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Sins of the Family Chapter Twenty-Three

I gotta go.” Mike shifted with discomfort in the back seat, pressing against Bob and Jill. He belched.
“Me too.” Randy’s dull eyes glanced away from the yellow line down the middle of the highway through the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.
Harold watched John’s shoulders tense. Stopping at the request of the brothers must be a frustration. Perhaps he would be able to use this wedge to tear them apart before something else terrible happened.
“Later. We must find Pharaoh,” John said.
“If we don’t stop I’m gonna go all over myself.” Mike’s face twisted into a childish pout.
Hunching his shoulders and pulling his legs up, Randy glared at John.
“It’s mean not letting us go.”
As the car rounded a corner, its headlights shone on the empty parking lot of the New Found Gap overlook which straddled the border between Tennessee and North Carolina.
“I gotta go,” Mike said again.
“Very well.” Sighing in resignation, John pulled into the parking lot. “Rest rooms are in a building down that path on the left.”
“Oh boy.” Mike laughed as he tumbled out of the car, followed by Randy. In a few moments they returned. “The door’s locked.”
“Go behind the building,” John said, leaning his head out the window.
Harold eyed John, wondering what he could say to make him return to the hospital.
“You look tired.”
“Why did you say that?”
“Because I care about you.”
“No one cares about Moses but his own people.” He gazed at a large stone terrace overlook with a plaque commemorating its dedication by Franklin D. Roosevelt back in the nineteen forties.
“And God?”
“Of course. Yo He Wa.”
“But Yo He Wa is god of Cherokee. Yahweh is God of Moses.”
“You can’t fool me by playing word games.” He shook his head.
“You really want your father to care about you.”
John ignored him.
“If you let me take you back to the hospital, I can help you with your feelings about your father.” After an extended silence, Harold glanced in the back seat at Bob and Jill, deciding it was time to stop reasoning with John and instead concentrate on escape. He never lost hope with a patient before, but John transcended his role of pitiful victim of childhood head trauma and of unstable parents to a new identity of crazed messiah, bent on destroying anyone who crossed his path. In this hour of darkness and isolation, escape was his only answer.
“May we stretch our legs?” he asked.
“Wait until Joshua and Caleb return,” John replied, still not turning his head to look at Harold.
A few minutes later Mike and Randy, laughing and punching each other, ran up the asphalt path toward the parking lot.
“You want to stretch your legs too, don’t you?” Harold looked into the back seat, peering into Bob’s eyes.
“Yeah. Sure.” Bob looked at Jill. “You want to stretch your legs?”
She squinted in bemusement and then nodded.
“Yes, I need to walk.”
Harold opened the door and slid out as the brothers, still trying to zip their pants, bounced up.
“You gotta go, too?” Mike said with his usual open, smiling face.
“No.” John leaned over to look out the door. “The doctor wanted to stretch his legs.”
“Oh yeah?” Randy stared at Harold.
“Yes,” Jill added, stepping from the back seat. “We’ve been on the road a long time.”
Harold surveyed the group before him, an innocent couple and three escaped mental patients, all thrown together because of his incompetence. He could not shake the words from his father’s lips that night many years ago in his Long Island home.
“Do as you wish. You always have. But mind you, one day you’ll make a fatal mistake in a diagnosis, and you’ll remember what I told you this night.”
His memory was as sharp as that crystal shard which pierced his finger. The red of the blood drop glistening in the fireplace blaze and the ice blue of his father’s disapproving disdainful eyes crowded rational thought from his mind. His thoughts compelled Harold to throw himself against Randy, who fell into Mike, crashing them into the car’s fender.
“Get out of here!” he ordered Bob and Jill.
They stood there frozen in shock, as though they had become inured to the violence they had witnessed in the last few hours.
“Run!”
Bob grabbed Jill’s hand and ran down the asphalt path to the restrooms and threw her down the gentle slope down into trees and underbrush, following her as she tumbled through the shadows. John scooted across the seat and out the passenger door.
“After them!”
Harold stumbled to his feet and turned to shove Randy, who sprang like a young panther, back into the larger, leonine Mike. Harold sprinted out of the parking lot and spotted flickering headlights rounding the knoll from the North Carolina side of the mountain and scurried for the highway.
“I hate him,” Randy muttered as he tried to untangle himself from his brother’s flailing arms and legs.
“Get up!” John kicked both teen-agers. “Don’t let him escape!”
Wildly waving his arms, Harold situated himself in the middle of the New Found Gap road, but the approaching automobile veered off around him and plunged into the darkness of the twists of the mountain highway, winding its way to Gatlinburg. Before he could move again, he sensed his legs being pulled out from under him, his face smashing the cold hard asphalt tasting the briny blood gushing from his ruptured lip.
“Gotcha,” Randy said.
“It’s useless to fight us, doctor.” John huffed as he caught up with them.
Rolling over, Harold thrust his foot into Randy’s head, bloodying his nose. As the boy squealed in pain and grabbed his face, Harold jumped up, pushed John back into Mike, who had at last arrived, and turned to dash in desperation after the vanishing red taillights. Perhaps, Harold told himself, if he ran fast enough he could lose himself in the mountain’s shadows.
Randy struggled to his feet, wiping blood on his shirt, and made another flying leap at Harold, this time landing on his shoulders, dragging him down. His boney tailbone jabbing into the doctor’s lower back, Randy reached over the smooth top of Harold’s shaved head, stuck two fingers into his nostrils and violently yanked backwards, exposing his neck. With his free hand, Randy pulled out the hunting knife and with a swift motion slashed Harold’s throat.
Struggling against Randy’s grip, Harold could only burble before his body wilted, his consciousness going blank, no longer haunted by the visions of his father’s ice cold, disapproving eyes.

Sins of the Family Chapter Twenty-Two

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Randy finished another beer, belched and tossed the can out his window.
“I hope a highway patrolman didn’t see that,” Jill whispered to Bob.
Harold looked in the back seat, smiled with reassurance at them and then turned to John, staring a moment.
“John, you didn’t answer me. Who are your people?”
“Cherokee.” Lifting his chin, he kept his gaze straight ahead.
“Not Jews?”
“No.”
“Then why are you looking for a man who hurt Jews and not Cherokee?” Harold hoped a logical approach would break through to John. From his previous discussions with John, Harold knew he was intelligent. On some days John amazed him with some of his observations. If only Harold could get in touch with John’s coherent side.
“What?” John asked.
“Your Pharaoh is an old man who never did any harm to Cherokee.” Harold felt his heart beating faster.
“No.” John shook his head. “Pharaoh. He enslaves all men.”
“This old man doesn’t enslave anyone.” Harold leaned into him.
“But my people must be free.”
“Isn’t your father Pharaoh?” Harold risked bringing up the matter of John’s childhood, but the ongoing abduction brought about desperation.
“My father is a worn out warrior.”
“But he’s the one who’s enslaved you all your life, told you that you were stupid and told you he wished you were dead.”
Harold watched muscles in John’s jaw clench.
“Yes, I know now. I know how your father treated you. I know how your mother tried to protect you. I know you were caught in the middle of many fights between your parents.”
Harold with eagerness searched John’s face for a sign of recognition. He wanted John to realize he understood.
“I know now. I can help you free yourself of all those memories of your father. But I can only do that if you let me take you back to the hospital. Free yourself from Pharaoh. I can help you. ” He paused. “Come on, let’s go back to the hospital and talk about it.”
“I ain’t goin’ back to no hospital.” Randy hit Harold on the shoulder with his boney fist.
“Caleb,” John said with authority. “Be quiet.”
Randy glared at him, pulling his legs up on the seat, bowing his head to hide his face.
“I hate Moses.”
***
Greta had suffered enough indignities in her life. As a child in Oberbach, she endured comments on how her sister was the pretty one while she was the sturdy, hard-working one, albeit ugly as a cow. When one of the handsomest men in town paid attention to her, she fell straight away in love—at least what she thought was love. He was shorter than she, bore a perpetual smirk on his face, hardly ever cared about her feelings, and people in town kept telling her the most horrible rumors about him. She ignored all that on her wedding day. Whoever would have thought Greta Gurstadt would have found a man, especially one with clear skin and straight teeth? When gossip of Hans Moeller’s death drifted her way, she discounted it, saying people were jealous of Heinrich’s success in the Third Reich. She bragged that someday she and Heinrich would live in Berlin to serve the Fuhrer, although in private she hoped never to leave her beloved Oberbach. But they did leave Oberbach after the war. Why must we leave, Greta pleaded. Other Germans fought and lost the war, but they did not have to leave. Heinrich just sneered and reminded her that he was head of the household and they would live where he decided.
The only thing that made the move bearable was her beautiful blond son, Edward. She took solace in knowing he would always give her joy and he did, until as a strapping young adult he announced he wanted to change his name, and once again ugly suspicions challenged her unwavering allegiance to head of the household. For whatever else may have disappointed her, Greta maintained her near-deification of Heinrich as the ultimate male—he of golden hair and strong jaw and muscular body. Even as his jaw became rounded and his muscle softened, he was still strong mentally and forged a good living running their little woodcarving shop in Gatlinburg. Then his stroke came, and Heinrich was no longer even strong of mind. Greta had to learn how to balance a business ledger, understand tax laws and manage sales in their store. Heinrich no longer could carve what they sold, so they had to resort to buying items made in Korea, Singapore and other places repugnant to their Aryan sensibilities.
If Heinrich were no longer strong of body or of mind, he was still strong of will, and demanded to be considered boss even when his legs gave out and Greta had to carry him. She stretched her adoration to a thin line of respect she felt he had earned over many years. But the deportation hearing snapped her tenuous devotion. The judge may have ruled Heinrich was not an undesirable, but the evidence, however legally circumstantial, was enough to end Greta’s protracted worship of Heinrich Schmidt. He was not a god. He was not a good man. He was just a crippled, evil man who never valued her hard work and never cherished her. Now he voiced the ultimate insult. Eva Moeller called her a stupid cow and Sebastian Keitel called her a stupid cow, but Heinrich would not be allowed to call her stupid cow. The last shred of love, respect and tolerance was gone, which gave force to the blows she dealt his face that night in their living room.
“Go to bed.” She pointed to the bedroom.
“Go to hell.” Heinrich’s blue eyes were as icy as Bavarian well water in the middle of winter.
Greta did not believe he could sink any lower than he already had, but telling her to go to hell compounded her pain and anger so much she could endure no more, pulling her hand back to slap Heinrich again. He blocked it, which added frustration to her boiling rage, and she knocked his hand away, slapping him again and again, first with her right hand, then her left. Red whelps appeared on his pasty white skin, but she did not care. They were nothing compared to the pain Heinrich had inflicted on her.
“You were the big Nazi! Big—what you call it? Gestapo! You killed Hans and got away with it? Who else did you kill? How many other men did my husband murder?”
“Greta.” Tears began to well in Heinrich’s eyes. “Stop.”
“You’re no big Nazi now.” Her slaps became more intense. “You’re an old man! You don’t tell nobody nothing.” She pushed him to the floor. “Now get to bed.”
“I can’t get up.”
“Then crawl,” Greta snarled, kicking Heinrich in his rear. “I don’t carry you no more.”
“Greta.” Heinrich pleaded, “No. I feel sick.”
“No more lies.” She reached his groin with her next kick, causing him to jump and start crawling. “Move.”
“No, Greta,” he sputtered between sobs.
“Move.”
“Greta, please.”
But the kicks were unrelenting, and with the agility of a wounded elephant Heinrich crept on his hands and knees to their bedroom. When they reached the door, Greta placed her foot on his sagging buttocks and pushed, sending him sliding into the bedpost.
“Now get into that bed.”
“Yes, Greta,” Heinrich said with defeat in his voice. He crawled into the bed and pulled the covers around him.
“Now you shut up or I’ll hit you again.” Greta wagged her finger in his face. She turned and marched out, as Heinrich dissolved in a flood of tears.

Sins of the Family Chapter Twenty-One

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Heinrich had not felt well all day. If only he could belch once, really good, he would feel better. He hated these days when he ordered his legs to move, and they would not. He wanted his mouth to say words that a master of the house would say and it could not. His hands tried to point and make a fist, but they would not. Worst of all, when he took his shower he beheld an old, fat body in the mirror, a balding head with its wispy white hairs going where they wanted and not where he wanted. His bulging eyes looked like they belonged in the head of a rabbit which had just been bitten in its neck by a dog. His nose was bulbous with red spreading veins. His breasts sagged as though he were an old woman. His potbelly was taut like a balloon about to pop. Blue lines streaked his spindly, boney legs.
In mourning he was, for his long ago life of strength and virility vigorous days in the forest cutting trees, and wanton nights in cabins of full-bosomed milk maids. They stroked his hard muscular torso and his Aryan ego. Heinrich lusted for times when he strode down a street in his black Gestapo uniform and observed apprehension in the eyes of Bavarian peasants. He yearned for the pleasure of committing murder and never enduring recrimination. Now even the pasty-faced young man who married his granddaughter did not fear him. Most of all, he yearned for the total adulation of his wife, a mindless cow who had worshipped him as a god.
Now she looked upon him with repugnance. How could she worship a man she had to carry over her shoulder from bed to chair? A man was supposed to carry the woman, not a woman carrying the man. Since he had suffered his stroke, he had become a woman with sagging breasts and a whining helpless voice. Greta, of all people, had become man of the house, breadwinner, ruler of all she surveyed, and Heinrich hated her for it. From his bed he could hear her laughing at some silly television program, not some masculine program about warfare, but something with weak females making insulting remarks that were supposed to be witty and smart.
“Greta.” In his mind he in fact said, “Greta, you stupid cow! Stop that stupid laughing and come attend to your master.”
“What Heinrich?”
He heard her exhale deeply
“Greta, come here.” What he meant to say was, “Never call out to me. You come running when I summon you.”
“Very well, Heinrich.”
He heard her chair creak as she stood. The minute she took to walk from their living room to his bed lasted entirely too long. He fumed because she made him wait. At last Greta appeared in the door, wearing a dowdy print dress, her hair pulled back in the same bun she wore when they left Germany, and her eyes filled with the same contempt she held for him since his stroke.
“What do you want, Heinrich?”
“I want to watch television,” he said with as much authority as possible. “You laugh so much I can’t sleep.”
“Well, watch television,” Greta said as she turned to leave the room. “I don’t care.”
“Carry me.” Heinrich pursed his lips into a pout.
“I don’t feel like it.”
Heinrich stared into her back, as though trying to compel her to turn around.
“If you don’t feel like walking,” she said continuing to leave, “then you don’t feel good enough to watch television.”
“Stop.” Heinrich screamed as loud as he could, although it came out as a weak whine.
“Heinrich, stop yelling at me.” Greta was already out the door and down the hall.
“I will watch television.” Heinrich brought his fist down on the bed, wishing it were on Greta’s head. “You will carry me.” Bringing his once strong arm down again, he imagined Greta falling to her knees from the awful blow, causing her to plead for mercy.
“Why? So you can wet on me again?” she called out with a laugh from the living room. “No.”
***
Harold looked at John who was concentrating on the yellow line down the middle of the mountain highway, lit by headlights. Randy finished a beer and tossed his can out the window. It clickety-clacked down the road. At once a highway patrol car was behind them with its overhead lights flashing.
“So you’re going to find Pharaoh?” Harold tried to think of a way to stop whatever terrible mission John was on.
“Yes.” John kept his eyes straight ahead, not noticing the lights in his rear view mirror.
“And what are you going to do when you find him?”
“We’re gonna slit his gut.” Randy leaned over, grinned and patted the hunting knife in his pants.
“Is that so, John?” Harold looked over at him.
“I don’t know.”
The highway patrol car’s siren began, causing Mike to twist around in the back seat to look out the window.
“The cops.” He plopped back down and twisted his face into a frown. “I don’t like cops. They take you to jail. TV ain’t good in jail.”
“You better pull over,” Harold said, relieved that the ordeal may be over. John was be mad but he would not be foolish enough to do anything to a law enforcement officer.
“Don’t do what the doc says,” Randy said. “He lies.”
“You can’t outrun him,” Harold said. Maybe he could make John realize his plan was all over. “He has a radio in his car. He can get help immediately.”
“Very well.” He pulled over to the side of the road.
The patrol car stopped behind him, and the officer, a young man with a fleshy shape, approached the car. He pointed a flashlight in and smiled.
“May I see your registration, please?”
“I’ll get it.” Harold leaned over to the glove compartment.
As he was rummaging through it, Randy looked at the officer and grinned in innocence.
“Can I get out and stretch my legs?”
Harold had never heard Randy’s voice sound so carefree and innocent.
The officer appraised Randy, dismissed him with a blink of his eyes and nodded. Afraid the officer underestimated the situation, Harold leaned forward to speak, but John put his hand on his knee, squeezing with the force of a madman.
“Sure. Go ahead,” the patrolman said.
Randy jumped out, wriggled a little and ambled around the back of the car. Harold found the registration and handed it to the officer who read it and frowned. He tried to catch the officer’s attention, but he concluded the man considered the stop routine and therefore was oblivious to his grim fate.
“This is made out to a Jill Smith.” He looked at John, wanting an explanation. Still, his voice did not seem to reveal excessive interest.
“That’s the lady in the back seat,” John replied without emotion. “She’s tired so she asked me to drive.”
“That right, ma’am?”
“Yeah.” Jill looked around with apprehension. “That’s right.”
Before the officer could ask another question, Randy came up and stabbed him in his back. The officer’s face exploded with shock, and his knees buckled, allowing Randy to pull him back and slash his throat. As he quivered on the ground, gurgling for help, Randy kicked him and ran to jump in the car.
“I hate cops,” he said.
“So you did kill Mrs. Scoggins,” Harold muttered in revelation.
“Who’s that?”
“The lady who was nice to you and Mike.”
“Nobody’s never been nice to me,” he said. “And his name’s Joshua. Not Mike. Not no more.”
“Doesn’t it bother you to stab someone like that?” Harold asked, trying to control his own fears while thinking of ways to get through to Randy.
“I’m just getting back for all the stuff people done to me.”
“Like Pharaoh?” Harold knew he must convince them Pharaoh was just a character John invented.
“Pharaoh’s the worst of all,” Randy replied, staring off into the night.
“The real Moses didn’t kill Pharaoh. He asked him to let his people go.” Harold looked back at John, who did not seem upset by the fact they had just left a human being bleeding to death on a highway behind them.
“Hey, he’s Moses, ain’t you, Moses?” Randy glanced at John while elbowing Harold hard.
“Sorry,” he said, “I meant the first Moses.” Harold looked at Randy. “There was another Moses, you know.”
“What?” Randy wrinkled his brow.
“Didn’t he tell you?”
“No.” Randy hunched his shoulders.
“The first Moses didn’t slit Pharaoh’s gut,” Harold repeated, trying to make an impression on the boy. “He told him to let his people go. And Pharaoh let his people go. John, are you going to tell your Pharaoh to let your people go or are you just going to slit his gut?”
“I don’t know.” John blinked.
“We’re gonna slit his gut,” Randy insisted.
“Caleb, be quiet.”
Randy gave John a hard look and then turned to Mike. Harold was glad he looked to his brother for sympathy. Maybe there was a chance to use the schism to win the boys to his side. Without their youthful strength John would not be able to complete his mission to kill Jill’s grandfather.
“Hey, throw me another one of those beers.”
“Sure.”
Mike tossed a can to him, and Randy opened it and took a long swallow as he continued to glower at John. Harold would not be able to win them over if they continued to drink beer. No one would be able to control them. He returned to his efforts to dissuade John.
“If you slit his gut, will it set your people free?” He examined John’s face to see any change in his thinking. Harold recalled the day John admitted he should be in the hospital, so a remote possibility existed he knew this was madness.
“You bet,” Randy said.
“Maybe,” John whispered.
“And what people are you talking about?” Harold leaned into him, hopeful the uncertain reply meant John was on the brink of clear thought. “Hebrew people? Cherokee? Poor people? People kept in mental hospitals against their will?”
“I don’t know.” Again John blinked.
“If you keep talking,” Randy said, spitting at Harold, “I’ll slit your gut.”
***
On unsteady, frail legs, Heinrich doddered to his living room, his face red with anger and frustration. Commands, demands, obscenities and vulgarities swirled in his head, all fighting to find their way out of his white, parched lips.
“Greta,” he said. “Don’t talk to me like that.” He wanted to speak more than that; he sought to make his words reverberate as they did when he towered over Hans tied in his chair.
“Heinrich, I’ve talked to Edward.” She sighed, stood and turned to look with resignation at her husband. “He agrees with me.”
“Talked to Edward?” He took a few steps. “What are you talking about?”
“Heinrich.” Greta paused, her eyes first reflecting some kindness and then candor. “You’re too much work for me.”
“Work for you?” Heinrich’s bloodshot eyes widened with indignation. “I’m not work for you.”
“Heinrich, I can’t pick you up anymore,” Greta said, regret tingeing her words. “I can’t clean up your messes anymore.”
“I don’t make messes.” Heinrich slammed down his fist on the back of Greta’s chair. He was even more disappointed when Greta did not jump at his anger.
“I am old,” she said.
“I don’t make messes.” He slammed his fist down another time, to no purpose. Greta did not even bat an eyelid.
“Heinrich,” she said in even tones, “Edward has found a nice nursing home for you.” She smiled and nodded. “It will be better.”
“You don’t kick me out of my house.” He stumbled toward her. “I kick you out!” He tried to think of an insult that would injure Greta the most. “You stupid cow!”
He tried to hit her, but she knocked his hand away and then slapped Heinrich whose jaw plunged open in shock.

Sins of the Family Chapter Nineteen

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“I gotta go,” Mike said as he sat up the car’s back seat next to Randy who snored. John arose from the front seat, rubbing his eyes. After their encounter at the camp ground, he had pulled off the road to allow them to sleep a few hours. Driving again he noticed a convenience store in the distance and glanced at the gas gauge.
“We’ll stop here.”
A clerk, tall, rangy and with too many pimples, mopped the floor as John, Mike and Randy walked in. He looked up and smiled.
“Hello.”
“Hello,” John replied without a smile.
“Can I help you?”
“I need gas.”
“I gotta go,” Mike said.
“I can set you up for pump one, sir, and the rest room is through that door and to the right,” he said.
Mike disappeared through the door, and John went out to pump his gasoline. Randy wandered around, looking at displays of candies, chips and beer.
“You guys on the road all night?” He smiled with good nature and resumed his mopping.
“What do you want to know for?” Randy asked suspiciously.
“No reason.” He ducked his head and concentrated on his scrubbing.
Soon John returned from pumping gasoline and went to the counter to pay. Mike appeared from the restroom zipping his denim jeans. He noticed an ice cream case.
“Hey! I wanna get some ice cream!”
The clerk looked over at Mike, his mouth agape at the wide selection of brightly wrapped frozen confections before him.
“Just slide the cover up,” he said.
“I can’t get it up.”
The boy with pimples sighed and propped his mop against the wall. Randy circled around him, unbuckling his belt. By the time the tall, clerk was at the ice cream case, Randy had his belt off and looped, ready to lob it over the guy’s head.
“No, no,” he said. “I said slide, not lift.”
Randy slid his belt around the clerk’s neck and tightened it, causing the young man to gag, spit, and kick violently against the ice cream case. As Randy wrestled him to the rough wooden floor, squeezing his belt and making the clerk’s face turn purplish red, Mike slid open the top of the case and took out an ice cream bar, opened it and began to eat.
“Yeah, I know,” he said with a laugh. “Slide, not lift.”
The clerk’s kicks became less and less violent until they stopped, his last gasp left his lips, and his body went limp. Randy released the dead man’s head, turned to a magazine rack and picked up a girlie magazine to flip through.
“I want some of these books,” he muttered. “And some beer.”
“Yeah, me too.” Mike wiped dripping ice cream from his chin as he headed for a beer display.
John walked around the counter to open the cash register, pulling as many bills out as he could.
“Get anything you want, but hurry.” As an afterthought, he selected a carton of cigarettes from a rack behind the counter.
Each brother grabbed a six-pack of beer and turned for the door. Mike paused long enough to stare at the dead clerk’s bulging, glazed eyes.
“He don’t have as much spit as the other one did.”
As John drove along Interstate 40 near the Tennessee-North Carolina border, he smoked a pack of cigarettes as he pondered his mission, and wondered if he had chosen his compatriots with prudence. They did not seem to understand the difference between killing because they had to and murdering just because they could get away with it. And they did drink more beer than anyone could ever enjoy. He looked over his shoulder to see them asleep, almost childlike in their slumber. Concentrating on the road again, John dismissed his doubts as he remembered the first Moses. His own brother Aaron built a golden calf while Moses was on Mount Sinai receiving the Ten Commandments. Like the first Moses he would overcome any setbacks brought about by the failings of his followers.
Eventually, Knoxville’s skyline appeared on the horizon. John became aware of an ache encompassing his skull after the long cold drive. He noticed a man getting out of a large sedan at a deserted bowling alley parking lot. John pulled in next to him and got out of his car.
“Excuse me, sir.”
The fleshy man, in his late thirties, wearing lime green polyester slacks and a pullover knit plaid shirt that had trouble hiding his hairy navel, turned to smile. Even in the autumn chill, perspiration beaded his brow. “Yes?”
“Will you tell me the location of the television station that broadcasts news hosted by Bob Meade?”
“Sure.” The man turned to point down the street. “You take this road and turn left ten blocks from here and go another four blocks. You know, I was a journalism major in college. I could do a better job than Meade, but my uncle, Pinky Pinkney, the famous bowler, wanted me—“
“Do you have any aspirin?” John said.
Mike and Randy roused from their sleep, rubbed their eyes and leaned out the window, focusing their wide-spaced eyes on the talkative man.
“Great, fantastic.” He motioned for John to follow him. “I was just about to open the bowling alley, Pinky Pinkney Lanes. He’s my uncle, you know, and a very famous bowler. I run it. Up until recently I edited Pinky Pinkney’s World of Bowling magazine. Maybe you’ve heard of me. I’m Joe—“
“The aspirin?” John repeated, losing his patience.
Mike and Randy started laughing. Joe looked at them.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. The aspirin?”
“Great. Fantastic.” Joe began walking toward the bowling alley. “Come on in.”
As John, Mike and Randy followed Joe past the lanes, he waved his arm.
“Thirty-five lanes. The most in the state of Tennessee.” Leading them into a small office, Joe bent over to go through his desk. The knit shirt rode up, revealing the hair on the small of his back. “Oh yes. I’ve done quite well in the bowling industry.” He paused to catch his breath and to shuffle papers around in a drawer. “Now where is that aspirin?”
Randy moved close to John. “Is that Pharaoh?”
“No,” John replied in a whisper, shaking his head. “He’s just someone who talks too much.”
Randy moaned, and John noticed his dull little brown eyes narrowed in anger as he stepped up to Joe.
“Caleb,” John said, hissing, “don’t.”
“Ah, here it is.” Joe picked up the aspirin and turned, smiling. “I’d still be running the magazine if it hadn’t folded. Incompetent staff—“
Joe’s eyes widened as Randy rammed the hunting knife into his gut. He looked at John, uncomprehending. Randy jerked his knife up under the rib cage, and Joe groaned before falling on the floor.
“Like a stuffed pig, eh?” Mike patted his brother on the back and laughed.
Randy wiped blood from his blade on Joe’s lime green polyester pants, and then looked with apprehension at John.
“He was awake, so it was okay to kill him, right?”
“No, it wasn’t okay. All I wanted was aspirin.” John leaned down to pick up the aspirin bottle. “We weren’t going to rob him.”
“I didn’t like him, anyway,” Randy said.
“We can’t kill everyone we don’t like,” John said in suppressed anger. “Caleb, don’t kill anyone unless I tell you, understand?”
“Okay,” Randy replied, mumbling.
“Not okay,” John said, correcting him. “Say yes, Moses.”
“Yes.”
“Yes, who?”
“Yes, Moses.” Randy’s eyes narrowed again.
Within an hour, John found the television station, parked and walked through a double glass door, followed by Mike and Randy who had just finished the last beer in their six-packs. Looking around, John focused on a desk where a middle-aged woman with flaming red-dyed hair sat. A sign hanging from the ceiling read “Information.” He walked to her with efficient determination.
“I want to talk to Bob Meade.”
“He’s not in right now.” The receptionist smiled.
“When will he be in?”
“I really couldn’t say.” She batted her eyes.
“You mean you won’t say.” He stepped closer.
“I really don’t know what you mean.”
“I demand to see Bob Meade.” John slammed his hand down on her desk.
“I told you he’s not in the building.” The smiled faded from her face. “Now if you don’t leave, I’ll call security.”
“Very well.” John stared hard, deciding he should avoid a confrontation with the police. When he tried to fight the police he always lost and ended up back at the mental hospital. Then he would never find Pharaoh. “Good day.” He nodded before turning to leave.
“I gotta go.” Mike rubbed his crotch and looked around.
“Me too.” Randy frowned.
John scanned the doors in the foyer until he saw the sign to the men’s room.
“There it is.”
They ambled over and went in while John waited outside the door, continuing to stare at the receptionist who was punching buttons on her intercom.
“Hurry,” she muttered. “Hello, security? This is the front desk. Get up here fast. Those escaped mental patients are here.” She frowned. “Of course, I’m sure. I’d recognize the scar on his forehead anywhere.”
John touched his head and turned away, wishing the boys would hurry in the restroom. They needed to leave, but he still wanted to find Bob Meade. Maybe the red-haired woman would talk under pressure. At that moment John saw two women enter, one very young and attractive. The other was the older woman from the television news.
“Come up stairs with me, Jill,” Joan said laughing, “and I’ll give you this picture of Bob I have in my drawer.”
John’s head snapped to attention when he heard the name Bob.
“It’s a candid shot. He was looking up from his desk with the sweetest, most innocent expression on his face.” She led Jill to the elevator. “I know I give him a hard time, but between you and me I always had this Mrs. Robinson fantasy about him.”
Jill laughed as they entered the elevator.
“I’ll have to keep an eye on you now, knowing you have a thing for my husband.”
John’s eyes narrowed as the elevator closed. Her husband, he repeated to himself. This must be the wife of Bob Meade, the man who could take them to Pharaoh. She would be a valuable asset in persuading him to do John’s will. They could not approach her here because the red-haired woman had already alerted security guards. They must leave and watch for her outside. John opened the rest room door to hear Mike and Randy laughing and splashing water at each other.
“Quick! We’ve got to go!”
“We was having fun,” Mike said.
“Joshua and Caleb. Now,” John ordered.
The boys came out of the rest room and followed John outside. Dodging traffic, they crossed the street and trotted down the block. Looking back, John spied Jill emerging from the station. He pushed the brothers down behind the car they had stolen.
“Is she gonna take us to Pharaoh?” Mike asked, peeking up.
“Yes.”
A security guard and the red-haired receptionist ran out door and stopped Jill as she was about to step from the curb. They both looked around. John edged closer so he could hear the conversation.
“Where did they go?” the guard questioned.
“Where did who go?” Jill said with a smile.
“The escaped mental patients,” the receptionist replied, fear tinging the tone of her voice. “You know, John Ross and the two boys.”
“He was here?” Jill asked. “Bob’s out looking for him right now.”
“I saw the scar.” The receptionist’s lips quivered.
Subconsciously, John touched his forehead. He became angry that they talked about him as though he were a monster with a scar, a scar inflicted by a monster. He was the monster killer. He was going to kill Pharaoh and free his people from their oppression, and free him from his oppression. Bob Meade’s wife would lead him to her husband, and he would take him to Pharaoh. Then all this misery would be over. What would his life be like without the misery; he wondered but could not even imagine it. No matter, he dismissed the thought and concentrated on the people across the street.
“I think you should come back inside,” the guard advised Jill.
“Don’t worry. John Ross doesn’t even know I’m alive,” she said. “Besides, what would he want with Bob?”
“Ross was very angry when I told him Bob wasn’t here,” the receptionist told her with conviction. “He actually hit my desk with his fist. I thought he was going to do something to me.”
“I appreciate your concern, but I’ll be all right,” she said, turning to walk away. “I think Ross would go back to Cherokee. His parents should be notified. They’re in more danger than I am.”
“I’m calling the police,” the guard said. “I’ll ask them to contact the Rosses and put an officer at your apartment.”
“Thank you, but I really don’t think it will be necessary,” Jill said, as she continued walking away.
“Be careful,” the receptionist called out.
John watched as the woman and the guard went back in the building and Jill went to her car. He nodded at the boys, and they ran across the street, catching up with her as she unlocked her door. John pushed Jill into the car and across the seat as he took the wheel. Reaching behind him, he unlocked the back door to let Mike and Randy into the back seat. They sat there, leaning forward, laughing, exposing their brown, rotting teeth and smelling of beer, candy, peanuts and sweat.
“What do you want?” Jill said.
“We wanna slit Pharaoh’s gut.” Randy pulled the hunting knife from his jeans and brandished it in her face.
“Pharaoh?” She shook her head.
“Where is your husband?” John grabbed the key from her hand and stuck it in the ignition.
“Why do you want him?”
“He’ll lead us to Pharaoh.” Gunning the engine, John raced away from downtown Knoxville.
“Who’s Pharaoh?” Jill’s voice was filled more with confusion than fear.
“She wants to know too much.” Randy placed the tip of his knife to her soft chin.
Jumping at his touch, Jill looked at Mike who was pulling her top open. She jerked away and clasped the buttons on her blouse.
“She’s pretty.” Mike laughed as he wiped his runny nose.
“Shut up!” Randy hit his brother with his free hand. “Let Moses talk.”
“Moses?” Jill peered into John’s eyes.
“Your husband talked to Pharaoh on his news program.” He paused. “He was in trouble with the government, but he won. Pharaoh bragged he always won. We will make sure he never wins again.”
“Oh.” Suddenly Jill’s mouth fell open. “Him.”
“Where is Bob Meade?”
“I don’t know.” She looked away, out the window.
“You lie.” Randy grabbed her hair, pulling her head back and exposing her neck to his sharp blade.
“You better tell us, Mrs. Meade.” John smiled with evil knowledge. “Caleb has a temper.”
When she paused Randy pulled her hair again, causing her to gasp.
“He’s in North Carolina, at the mental hospital.”
“There?” Mike spat in disgust. “I don’t want to go back there.”
“Shut up,” Randy said.
“Very good, Mrs. Meade. You may let go of her now, Caleb.”
Randy obeyed, put his knife away, and rolled into his fetal ball in the back seat. Mike continued to lean forward breathing on Jill’s neck.
“Why are you doing this?” She pulled forward to get away from Mike. “The old man hasn’t done anything to you.”
“You sound like a follower of Pharaoh.” John glared at her.
“No.” Jill forced a smile. “I just asked a question.”
The back of John’s neck burned with anger and remembered how sweet vengeance tasted, his triumph over his father, crumpled at his feet, and the acrid sting of blood as it dripped from the knife to his tongue.
“Take care, Mrs. Meade. We may have to sacrifice you to Yo He Wa.”
“All this is making me thirsty,” Mike said. “I want some more beer.”
“Me too.” Randy peeked out of his cocoon with a hopeful eye. “It’s been a long time since I had a beer.”