Steve Martini - Undue Influence

An engine starts in the distance. Kathy Merlow has reached her car. The footfalls on the gravel turn to a run. By my estimation he is no more than a dozen feet from the back corner of the church, coming fast. No time to think. Running, I reach for the door, and suddenly I’m inside, enveloped by the cool shadows of the church, the door closed behind me. I move quickly to a position behind the wooden altar, lost in its shadows.

Outside I can hear a vehicle moving on gravel, toward the church. More epithets from the man with the gun as he races for the gate in the fence.

I grab the only object in reach, a candle and its holder on a shelf behind the altar, and fling it hard against the interior wall of the church. It clunks, heavy metal on wood, and lands on the floor.

The footfalls outside suddenly stop. The sound of wheels as they veer in gravel, turning away from the church. The acceleration of the engine, and Kathy Merlow’s car is gone, the growl of its engine receding down some unseen road.

Hesitation. The noise from inside the church has cost the killer his quarry. And now he looks for other game.

On the door, behind me, there is a hook for a lock, halfway up.

Quickly I move, in a whisper of sound I slip the hook through the eye in the door, and before I can move back to the altar someone grips the knob from the outside and jerks. The door rattles in its frame but does not open. I am pressed against the wall next to it, the hook jiggling in the eye. I stop breathing. Another tug. Several seconds pass. I can visualize an ear to the wood of the door, an eye to the keyhole, then finally, after several seconds, receding footfalls.

As quickly as they started, they stop. Maybe he walked onto grass, I think, somewhere in the graveyard along the side of the church. Dead silence.

I am braced against the wall by the door, standing upright. I don’t know if it is the shadow of a tree limb on the window, but something moves.

Without a sound, I am back behind the altar, on hands and knees, the cold sweat of fear seeping through my shirt.

Through a crack in one of the boards I can see a form as it approaches the glass, backlit by the bright afternoon sun. One hand cupped to the window, shading, to peer inside. Hair that bristles in the sunlight, close-cropped, the face of the courier who delivered the deadly bomb to Marcie Reed.

I pull away from the crack in the boards and press my back to the altar. I am stone-still. Seconds pass without a sound, my breathing almost stopped, my head pounding from lack of oxygen, rivulets of sweat making their way down the sides of my face drip onto the floor. Time passes, an eternity. I lose track, unwilling to move for fear of casting a shadow on a distant wall.

My eye back to the crack in the boards. The figure at the window is gone.

I wait, look at my watch. Several minutes pass. I’m afraid to move. I listen for the sound of his car, tires grinding gravel. But there is nothing.

I could go the way of Kathy Merlow, the gate through the overgrown fence behind the church. But my car is in the lot out front. Then it settles on me. He’s waiting. If he’s followed me, he knows my car. Sooner or later…

Then I hear them. Footfalls again. This time at the front of the church, from gravel, to the wooden porch, a hand on the doorknob, and it opens. A shaft of bright sunlight. I press my back harder against the altar. Hard heels on the rough wooden floor, quick steps coming this way. With each I count the seconds left of my life. I think of Sarah. Life as an orphan. Bitter recriminations. I should not have come and left my daughter to pay the price. The irresponsible things parents do. What I would give for one more hug before I leave her…

A long shadow approaching, growing shorter on the wall. In this instant of blind panic, my mind reaches for an out-of-body experience, floating somewhere over this scene, above this altar of death.

‘May I ask what you’re doing?’

From the corner of my eye, a head of dark hair peers at me over the edge of wood that is the corner of the altar. A lean face, stern in its bearing, middle aged, a touch of gray at the temples, the face of peace, framed in black and white, a broad clerical collar.

‘What are you doing back here?’ he says.

‘Oh, God!’ I grab my chest, gasping for air.

‘Are you all right?’ The minister looks at me, suddenly solicitous, one of his flock with a coronary.

I’m hyperventilating, making up for life’s deficit of lost breath.

‘Fine,’ I tell him. ‘I’m fine.’ My looks must convey otherwise. He’s around the altar, helping me to my feet, propping me against the altar.

‘Do you need a doctor?’

‘No, no. Just give me a second.’

Sweat running down my face, my knees trembling. He plies me for my story, some testimony of what I’m doing here, something for a Sunday sermon. Man’s ultimate ‘come-to-Jesus meeting’ behind the altar.

‘It’s a long story,’ I tell him. I look at the windows, the ebbing sun, the lengthening shadows of late afternoon. I fight to find saliva in a dry mouth.

‘You’ll have to excuse me, but I was praying,’ I tell him.

‘That’s good,’ he says. ‘This is the right place. But you’re supposed to do it out there.’ He points toward the pews.

‘Somehow, back here,’ I tell him, ‘I felt closer to God.’

He considers this for a moment, then nods as if to say, ‘If it’s right by the Lord, it’s fine by me.’

‘Is there anyone outside?’ I ask.

He shakes his head.

‘I mean a car… in the parking lot?’

‘One driving out when I came in, and another, a small red sedan parked,’ he says. ‘I was coming to look for the owner. I have to lock up.’

‘You found him. Where did you come from?’ I ask.

‘I live across the road. I walk here each afternoon to lock the church and the gate out on the highway. Can I help you to your car?’

‘No. There’s no need.’ I’m around the altar, making my amends, telling him I am fine, my shirt dripping with perspiration, more dust and dirt on my pants than a coal miner.

He gives me a strange sort of look, a shake of the head, something designed to measure my soul, that says it’s been a long time since anyone in this little church has worked so hard at prayer.

On the road back to Hana my eyes are glued to the rearview mirror. If the courier is following me, he’s doing a good job, sans lights, taking the hairpin turns in what is now approaching darkness.

I’m past the turnout to the Seven Pools when a car comes from someplace off a dirt road, a lot of dust, and headlights on high beam, close enough that if I brake, he will be sitting in my trunk.

My first thoughts are ones of panic. I goose it and take a turn on skidding wheels.

Suddenly there’s the flutter of lights in my mirror, flashing red and blue, followed by a quick siren. Pangs of wondrous relief. I’m about to get a speeding ticket.

We stop. The widest spot on the road I can find, a private driveway. The cop gets out, blue uniform. In the beam of his spotlight it is all I can see. In this instant it hits me. A courier one moment. How hard would it be?

Then his flashlight is in my eyes. He lowers the beam for a brief instant and I can see him. One of the local boys, Hawaiian through and through.

‘Can I see your driver’s license?’

‘How fast was I going, officer?’

No response. I fumble in my wallet.

‘Take it out, please.’

I hand it to him.

He looks at the license, then flashes light in my eyes.

‘Mr. Madriani. Stay in your vehicle and follow me, please.’

With that he hands me my license and heads back to his car.

I have had roller-coaster rides with less G force than the trip back to Hana behind this guy. Like some Toon-time character with an anvil for a foot, the cop drives as if the road will stretch like ribbon to hold his tires in the turns. We highball through town like a rocket sled, no siren or lights, nothing that might give the odd pedestrian or stray dog an even chance.