The Paladin's Message (The Keepers of White Book 2) Read online

  “Right,” Jim had responded reluctantly. “Sure thing.”

  Jim had not slept much last night, and when he did, it was an uneasy sleep; he had woken up several times throughout the night in a cold sweat. Once or twice, he turned on the small television on the dresser in front of his queen-sized bed, even showered to relax. Just before dawn, he had finally given up on sleep.

  Today, Saturday, left him with more puzzlement and frustration. No longer patient enough to await a possible phone call from the police, Jim had decided to make some calls himself. First, using the phone book, usually found in the night stand drawers of most motel rooms, he called St. Elizabeth’s hoping to get in touch with the pastor who had claimed to see the suspect named Cliff get into Megan’s vehicle. The rectory’s receptionist informed him that Father Paul was out on business. She didn’t know when he would be returning, but would be serving the 8 a.m. mass the following morning. Regardless, Jim had left her a message to give to the priest upon his return. He never received a call back.

  Next, he had looked up the number to Maybel’s clothing store and called, hoping to catch a hold of Megan’s friend Ryleigh, or at least discover when her next shift would be. He doubted he would learn much from her, but still, he thought it might be helpful, to some extent, to speak to at least one of Megan’s friends. However, the young man with the feminine voice on the phone had informed him that Ryleigh was off for the weekend, and was not scheduled to work again until Monday afternoon.

  Lastly, though he knew it would be another dead end, Jim had called the Records Office at Millersville University, just in case someone would be manning the office on Saturdays. All he had gotten was a recorded message indicating that regular office hours were Monday through Friday, from 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. The recording also instructed callers to leave their name, number, student I.D., and the purpose for their call, and that an administrator would get back to them. He wasn’t too hopeful in the first place. Privacy laws would most likely have restrained the university from releasing most personal information about its students, including contact information. But Jim was determined to get in touch with Megan’s boyfriend however he could. He was hoping that Detective Harrison would have gotten ahold of him, and in turn would have him contact Jim, but the only call he received today was from his assistant supervisor from work, checking to see how he was holding up.

  With no other ideas in mind, Jim had left a message with the recording device at the Records Office. He was sure that he would at least be able to get somewhere: if the kid was a student at the university, he would have been assigned a faculty advisor. The school would have no problems giving him the number to said advisor’s office on campus. He could at least leave his contact info with the man and ask him to deliver it to Sonny, with an urgent message to “please call Megan’s father.”

  When Jim had put the receiver of the phone back on its hook for the last time, not one step closer to discovering what had happened to his only child, Jim concluded that there was only one thing left to do: he grabbed his wallet, slipped on his denim jacket, and made his way to the bar across the road.

  If the ambiance of the establishment known as McDougal’s Bar and Grill had any resemblance of the local bar back home in Meadville, Jim may have been able to relax, if only minutely. Or he may have found some small scale of comfort in the beer he downed into his gullet, if not for the unfamiliarity of the whole place. Jim was a man of habit at this point in his life. He frequented the same bar, sat at the same stool, and always ordered from and tipped the same bartender. Here in Lancaster, he felt out of place… foreign. Either the padding on the barstool was of a different material than he was used to, the bartender carried himself with a younger, quicker gait, the aroma was slightly off… or perhaps it was the other patrons. Kids, he had thought.

  He had been quickly reminded of the fact that this particular section of Lancaster was a college town, where the music was louder, with more beats and bops, than he fancied. Where the slurred conversations that blared from the mouths of tipsy young men and women who looked like they only recently came of drinking age, related to the most insignificant topics that he didn’t quite care for: boasts of dominating Greek Week, and, not getting some chick’s number, but friending her on Facebook, whatever that meant. Their style of clothing was also ridiculous. If he were about thirty years younger, he might have enjoyed eyeing the young ladies who disrespected themselves as they passed by, donning denim shorts that revealed the bottoms of their ass cheeks in hopes of luring as much attention from the opposite sex as possible. Now, he only shook his head at their lack of self-esteem.

  But the most obnoxious aspect of the bar scene were all the cell phones with big screens. Most of the patrons held them in their hands with their eyes glued to them, even while conversing with each other; tapping and typing on them, or, he observed, sliding their fingers across them as if flipping through pages in a book. Except they weren’t books. They were LCD screens.

  He was getting older by the minute, and the world wasn’t keeping up with him. More precisely, he wasn’t keeping up with the world. He didn’t really want to either.

  Yet he didn’t leave the establishment. After all, there was still the drink, if nothing else. At least he could depend on that to drown his sorrows and frustrations. If he was surrounded by the noise of youth, what of it? What had he expected to find in a college town on a Saturday night? He had decided he would just have his fill and be done, and he might have even been able to tune out the world as he did so. But the atmosphere made it awfully hard… and then there had been that weird guy…

  Jim had almost finished his fifth Yuengling when a young man, not so young as the rest of the crowd, but still young to his own eyes, sat at the stool beside him, and quietly ordered a Yuengling of his own. He had taken no notice at first, but after sipping the remaining contents from his bottle, when he had lifted his hand to get the bartender’s attention, he could feel the man’s eyes on him. He felt he was being practically studied by the guy. He had shot a quick glance at him, but the man did not turn away. He had sat quite still, only slowly bringing his drink to his lips now and then, but with no apparent sense of awkwardness, he continued to look directly at Jim.

  Jim turned and faced forward again as he ordered another beer from the bartender. As if things couldn’t get more annoying, he thought while he took several long gulps from his fresh bottle. Evidently, fate wouldn’t allow him any slice of comfort he searched for this night.

  When he had come to the point in which he could no longer ignore his peripheral vision, when he had decided he was plain old tired of his privacy being poked at by the fruitcake to his right, Jim had set his bottle down with a bit of force to demonstrate his disapproval of the man’s behavior. “Something on your mind, son?” he had asked gruffly, keeping his eyes on his own bottle.

  “I was about to ask you the same thing,” the man had responded. “You look like you’ve had a hell of a day.” There was no cheer, no youthful melody in his tone. He had spoken as plainly and as seriously as one who, like himself, came to drown his troubles away.

  “Got plenty on my mind,” Jim had said, “but I ain’t one for talkin’. Whatever you’re sellin’, I’m not interested.”

  “I’ve nothing to sell,” he had answered. “I’m only here to buy.”

  “Yeah? Buy what?”

  “A moment of your time.”

  Jim turned toward the man. What he had seen at that moment was a grave face that he supposed mirrored his own in some ways. His stare was not one who was studying him, as he previously thought. It was just a stare, empty, with no label to describe it. He knew the look. Whoever this man was, he had fought his own battles, faced his own demons. For a moment, Jim had hesitated, unsure of what to make of this strange encounter.

  But he had soon remembered his own issues and hardened his demeanor again. “Like I said, I’m not interested.” He faced forward again, and called the bartender for his tab.

  B
efore he could pull his wallet from the pocket of his jeans, the young man beside him had dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the bar in front of him. “If I can’t buy your time,” he said, “the least I can do is buy your drinks.”

  Jim shook his head. “Listen son, I don’t know who you are, but…” as he turned toward him again, he saw that the man had already risen from his stool and was headed for the exit. “Hey!” he had called to him, but the stranger had continued on his path, until he disappeared through the crowd of patrons.

  He had tried to search through the bustling and socializing of the young college kids around him, wondering if he could see if the man was still somewhere in the bar, but he was soon distracted by the bartender in front of him, who had picked up the twenty: “It’s fifteen dollars, sir. How much change you need?”

  Jim had given a dumbfounded look at the bartender, then with exasperation, waved his hand at him. “Nothin’,” he had finally answered. “Just keep it.” He had quickly finished his last beer, then headed for the door. Definitely a fruitcake, he had thought to himself.

  Now, as he sat on the edge of the queen-sized bed in his motel room, Jim had mostly forgotten his conversation at McDougal’s with the strange man. He had dealings with all kinds of weirdos in his life, and this had been nothing new… or interesting enough to occupy his mind. Especially when he had more pressing issues to deal with. He soon found himself tormented by his usual feelings of loss, and they were now augmented with the knowledge that Megan was out there somewhere; whether she was alive or dead, no one knew.

  He was exhausted, but he knew if he were to lie down on the bed and close his eyes, sleep would not come to him. He was too disturbed by the not knowing. Still, he hoped to do more digging around the next day, and if he wanted to have a better chance at contacting Megan’s friend Ryleigh, and her boyfriend Sonny, he gathered that he would have to wait until Monday to do so. And if he would want to function with a keen mind, he would have to struggle for the sleep that he desperately needed. So, he turned off the light, laid upon the bed, and shut his eyes.

  Chapter VIII

  Early Sunday morning. But in Ben Weber’s chronological mind it was Saturday night. The dark of night was held at bay by the strong luminance of the apartment complex that he called home. He had had a long and busy shift at McDougal’s, but the amount of tip money in his pocket proved that his hard night was well worth it. Besides, he didn’t feel fatigued, even past 1 a.m. He had become accustomed to the night hours in which most bartenders performed their services; the only consequence was habitually sleeping in.

  At first, the schedule took getting used to. There was a time, not long ago, when his biological clock forced him to wake before the crack of dawn, when he served in the military, and he would immediately attend vigorous P.T. before carrying out daily orders required of his unit. And after a long, physically demanding workday, he would find himself hitting the rack no later than 9 p.m.; early to bed and early to rise. Now, his job required a contradicting schedule. The switch was difficult at first, but a prior Marine knew how to adapt quickly.

  The door was not locked when Ben arrived at his apartment, and the silence of the place caught his attention. Usually the T.V. was on in the living room, which Ryleigh would be watching. Realistically, she wasn’t interested in any of the late-night shows; it was more-so that she would be waiting up for him. But the television was off, though the lights were on, and she was not on the sofa, where she normally sat. He would have thought nothing of it, would have figured that she was too tired to wait up, but then she would’ve locked the door. She always had.

  “Ryleigh?” he called. “Hon, you here?” There was no response. Ben scanned the area quickly. Nothing seemed amiss. As he visually checked down the hallway, he noticed the bedroom door was shut. After a few seconds, he decided that she had most likely called it a night and went to bed, leaving the lights on for him. Perhaps she was so tired, she had forgotten to lock the door; nothing to get all in a twist about, just something he would gently bring to her attention in the morning.

  Nevertheless, as he approached the bedroom door, he reached around to the small of his back, where he kept his concealed Beretta 9mm. and switched the safety off. It’s what he referred to as a healthy dose of paranoia which he acquired, courtesy of the vigorous training by the United States Marine Corps.

  Yet nothing, regardless of his impeccable background in such matters, could have prepared him for what awaited in his own bedroom.

  He entered, and immediately his eyes widened with shock when he saw his darling Ryleigh on their bed. She was laying on her back, with her arms underneath her, as if they were tied or restrained in some way. Though he was certain of this, he couldn’t confirm it because their comforter was covering her body from the chest down. However, he could instantly see, in utter horror, that her beautiful face was beaten; her left eye swollen shut, blood ran down from what appeared to be a terribly broken nose, and the cloth which was tied tightly around her mouth as a gag was also soaked crimson, as if she had been bleeding from her lips or gums. Tears were running down her bruised cheeks. Due to the shrouding of the thick comforter, no other injuries were presently revealed.

  Ben had only seconds to notice Ryleigh’s condition however, because his attention was instead focused on the young man, his friend, sitting on the desk chair at the foot of the bed. He was holding a pistol of his own with both hands with his arms resting on his lap. “Hey Ben,” Sonny greeted.

  Ben said nothing at first. His mind was too taken aback by what his eyes were perceiving.

  “I hope you’ll excuse the mess,” Sonny said with what seemed like sincerity. “Things didn’t go exactly as I’d planned here.”

  Ben wanted nothing more than to rush to his woman’s side and rescue her from this nightmare scene that he had come upon, but he remained still; eyes fixed on his unlikely adversary’s weapon. However, he did finally manage to find his voice, though it was just a whisper: “Sonny, what have you done?”

  “It didn’t work,” Sonny answered, as if addressing himself and not Ben. “I did everything I was supposed to. Held her hands, spoke in a soft, lulling voice, everything I taught myself to do, I did. But it didn’t work.”

  “What are you talking abo…”

  “I should’ve been able to get inside her head,” Sonny cut him off. “Maybe not as deep as those with more experience; I figured I wouldn’t be able to gain much control, but with my experience I should’ve at least gotten through the surface.” He shook his head in disappointment. “I got nothing… not even a spark.”

  Ben’s voice elevated from a whisper to the commanding tone he once used often in his previous line of work, when he once gave orders that were meant to have people get things done: “Why did you do this?”

  Sonny looked up toward Ryleigh, who was exerting quiet, muffled weeping sounds through her gag and shivering with fear. He looked over her as if examining a finished project for quality assurance. “I focused harder, spent all my mental energy concentrating on bringing her under. Just so I could get a taste of what it’s like… to control someone. She wasn’t cooperating though. Maybe I lost my patience too quickly. Maybe that’s it. I should’ve been more patient. But she started to laugh; said I was being silly. So, I guess I overreacted.”

  Ben had no idea what the man was talking about, he doubted even Sonny knew what he was saying. The most logical conclusion he could come to was that the overwhelming stress from the disappearance of Megan had sent him over the deep end. Sonny was Section 8, and Ben decided he would have to tread carefully to diffuse this delicate situation. “Sonny,” he said in a calm voice, “listen to me, okay? We’re your friends. We care an awful lot about you. Come on man, look at her. Look at Ryleigh.”

  “I am looking at her, Ben.”

  “No. I mean really look at her; at what you’ve done. This isn’t you, man. Now I know you’re hurting, but you don’t wanna do this. You don’t wanna take it out on the people clos
est to you. Your name is Sonny Williams, and you’re a good person. Now just put down the gun and let us help you.”

  Sonny turned his gaze from Ryleigh to Ben. He raised an eyebrow at him curiously.

  “Come on, Sonny,” Ben continued gently, “think about what you’re doing. Put down the gun, and let’s get you some help. I promise everything will be okay. I’m here for you, man. Do you really think Megan would want to see you doing this? I know you miss her, buddy, but don’t lose hope.”

  “Oh… her,” Sonny answered, waving his hand in dismissal. Suddenly, within his face, the expressions of disappointment and frustration were replaced with something else; features of a kind Ben hardly recognized, but knew there was no shred of goodness in them. Sonny smirked. “To be honest, man, I can’t say I really miss Megan all that much. I see her every day, locked up in an underground cellar of an old school house in Amish Country. She’ll be dead in a little over a week. Sorry to break it to ya, pal, but you don’t know a thing about me.”

  Sonny’s response sent Ben’s voice into submission again. His original assessment of Sonny was now in doubt. True, the man was still what he considered Section 8, but the source of his insanity was now a mystery to him, and it was dawning too slowly on him that the man he was facing now, was never his friend… never a friend to any of them. “You took her,” he whispered.

  “It was my job, buddy. The people I work for have taken an interest in her.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s complicated,” Sonny answered with a malicious smile. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you anyway, nor would you understand.”

  Ben’s voice slowly made its way back to a more audible form: “And what interest has your people taken in me and Ryleigh?”

  “No,” Sonny said, “that’s all me. You see, I have my own purposes. And you fit the bill. Your girlfriend over here… she could’ve been anyone. I wanted to see how well I could get in her head, and as you can see I failed miserably. I’m not too happy about that; you can understand that, can’t you Ben?”