but his mind was now feeling cocky and confident.

            Pit Bull walked out of the bar and got into his car. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper, onto which was written a phone number he had looked up earlier in the day. He fumbled for his cell phone in his pants pocket and held down the green “on” button. A few seconds after starting up, the phone chimed once and the little screen indicated there were three voice messages waiting. Pit Bull ignored the messages and dialed the number on the piece of paper.

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