Page 19 of The Devil's Advocate

‘You’re worried, and I understand. You need to trust me. Is it you’re not sure about him, or are you unsure of yourself?’ asked the Pastor.

Gruber shook his head.

The Pastor said, ‘We’ve been over this. There is no other way. People will die. A lot of people. I thought you had accepted that?’

‘I do, you know I do.’

‘In six days he will be ready. You have his email, don’t you? Send him some videos. The usual kind – Breitbart, Fox News, One America. He’ll soon be convinced.’

‘If you say so. I’ll drop in on him and the wife tomorrow.’

‘Good. Now, tell me, has Flynn arrived in town yet?’

‘I don’t know. I helped put the word out.’

‘Good enough,’ said the Pastor.

The two men spoke for another hour, going over their preparations. The Pastor and Gruber wanted the same thing, but they sometimes had different views on how to achieve it. Gruber understood and accepted that sacrifice was necessary. Just as long as he wasn’t the one who had to do the sacrificing.

‘I’ll try to be with him every day of the trial, but I might need one of the others to sit in occasionally,’ said Gruber.

‘Do you have plans?’ asked the Pastor.

‘No, it’s just I find his grief tiring. I can only be a shoulder to cry on for so long before I become irritated.’

‘The others are busy. You’re not working at the moment. It only seems right that you do the lion’s share. After all, he likes you.’

When Gruber left it was almost two a.m. and the Pastor felt like some fresh air. As Gruber drove away, the Pastor walked the streets. Buckstown was quiet at this time of night. If you avoided the bars, then you could walk the whole length of the town without meeting another soul.

He enjoyed the silence. The warmth from the streetlights burning on the wet blacktop. The temperature didn’t bother him. Not since he was a boy, and his father had put him in the box for not finishing his meal. The box may as well have been an oven. Thin traces of light seeped in from the spaces between the pine boards. Enough light to read his Bible, but no more. Anything could warrant some time in the box. Raising his voice, forgetting to brush his teeth, or not praying hard enough. His childhood experiences meant he never complained about the heat, because nothing was as bad as being cooked in that box.

He grew up on a farm outside of Buckstown. The first few years of his life held no firm memories, only a feeling of warmth and protection. His mother passed when he was six, which just left the Pastor and his father, who never recovered from the death of his wife. The Pastor’s father blamed himself for her death – that he wasn’t pious enough, that in neglecting his devotion to God he had somehow brought divine wrath on the family. He took down all the paintings in the house, all the clocks, and in their stead, he placed thick wooden boards bearing hand-carved passages from the Bible. They went to church every morning, and twice on Sunday. Between the box and the beatings, the Pastor learned the strength of the word of God.

He stopped at the corner of Buck Street. The two hotels that served the town were visible, and there was a car parked outside The Chanterelle that he didn’t recognize. He made his way down the street and saw it was a Toyota, and inside, asleep, were two men. The tires on the car had been slashed, and there was no room at the inn for these strangers. The Pastor recognized Eddie Flynn from the picture he’d seen on the internet. The man looked disheveled, sleeping in his clothes. The Pastor’s teeth began to grind. Here was the man whose sole purpose was to set Andy Dubois loose. And that was something the Pastor couldn’t allow.

There was no one else on the street. No cameras. No cars. No people. Just a light rustle of wind in the young pine tree behind him. One of many new trees that lined the street.

Ten years on his father’s farm had slowly tightened the screws in the Pastor’s head. Over time, he had learned to spot the signs that would precede one of his episodes. Grinding his teeth was one. The Pastor inhaled, tried to slow his breathing.

But it was no good. His heart was hammering. His fists tight.

He leaned down, brought his face close to the passenger window. His breath fogged the glass with each exhalation – like a great bull with its nose against the rodeo gate, ready to be set loose.

Reaching inside his jacket, he drew his .22 pistol. Pointed it at Flynn’s head, the barrel almost touching the window.

If he pulled the trigger now, he would have to kill the man in the driver’s seat. That wouldn’t be a problem for him. They were all the same, those New York elites. They didn’t understand the real America. They weren’t patriots, not like the Pastor. He could kill for his country, for his cause. In six days’ time, the reckoning would begin.

His finger touched the trigger.

He imagined the shot. The crack of gunfire exploding the dark, silent street, his view of Flynn distorting as the round tore through the glass, leaving only spider-web cracks surrounding a single bullet hole. He would adjust his aim, put two rounds in the black man in the driver’s seat, and then he would be gone, into an alley, swallowed by the night.

A pearl of sweat took a run down his cheek.

Killing Flynn would draw more attention. Attention he didn’t need.

He put the gun away, bent low to the window and bore his teeth, screaming in silence.

The Pastor backed up from the car, and he heard asnap.