"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 10

Thursday, November 4th, 4:55 p.m.

Rev. Morton steered the silver Maxima into the Service Department entrance driveway of the Wilkins Ford-Nissan dealership. He drove around to the rear of the building and pulled into an empty parking space. He entered the building through the door that was next to the four roll-up garage doors, the same entrance he always used when he visited the dealership, either to see Tom Wilkins socially during the day, or to attend secret vigilante group meetings at night. Under his left arm Rev. Morton clutched a blue plastic bag. In his right hand he held the gray cap, which he had taken off when he walked through the doorway. His silver hair was wet with sweat, and matted down on his forehead.

Many of the workers in the service area were finishing up for the day, putting their tools away, washing their hands in the large utility sink, and turning in oil-smudged paperwork at the service manager’s counter. Most of the workers recognized Rev. Morton, since he was a frequent visitor. Some of them knew the reverend personally, as they attended the Faith Cathedral. Tom Wilkins urged all of his employees to attend Rev. Morton’s church. Ever since his personal conversion, Wilkins was not shy about discussing his new-found faith in God with his employees and even with his customers. Some were turned off by it, but most understood it was just his sincere belief. Those who had known Tom Wilkins for many years realized his new faith in God had transformed his life—for the better. They were genuinely happy for him, even if they did not share his evangelical zeal. Besides, Wilkins was not the type to beat people over the head with a Bible. He was more interested in “beating people over the head” with the keys to a brand new Ford.

A couple of mechanics waved as the clergyman walked toward the showroom area. Rev. Morton smiled and waved back, the cap still in his hand. He made his way down a small hallway, turned left, then walked to the last door on the right. He knocked on this door, which quickly was pulled open by Tom Wilkins, who stood with an anxious expression on his face. “Come in, G.W.” he said. Rev. Morton entered Wilkins’ office, which was adorned with family photos, dealership award plaques, and framed inspirational Christian paintings and poems.

Wilkins closed the door just as quickly as he had opened it. He grabbed Rev. Morton by the elbow and said, “Well…?”

Rev. Morton smiled slightly, nodded his head, and said, “Mission completed.”

“Yeah, really?” Wilkins said, almost breathlessly. “You, you did it?”

“Did it. It’s over. The target is, uh…down. Done. No more.”

“Whew!” Wilkins said. “I’ve been sitting here fidgeting for a the last hour, going out of my mind. Whew, good job, G.W.” He stepped away from the preacher, and noticed his matted down hair. “Jeez, what did you do, jog all the way over here? You’re all sweaty.”

“Oh, well…” the preacher stammered, “I, uh, it was kind of tense, of course. The adrenaline gets flowing, you know, and before you know it, well…”

“Hey,” Wilkins interrupted, no longer interested in adrenaline or sweat, “Was the street clear? Did you see anyone else anywhere near you when you, uh, did it?”

Rev. Morton paused for a moment, then replied with complete honesty, “I did not see anyone on the street at all.”

“So you’re positive that no one saw you?” Wilkins asked.

Rev. Morton paused again, then lied, “Yes. I am positive.”

“Great,” Wilkins said, breathing a big sigh of relief. “Let’s call the captain.” He went behind his desk, sat down, and dialed Capt. Bradford’s cell phone number. Then he pressed a button to put the call on speaker phone.

Recognizing the phone number and expecting a call, Bradford answered with a curt, “Yeah?”

“It’s done,” Wilkins said.

“Any complications?” Bradford asked.

Wilkins glanced at Rev. Morton, who shook his head from side to side. “No,” Wilkins said. “None at all.”

“Good,” Bradford said, then hung up. Bradford already knew the mission had been completed. He had been standing inside the emergency dispatch room of the WHPD headquarters when the 9-1-1 call came in. A body lying in the street on Flatbush Avenue. Apparent gunshot wound to the head. No sign of life. It had only been mere minutes since patrolmen and an ambulance arrived at the scene, but from what Bradford could discern by listening to the radio conversations, it seemed there were no witnesses. He knew the next thing the patrolmen would do is canvas the area and search for people who saw or heard something. Bradford grabbed his jacket from the coat rack in his office, and headed for his Crown Victoria in the parking lot. He would drive over to Flatbush and take charge of the crime scene, and make sure the patrolmen did not spend too much time and effort looking for witnesses.

Tom Wilkins sat back in his chair behind the desk. “OK, so what have you got for me?” he asked. Rev. Morton handed over the blue plastic bag. Wilkins took the bag and placed it in the bottom drawer of the desk, then locked the drawer and put the key in his shirt pocket. “All that stuff will be destroyed and disposed of tonight,” he said. He waved his arm and said, “Take a seat, G.W. Relax.” Rev. Morton sat down in one of the two chairs facing the desk.

“Too bad you made me quit drinking,” Wilkins said. “This would be the perfect time for a little celebration.”

Rev. Morton, who had not let “demon rum” pass his lips since a few rebellious teenage episodes many years earlier, frowned and said, “No no, Tom. The Lord does not want us to dull our senses now. We are engaged in important work, holy work. And we have to stay sharp.”

“Yeah yeah, I know,” Wilkins said, a bit annoyed that Rev. Morton had taken him seriously. Alcohol was the source of most of his problems in the “bad ol’ days.” He wasn’t about to start drinking again now.

While Wilkins was thinking about not drinking, Rev. Morton looked down and noticed that his hands were still quivering slightly from the rush of adrenaline. On the other hand, he thought to himself, If there ever was a good time to throw back a shot of bourbon…

“Hey,” Wilkins said loudly, interrupting Rev. Morton’s thoughts, “How’s the car? Did you hit anything? Any damage? Any bullet holes in the engine?”

“No, of course not,” Rev. Morton replied. “No problem at all.”

“How about blood?” Wilkins asked. “Any blood on the car?”

“That I don’t know, Tom. It was getting dark and I got out of there in a hurry.”

“OK, that’s all right,” Wilkins said. “When I’m here by myself tonight, I’ll bring the car inside and wipe it down. I’ll even steam-clean the engine if I have to.”

The phone on Wilkins’ desk buzzed. It was the intercom. Wilkins pressed a button and said, “Yes?”

A female voice said, “Mr. Wilkins? We’re finished now. We’re heading home.”

“Fine, Doris,” Wilkins said. “Have a good night. See you tomorrow.”

“Good night,” the voice said.

The office staff was done for the day, but since it was Thursday, the showroom would be opened until 9 p.m., and at least four or five salesmen would be in the building. Wilkins knew he could not begin to dispose of any evidence until much later in the evening. He stood up and said, “Hey, G.W., let’s go out to dinner. I’ve got a few hours to kill, so let’s go out and celebrate with a nice, juicy steak.”

Rev. Morton loved juicy steaks, but at this moment the image of red juice dripping from a steak brought on a twinge of queasiness in his stomach. “No, Tom. Thank you,” he said. “I have to get going.” He wanted nothing more than to race home and take a long hot shower. His underwear was still damp with sweat and he was beginning to shiver involuntarily. “I’ve got things to do, Tom, and you should go home and have dinner with your family.”

“OK, fine. Whatever you say,” Wilkins said. Both men stood up to leave. Wilkins walked over and looked Rev. Morton straight in the eye, from no more than a foot away. He grabbed both of Morton’s elbows in his hands. “Great job, my friend,” he said. “You did great, G.W., and I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, Tom. Thanks,” the reverend said sheepishly. “It, it had to be done.” Yes, it had to be done, Rev. Morton repeated to himself in his head. We are definitely doing the right thing, he thought. He was convinced they were doing the right thing. They had to purge the evil from among civilized society. But Rev. Morton was a little uncomfortable. He had not anticipated that the actual deed would be so emotionally wrenching.

“Right,” Wilkins said. “It had to be done. And I’m next. The next one is my turn.”

Rev. Morton nodded, wondering if his friend Tom Wilkins also would be surprised by the stress involved in carrying out the mission.

“So we’re meeting here tomorrow night to begin planning my mission, right?”

Morton nodded.

“Ten o’clock sharp. I’ll see you here, G.W., OK?”

Rev. Morton nodded again. He turned to leave, then paused. He reached into the pocket of his black overcoat. “Oh, I think you need these,” he said as he held up the keys to the silver Maxima.

Both men chuckled. Rev. Morton left the office, walked back through the Service Dept. and went outside. He began to wander through the vast parking area, filled with cars, and said out loud, “Now where did I park my car?”

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