Oblation: A Spine-Tingling Crime Thriller set in Small-Town California, page 35
As I am thinking through my predicament, Aaron opens the cab of the truck and pulls himself into the driver’s seat. I hear buzzing as a key is inserted into the ignition, then the low whining of the electrical system as it engages, followed by the motor starting with a sputter. Without hesitating, I turn around and run back to the RV for the keys to my car. I am panting and sweating as I settle into the car, and my tires slip as I step on the accelerator and reverse out of the parking spot. I get to the exit of the RV park just as the Temple of Moloch rumbles past me and onto the road.
I can hear the truck’s engine struggling as it heads down the service road, and the gears grind because he is out of practice. Luckily, keeping up is not a problem. In my excitement, I get a little too close and fall back, having to run a few red lights as the truck rumbles through town. Finally, he pulls into a Walmart parking lot. What is he doing here? He heads to the far corner next to a runoff ditch overgrown with trees and bushes. There’s plenty of room for the truck, so he has no problem settling the semi into place. He gets out and walks around the truck a couple of times, checking the doors and latches.
I’m about a hundred yards away, but I can see him clearly. He has that same smile he has had for the last week, and I realize that I have seen him smile more this past week than in the whole time I’ve been watching him. I don’t like it. Something is not right. If Aaron Longleif is happy, the world needs to watch out. It is almost two o’clock. I’ve spent the whole day watching and worrying. I know he is planning something. It’s time to call the sheriff.
I haven’t talked to anyone else, so the sheriff’s is the last number on my phone. I hit redial and listen to the ringing. Finally, the familiar female voice comes over the line. “You got news?”
“He’s getting ready to do something. He’s torn the exterior signs off the trailer and moved it into a Walmart parking lot. I have a bad feeling about this.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Just walking around the truck looking at it. Should I call the police?”
“No, not yet. Again, he hasn’t really done anything illegal. We could probably get him on his expired tag, but that’s it.”
That seems like a strange response. I wonder where that idea came from. “But at least that would be something. We could at least stop him.”
“But it wouldn’t stop him. All it would do is delay him, and it might push him away. No, for right now, let’s let it play itself out.”
Aaron walks away from the truck and crosses the parking lot to his car. That’s why he had a driver bring him back. “Sheriff, he is getting ready to leave. His car is here in the parking lot. I’m going to have to follow him.”
“No, let him go.”
“Why?”
“If he is going to do something, he will have to return to the truck. Keep an eye on the truck. Stay here, and when he comes back, call me.”
“But what if someone gets hurt in the meantime?”
“That’s a risk we will simply have to take. Trust me on this. I have a plan.”
With that, the phone goes dead. I have a plan? What the hell does she mean by that? I watch the car pull out of its parking spot and make its way toward the exit. To hell with the sheriff and her plan. I’m going to follow. Just as I am about to pull forward, a red motorcycle sports bike pulls out in front of me. I press down hard on the brake, and the car comes to a sudden stop, rocking back and forth. I watch in dismay as Aaron Longleif disappears down the street. My hand comes down hard on the steering wheel in frustration, and the helmeted young man gives me an “I’m sorry about that” nod before racing to the Walmart entrance and turning toward the center of town. Now I am stuck. I’m forced to wait. Again!
Some two hours later, Aaron Longleif finally returns. The old Honda is easy to spot as it pulls into the parking lot. I watch as he circles the lot a couple of times before parking on the opposite side of the semi between the truck and the ditch. He gets out and walks back around to the parking lot side of the truck, looking around. He’s suspicious. He’s definitely being careful. He’s up to something. While he was gone, I moved the car closer to the truck, so I am only a couple of lanes away, and I can clearly see the truck and Aaron. He walks around the truck, and I can hear him softly singing the same song I have been hearing for the last week. I don’t recognize it. It is in a language I don’t understand and sounds ancient.
I watch as he pulls himself up into the cab of the truck and starts it up before walking back toward his car. I cannot see exactly what he is doing, but he appears to be taking something out of the back seat. I need to get a closer look.
Initially, I head toward the store as if I am going in, but then I duck behind a car and cut across the lot toward the drainage ditch. I know I look suspicious to other people, but I don’t care. I am only concerned with not being spotted by Aaron. I hide behind a parked car about twenty feet from the front of the semi. I have a clear view and am shocked by what I see. He is removing a little girl from inside the Honda. Her long brunette hair hangs loosely over his arm as he carries her. He has his sacrifice. Time to call the police. This is not going to happen again.
I pull the phone out of my pocket and feel a heavy hand on my shoulder. I look behind me into the eyes of a woman squatting down behind me, carrying a baseball bat.
FIFTY-FOUR
“Sheriff Tarpley,” I stammer.
“Afternoon.”
She raises up and peers through the windows of the car at Aaron Longleif as he places the body of the small girl into the trailer. “That’s the second child. The first was a boy,” she says matter-of-factly.
Aaron climbs into the trailer, shutting the door. I look up at her while still crouching behind the car, despite the fact that I know he cannot see us. “Why didn’t you stop him?” I whisper.
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“I have a plan.”
There it is again. ‘I have a plan.’ “Sheriff, you said that earlier on the phone, and quite frankly, I no longer care about your plan. I have a plan too, and it is simple. No more dead children.”
The sheriff rises to her full height, looks over at the trailer, and glances down at me, offering me her hand as I stand up. “This may come as a surprise to you, but my plan involves no more dead children as well. It just doesn’t involve the local police. I plan on taking care of this situation on my own.”
I look at her, trying to read her thoughts and decide to give in to her authority—for the moment. “So, what’s your plan?”
“Still figuring some of it out, but right now, we need to get into the trailer.” She steps from behind the car and quickly closes the gap between our hiding place and the trailer. Grabbing the handle of the door, she gives it a soft pull. Then she pulls down on the latch a little harder. Nothing happens. “Doors locked,” she whispers. “Not a surprise, but I was hoping he would make this easier.”
“Then let’s call the police. They can come, cut the door open, or whatever they do, and we can storm inside before he kills those kids.”
“If we call the local police, they will come in force. Think about it. By the time they are able to force the door open, one way or another, the children are dead.” She gives me a hard stare. “I don’t want that.”
“But if we do nothing, the children are dead anyway.”
She uses the fat end of the bat to scratch the back of her head in thought. “In one of our conversations, you said you were inside the trailer. How did you get inside?”
“Through the hatch where the gas tank is kept behind the statue.”
“Show me.”
We make our way around to the parking lot side of the trailer. The idling truck engine is almost deafening, causing us to speak just above a whisper and close to each other’s ear. “I broke the lock, but I’m sure he’s probably fixed it by now.”
To my surprise, the lock has not been repaired. The hatch is secured with a thin wire twisted through the broken latch and the metal frame of the trailer. The sheriff makes quick work of the wire and lets it fall to the pavement. She glances over her shoulder and then slowly proceeds to open the door, stopping only once when a soft squeak emerges from a hinge. The gas tank is right there, and the angry roar of the fire can be heard from the other side of the statue.
“Just turn the gas off, then he can’t go through with the sacrifice,” I whisper.
“I can’t. The valve has a lock on it,” she responds.
“He locks the gas valve but not the door leading to it? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Nothing about this makes sense.” She waves me toward the back of the trailer. “Come over here where we can talk more easily.”
We stand at the rear doors of the trailer, looking at the back of a Chick-fil-A on the other side of the drainage ditch. I think about how clueless the people circling the drive-thru are about what is happening right under their very noses.
“So, how did you get in?”
“The tank is right behind the statue. There is a small crawl area between the back of the statue and the wall of the trailer. I was able to wiggle through the space into the main area of the truck.”
Sheriff Tarpley thinks for a moment. “Can I fit through the space?”
I think for a couple of seconds. “I don’t think so.”
“Okay, then it’s going to have to be you.”
“Excuse me?”
“You are going to have to get into the trailer and stop him.”
“Why me?”
“Because you said that I can’t.”
“But now that we have a way in, we can call the police.”
“We are not calling the locals. This was originally our problem, and I am going to take care of it.”
I see the intensity in her look and finally realize her intentions. “Okay, so I get inside. Then what?”
“I’m not sure. You are just going to have to play it by ear. You have a gun?”
“No,” I respond quickly. “I’ve never liked the idea of having one around.”
“This would be a good time to have one, but it is probably better. If you don’t know how to use it, you might hurt yourself instead of him. Or even worse, one of the children.”
Actually, I do want to kill him. “If I’m not going to have a gun, what am I supposed to do? Just say, ‘Stay here for a minute while I open the door and let the sheriff in. You won’t mind doing that, will you?’”
Without responding to my sarcasm, Tarpley hands me the baseball bat. “Knock him out or knock him down. I don’t care. Then open the door, and I’ll take care of the rest.”
I take the bat in both hands, feeling its weight. “I was never that good at baseball,” I say as I give the bat an awkward swing.
“Just aim for the head. It’s bigger than a baseball and harder to miss.” Then she adds, looking me directly in the eye and speaking intensely, “And swing as hard as you can. Swing through the target, not at it. Do not hold back.”
“Okay, so while I am making my way into the truck, what are you doing?”
“I am going to turn the truck off. That will kill the AC inside the trailer, and maybe, just maybe, he will open the outside door, and I can take him out on my own.”
“If he doesn’t open the door?”
“Then it is your job to do what needs to be done and open the door for me.”
“What are you going to do once I open the door?”
“Leave that to me,” she says flatly.
I think for a couple of seconds, trying to come up with an objection, but nothing comes to mind. We walk back to the hatch in silence, and I lean in, feeling the heat from the other side of the statue. I look back at Tarpley, who smiles and cups her fingers together, offering me a boost. “You can do this. Just trust yourself, and trust in God.”
Placing my right foot into her hands, she lifts me effortlessly into the hatch. I give one last look back at Tarpley, but she is already gone. I squeeze myself and the bat into the small space and find myself between the heat of the sacrificial fire on one side and the heat coming off the metal wall of the trailer on the other.
At first, all I can hear is the sound of the gas-fed fire, but slowly I begin to hear that soft singing again. It’s the same song I have heard for the last week. It is haunting and beautiful at the same time, and I involuntarily pause in appreciation of it, though I cannot understand any of the words.
Then the song stops, and I hear words that I cannot help but understand. “Moloch be praised! For too long, we have been lied to and told, ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.’ This is not true. God desires sacrifice.” He has already started. I have to stop him. I stretch, looking out from behind the statue, and see Aaron Longleif, or is it Levi Melich, dressed in priestly garments, lifting the little girl over his head as he continues speaking, too caught up in the moment to notice an intruder. His voice gets louder, and I realize that I cannot hit him in the head because he is holding the girl above it.
“It is not the god, Jehovah, that we are called to worship, but the God that led the Israelites through the desert with a pillar of fire, Moloch, the God of Fire and Sacrifice.”
Come on, Sheriff, where are you?
“Moloch, the God that desires that which we love. Moloch, who desires our children.” Just then, the lights go out, and I feel more than see Aaron Longleif hesitate.
I leap from behind the statue, bat in hand, not caring if he can see me. As I move across the room, I see my children from Alturas and those from West Virginia. Other children I don’t know are there as well. All standing around the sacrifice. Ignoring the visions, I shout, “No more of my children will die!”
As if in response to my yell, Melich responds, “Moloch be praised!”
As he lowers the girl toward the fire, my bat passes just below her, and I feel the vibration travel up my arm as it connects with his ribs through the thick robe. Don’t hold back. He is hurled backward, releasing the girl, who falls to the ground with a thud and a cry of pain. I look back at her only for a moment to make sure she is clear of the flames before turning my attention back to Melich. He is on all fours spitting saliva and blood onto the floor and looking past me at his god. I raise the bat over my head and bring it down, hearing a sickening crack as it connects with his skull, and he collapses to the floor.
I’m breathing heavily, feeling as if I’ve run a four-minute mile. I turn to the girl who is crying and lift her from the floor, cradling her head against my chest. Her sobs soften, and she almost sounds like she is asleep. I look over at the small boy lying motionless on the floor of the trailer just below the dangling chains of the forgotten god. I lay the girl next to the boy and grope my way along the hallway to the exterior door. Feeling for the latch, I twist the deadbolt and push it open. My eyes revolt against the bright light after the darkness of the trailer, but I see the sheriff with her gun at my chest.
“Whoa, whoa. It’s me!” I shout.
Tarpley lowers the gun with a sigh. “Where’s Longleif?”
“Inside. I might have killed him.”
“We can only hope,” she responds, lifting herself into the truck. “And the children?”
“Inside also. Unharmed, I think, but I haven’t looked closely at them.”
Tarpley makes her way past me to the main room, stopping for only a moment to look at the statue of Moloch illuminated by the dancing flame of the sanctuary lamp. She notices a camera lying on the floor and places her index finger across her lips. I don’t remember seeing the camera or how it ended up on the floor, but at some point, either Melich or I must have knocked it over. Tarpley takes a handkerchief out of her pocket and, after wrapping it around her finger, pushes the power button of the camera. The red light on top shuts off. She then walks over to the two children, and using the handkerchief again, feels for a pulse then smiles at me. “They’re fine. They appear to be drugged, but they are alive.”
I send up a prayer of thanksgiving to God.
As if to remind us of his presence, I hear a small whimper from Levi Melich. Tarpley and I look over at the prone body and the blood that circles the floor around his head. The sheriff stands up and walks over to the body which does not move but from which come sounds of pain. She looks back at me. “It’s time for you to leave.”
“But what are you going to do?”
“You don’t want to know, but I will be calling the police. Just not yet.”
She looks once more down at Melich and then again at me. “Here is what you need to do. Go back to your trailer and get cleaned up. You are going to want to leave town. But don’t do it yet. You are going to have to talk to the local police.”
“Why? I don’t want to talk to them.”
“You have to!” She gives me a hard look. “When the police find out where Longleif lives, they are going to want to talk to all the neighbors – including you. If you are not there, it will look suspicious. Talk to them. Be the good citizen who says how quiet he was and that you never expected anything like this. Use your fake name. They are not going to check you out right away because they won’t have the time. Initially, there will be too much of a media circus for them to worry about you.”
“What if I say something wrong?”
“You won’t. You’re too smart,” she says with a smile. “But once you have done the interview, pack up and disappear. Thoroughly clean the trailer using the bleach on everything. Leave no fingerprints. Don’t worry about the deposit or telling the management that you are leaving. Just leave. Don’t leave any trail that might lead back to you.”
“So then what?”
“Go on with the rest of your life. You and I will never talk or communicate with each other again. Understand?”
“Okay,” I say, looking around at the two small bodies and the man who caused so much pain.
“I’ll finish up here.” Tarpley’s voice has a tone of finality as she motions me toward the door.
Without another word, I head down the hall and out of the trailer, emerging into the warm sunshine. As I cross the parking lot, I feel the heat rising from the asphalt and hear a soft pop behind me. I look back but don’t stop. A red motorcycle pulls in front of me, causing me to stop. The helmeted head looks at me and holds out a hand. I realize that I am still holding the bat and look down at the blood and hair still clinging to its barrel. A gloved hand reaches down, takes the bat out of my hand, and wipes the blood onto his worn faded jeans before slipping it into a scabbard mounted beside the back tire. I cannot see the rider’s face, but I feel a smile from behind the helmet as the motorcycle pulls out of the parking lot and disappears.
