Reed Coleman - Gun Church

Rush hour driving in New York is a nightmare under the best of circumstances and, with a steady rain falling, it had taken me two hours to get this close to where they were keeping Amy. My phone started ringing just as I was coming off the ramp from the Van Wyck onto the Whitestone Expressway. When I saw it was Renee’s cell number flashing on the screen, I almost smacked Isaac’s right fender into the concrete railing. I wanted to pull over to talk to her, but there was no place to do it. I flipped the phone open and put her on speaker. That’s when I got even a bigger surprise.

“Hey, Kip.”

“Jim? What are you doing on Renee’s-”

“You’ll find out soon enough. Why do you sound so funny? You better not have other people listening.”

“No one’s listening. I’m in a car. You’re just on speakerphone.”

“You better not be lying to me.”

“I swear. No one else is listening.”

“You shouldn’t have done it, Kip.”

“Done what?”

He ignored that. “Why couldn’t you have just gone along with it? Why can’t you just be happy? I gave you everything you ever wanted.”

“You murdered people in cold blood, Jim. How could I just be happy with that?”

“What if you didn’t know?”

“But I do know.”

“But what if you didn’t?”

I didn’t answer. I said, “You mentioned that I shouldn’t have done it. Done what? What’s the it I shouldn’t have done?”

“You went to the police. They’re watching Amy.”

With the mention of Amy, I lost focus and nearly rear-ended the car in front of me.

“They’re not cops. They’re private security. And what did you expect me to do after you threatened her?”

“I wouldn’t have hurt her … not directly.”

“How could I know that, Jim, especially after the things you said to me on the boardwalk?”

“You love her that much?”

“It’s more complicated than just love. I owe her.”

“How about Renee, Kip? What would you be willing to risk for her?”

“Let me talk to-”

“Don’t give me orders. Why couldn’t you have done what you were supposed to?” It was a rhetorical question and I thought I could hear him crying on the other end of the line. “Why did you have to ruin everything?” He was crying. “Why?”

“I’m sorry, Jim. Can I please speak to Renee?”

“What’s that word … indisposed?” I could hear him fighting back his tears. “She’s indisposed.”

“Did you hurt her?”

“Not yet, but I’m going to.” He was crying hard now. “Unless you do what I say, I’m going to do things to her that made the beating I gave that fag editor seem tame. She’ll be begging me to kill her, Kip. That’s a promise.”

“How do I know you haven’t already hurt her?”

“You don’t. You’ll just have to believe me. You didn’t believe me the other night, but you believe me now, don’t you?”

“Yes. I saw the headline. You really did make Renee lure that poor kid out of the bar.”

“She did it to protect you.”

“What did Mabry ever do to you that you had to kill him?”

“Your idea, Kip, not mine.”

“Remember, I’ll hurt Renee if you don’t do what you’re supposed to.”

“I’ll do whatever you want.”

“I’m almost as mad at you for pissing her love away as I am for the other stuff. She risked her life for you.” His crying had calmed, but the tone of his voice was a toxic mix of anger and self-pity.

“Don’t hurt her, Jim. Please. I’ll do anything you want me to, but don’t hurt her.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“I’m listening. Tell me what you want me to do.”

“Don’t worry, Kip. Amy will know.”

“Amy? What’s she got to do with this?”

“Maybe everything.”

“Jim, this is-”

“Shut up! Just shut up and listen. Don’t tell those security guys we spoke. You tell them, you’ll be signing Renee’s death certificate. Someone else’s too. That will be more blood on your head, Kip.”

“Someone else?”

“You just worry about Renee for now. Promise me you won’t tell those guys.”

“I promise.”

“Say it to me. Say the words.”

“I won’t tell them. I promise.”

“You ruined everything, Kip. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.”

“I know you think that, but what’s Amy-”

“Get to wherever she is and you’ll understand. See you in a few hours.” And with that, he hung up.

I never felt more pressed for time than I did at that moment. Every foot gained took an eternity. Flashing brake lights taunted me. I weaved the car in and out of traffic just to give myself a sense of progress, to stop me from completely losing my mind and bolting from the car in a dead run. I called Amy’s cell four times, only to get her voice mail. I thought about breaking my word and calling Tony or Tom McDonald, but Jim had put the onus on me. Up until this point, the blood on my hands was naive blood, blood that Jim had put there. Not anymore. The illusion of deniability, such as it was, had been stripped away. From here on out, if there was blood to be spilled, I would not be able to keep its stain at arm’s length.

The address belonged to a red brick building. Only the knowledge that Amy was inside distinguished it from the other houses on the block. There was a silver Chevy Malibu parked in the driveway. I drove around the block a few times before parking and going up the front steps. My heart was pounding as I forced myself to knock.

“Who is it?” I thought I recognized Tom McDonald’s voice.

“Kip Weiler.”

The door pulled back, but there was no one standing on the other side. I’d taken a step forward when a hand latched on to my wrist, yanked me hard inside, and forced me face-down onto the carpet. My arm was being held immobile by a wrist lock when the door slammed shut behind. I was pulled up onto my feet, arm still behind me, something hard-the muzzle of a gun, no doubt-stuck in my neck. A thick-necked, middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair, dark, suspicious brown eyes, and a neutral mouth stepped out of the shadows. He patted me down so thoroughly that there would never be secrets between us. He removed my wallet from my back pocket, opened it, and alternated his gaze from my face to my driver’s license. All of it, from the knock on the door to this, took no more than twenty or thirty seconds.

“It’s him, Tommy. It’s Weiler. Let him go.” My arm was freed. “I’m Tony Dee,” said the man in front of me, offering me his right hand. I shook it. “And that guy behind you with the map of Kerry on his face is Tom McDonald.”

I turned around to see a silver-haired man about my size with sparkling blue eyes, a ruddy complexion, a disarmingly crooked smile, and a Glock pointed square at my belly.

“What was the name of the woman who contacted our firm?” he asked, politely but firmly.

“Meg Donovan.”

He holstered the Glock.

“How do you like your coffee, Mr. Weiler?” he asked.

“Hot.”

“Tony, why don’t you get him some coffee while we have a chat.”

We sat down at an unremarkable kitchen table. It was wood, had four legs, and four chairs. The entire house, at least the parts of it I could see, was decorated in like fashion: functional, not fancy. Tony Dee brought me a cup of coffee and told McDonald he was going to catch some sleep while he could. I took a sip of the coffee. It was hot. That was the best thing I could say about it.

“How is she?”

“She’s a little freaked and pissed, but that’s normal. She’s in the other bedroom resting.”