Chris Holm - Dead Harvest

I guess the pills did the trick, because that's the last thing I remember — at least until I jerked awake, panicked and sweating. Something had roused me from my slumber, but my brain was fuzzy, dulled from sleep and pills, and I couldn't focus. What was it that I'd heard?

Nothing, said my pillow. Just forget it and come back to sleep. But that pillow was a liar. I'd heard something — I knew I had. If I could just focus…

There. Again. A frightened whimper. A muffled thud. The fog lifted — not much, but a little — and I sat upright in bed, sliding the gun out from beneath the pillow as my feet found the floor. The scrap of fabric I'd used to hold in the powdered remains of the catshard protruded comically from the gun barrel, like a kerchief from a magician's sleeve, as though mocking me for putting my faith in so ridiculous a weapon. But it was too late to worry about that now. I crept over to my open bedroom door and peered out into the hall, but it was dark, and there was nothing to see.

I approached Kate's bedroom, gun held ready. The lights were off, the curtains drawn, but by the faint illumination of the alarm clock, I could tell the bed was empty. I padded barefoot down the hall to the staircase. At the top, I stopped, straining to hear what might be going on below. There, faintly — the whisper of something heavy being dragged across the floor. Something like a body.

The time for waiting had passed. I bounded down the stairs, two at a time, making for the source of the noise. The problem was, the whole damn place was marble and hardwood, and sounds bounced off the walls like an echo chamber. I ducked into three empty rooms before I was forced to admit I had no idea where the sound had come from. It was then that I heard the voice.

"Hello, Samuel."

It echoed through the darkened apartment as if from everywhere, or from nowhere at all. The voice itself was unfamiliar, but there was no mistaking that smug tone, that knowing sneer.

"Bishop," I said.

His laughter reverberated off the penthouse walls. "Of course, that's not my name of choice, but for now it should suffice."

I listened closely to his words, not caring a damn what they meant. No, all I cared about was where he was. The problem was, I still had no idea. If I wanted to find out, I was gonna have to keep him talking.

"Where's the girl, Bishop?"

"The child is fine," he replied, "for now."

I ducked into the living room, where brocaded high-backed chairs and a silken chaise gleamed dully by the city lights that trickled through the half-drawn curtains. But Bishop and Kate were nowhere to be seen. I leaned heavily against the mantel, trying to shake the cobwebs from my drug- and sleep-addled brain. If I couldn't focus, Kate was good as dead.

Once I gathered my wits, I tried again. "Let her go!" I called. I always wondered why people in the movies always said that; it's not like it ever works. Turns out, it doesn't matter. You say it because it buys you time. You say it because that's all there is to say.

"I don't think so," he replied, oblivious to my game, or perhaps not caring. "I rather like her where she is."

Another open door, this one to a darkened office. But they weren't there. I wondered how long it would be before Bishop tired of this game and ended her. I prayed I wouldn't find out.

I returned to the foyer, and called out to him again. "How did you know where to find us?"

"It was simple, really. The violent are so predictable, you see — so eager to return to their killing grounds. They always return eventually, desperate to reclaim that thrill, that joy, that ecstatic rush that only comes from taking a life. Tell me, dear, how did it feel when you bled your brother dry? When you snapped your father's bones in two? How did it feel when your mother begged for mercy as you tortured her? She did beg, didn't she? They all do, eventually. Even the biggest and bravest among us cower before the altar of suffering."

Kate whimpered, but didn't speak. It sounded like Bishop had her gagged. But suddenly, I realized where they were. I should've known from the start. He'd brought her back to where it had all begun. He'd brought her back to make Kate face what she had done. He'd brought her to the kitchen.

I snuck toward the kitchen hall, my bare feet noiseless against the hardwood floor. Before I began my approach, I ducked my head into a bathroom and shouted, "Don't you talk to her, you son of a bitch!" It was better, after all, if I was something less than expected.

"Son of a bitch? Oh, no, Samuel — you could not be more wrong. It was God himself that plucked me from this mortal coil, so pleased was he at my cleansing of the unrighteous."

I paid his words no mind, creeping down the hall toward the kitchen with my finger on the trigger.

Unbidden, Bishop continued. "Those boys were destined for a life of sin, and had I not intervened, their souls would roast still in the fires of hell. But I did intervene, purifying them and sending them into the arms of their loving God. Of course, they were young and poor and had so little to give, so they paid their tithe in blood. I assure you, He understood, which is why He made me his chosen son, his emissary in this realm."

At the threshold of the kitchen, I stopped, willing my heart to slow. My borrowed flesh was full of twitchy energy, muscle memory eager to put a bullet in Bishop's brain. Or perhaps it was something more? I'd never felt such willingness in a meat-suit before. I wondered if maybe after all he'd seen riding shotgun with me, Flynn was on my side.

The support was welcome, even if it might've been imagined. Whether willingly or not, we wheeled together around the corner, my gun hand drawing a bead on Bishop's smiling face, illuminated softly by the dim light that shone from up above the kitchen range.

But he was already a step ahead of me, crouching behind Kate to ensure I didn't have a clean shot. Her hands and feet were bound with duct tape, which wound as well around the limbs of a dining-room chair, affixing her in place. A strip of tape stretched across her mouth. Bishop held Kate by her hair — her head tilted awkwardly backward, her eyes pleading and terrified. A kitchen knife glinted cruelly at her throat.

"Ah-ah-ahhh!" he said, yanking back her head and pressing blade against flesh. "I wouldn't do that if I were you — someone might just get hurt!"

I took him in now, this familiar creature in an unfamiliar vessel. This one was a large-framed man, thick and meaty, like an athlete gone to seed. A few sad wisps of graying hair swept from one ear to the other in a foolish attempt to hide his baldness. He wore pants of bluish-gray, and an elaborate shirt to match — a doorman's uniform, no doubt. The shirt's double row of brass buttons were undone, his undershirted gut protruding from within. Mischief danced in his eyes, and his face was twisted into a manic grin.

"What are you going to do, Bishop — slit her throat? That's not the job, and you know it."

"It wouldn't be the first time I've taken a soul from a corpse," he said.

"I'll kill you before you ever get the chance. You have to know that. You've failed, Bishop. Just let the girl go, and you'll be spared."

"You expect me to be frightened of that popgun? You know as well as I that it won't kill me; like Lazarus, I shall rise again, and when I do, you'll pay. You and your little whore both."

"I wouldn't count on it," I said, training the sight of my rag-stuffed gun barrel at the bridge of his broad, crooked nose. "I'm pretty sure Beleth is never coming back."

"DON'T YOU SAY HIS NAME! Only the righteous may know the true name of the Lord!" Bishop cried.

"And what would you know about righteous?" I shot back.

"I was His chosen son! For centuries, I was the hand of God, smiting the wicked and ensuring His will be done! How dare you question me, when it is I who must step in after what you've done! It is a mantle I do not wear lightly, being God in His stead, but you've left me no choice. That is why we're here. That is why it's come to this."