Chapter Thirteen
NOVAK
Pussy-whipped. Is that the term for what I am? No. Can’t be. Well, maybe.
I left work at noon, to be home for Tess’s arrival at one. One thirty, at the latest, depending on traffic, the horrible weather, and if she has a few other chores at work before she packs up.
I take a turn onto our street and cautiously approach the house.
The text messages Tess received weren’t vague in their descriptions.
Whoever sent them has been watching her.
They’ve been watching our house. And they could be here right now, waiting for an opportunity to strike.
So, I drive slowly and keep my eyes open.
I scan the cars lining the sidewalk for anything that might look suspicious.
My car radio is playing an old, forgotten song from the fifties or sixties.
Buddy Holly and The Beatles. No, The Crickets. .. well, Buddy Holly and some insect.
No sign of anything. But why would there be? The tremendous downpour from last night has dissipated today, but it’s still cold, cloudy, and miserable out. I can’t imagine someone’s going to be slinking through our back garden, while no one’s home.
This whole venture is one of futility. Still, I’d rather be sure and see Tess home safely.
She needs it, more than I do. To know she has someone in her corner, someone who cares about her.
If I was a stronger man, maybe I’d have said it to her yesterday.
But that’s a side of me I haven’t shown in years.
Emotions are a curse on anyone trying to make a name for themselves. They allow the smallest inconveniences to bubble into a boiling pot of self-doubt and second-guessing. I’ve been on this little adventure for less than a day, and I’m already questioning what the hell I’m doing.
I pull into the driveway and bring the car to a stop. I give my surroundings one last scan before entering the house. The floor is still caked in the thick mud from my adventures outside last night.
Wait. Something’s not right. Amidst the trail of dry dusty dirt, a new set of prints has appeared.
They’re a thin layer against the mess I left, and unlike mine, they aren’t muddy or wet.
They aren’t mine either, I quickly realize.
From the pattern, I’d assume they were a cheap pair of leather work shoes.
The kind you’d find at any Goodwill, or flea market, for a couple of bucks.
The first footprint might not be the best indicator. It’s smallish, which means it could’ve been Tess, rushing around before she left. The extra length could’ve come from a near slip.
A thud from down the hall distracts me from my inspection of the tracks. Someone’s in my house, and I have a feeling it’s our mysterious messenger.
I kick off my shoes – they make too much noise against the wooden floors – and creep patiently along the hallway. Another sound points me in the direction of my father’s study. I might’ve got my timing wrong. She could already be home, but it’s best to err on the side of caution.
The door’s wide open. I peek my head around and to my enormous surprise I see Pastor Dyer inside.
He’s just sitting down in a chair beside my father’s computer desk, a ream of papers in his hand.
He lifts the sheets of paper and seems to be flicking through them.
He looks up and his face splits into a smile as he sees me.
Call me cynical, but I feel as if he knew I was there the whole time.
“Novak,” he says, the pretense of surprise warming his voice as well as his eyes.
“I guess you are wondering what in the Lord’s name I am doing in your house!
Did your dad tell you I would be dropping over to get the details of the firm’s centenary dinner?
I am planning on making a little speech and offering a prayer in the evening.
Your dad said it was always useful to know who would be in the audience.
” He smiled a little as if he was embarrassed.
“I was looking for the list of invitees.”
“No, he didn’t,” I say. My eyes fall on a list of names sitting on the desk’s surface in plain view. It is headed 100-year Party List. Hmm. Talk about being caught out in an obvious lie.
He sees it too but says nothing.
“I was going to meet with Tess to talk a little about the plan for the event.”
“With Tess?” I say. “Hmm… she didn’t mention it to me.”
“Well,” his mouth turns up a little sarcastically as he says, “everyone in town knows how little you care for religion or the morals that it implies.”
What the hell! Did he just insult me?
I really can’t tell. When a minister talks about religion it’s hard to separate the shop talk from the man. It is for me, anyway.
I decide to ignore it.
“So, when’s this meeting with Tess, exactly?” I ask.
“Couldn’t tell you exactly,“ he shrugs, but he repeats my word as if it matters. “I think she said it was later today.”
“Later today?” I check my watch. It’s more to add to the ambiance than actually needing to know the time. “Funny, she gets off work in half an hour.”
“Yup, that’s why I need to get the list to her.” He picks it up and stands up. He walks towards me. I keep my eyes pinned on his hands while he does. For all I know, he’s got a weapon on him.
“This is bullshit,” I say. “Hand it over. There’s not going to be any meeting.” I extend a flat palm to him.
“What?”
“Give me the list and get out.”
“There’s no need to be rude,” he says snippily. “I think I should just take this and leave. I don’t want to keep Tess waiting. She’s expecting me.”
Like fucking hell she is. Even if she didn’t believe me about someone being a threat, my warning should’ve been enough to scare her out of meeting anyone this afternoon.
“You’re not getting out of this house until you give that list back to me.”
He opens his mouth to speak, but shuts it quickly. He holds the paper out towards me.
I don’t take it from him, but I look down at it out of reflex.
Pastor Dyer uses this very brief distraction to make his move. While still holding the paper in front of me with one hand, the other delivers a sharp left hook to my jaw. His fist cuts through the paper and strikes its target before I can react.
I stumble back, drop to my ass and watch as he sprints towards the front door.
Holy shit, for such a scrawny little man of the Lord, he sure can hit hard. I take a second to catch my bearings before I give chase. He’s not going to get away from me this easily.