What the hell was he doing? Was he seriously going to let that prick of a preacher off the hook? Carl took another swig from the flask. He held the liquid anger in his mouth before swallowing it. He twisted the cap closed on the near-empty flask. Carl relished the power he held in his hand. The power that he could feel burning its way down his throat, into his stomach, and through his blood. Maybe there was more to this drinking thing than he had ever realized. There were feelings and thoughts rising up inside him he never felt before, the chief one being a deep, burning anger that was acid in his stomach, eating away at the inner lining, looking for a way out.
Oh, I’ll give you a way out, my friend, Carl told it. Don’t you worry about that. Carl patted his coat pocket, the one that had the other metal piece that gave him more power than he’d ever felt in his life. Don’t you worry about that at all, Carl, you old dog. Your time’s comin, yesiree it’s comin, and when it gets here, you best be ready for it and all that follows. You’ll be ready, won’t you, Carl? Damn straight he’d be ready. Damn straight.
For the past ten, twenty minutes—had it been longer?—Carl had been sitting in his truck in the unplowed parking lot of the abandoned Chair City Manufacturing building, the engine idling, window rolled down, snow piling up on his arm draped over the door. He’d been thinking about all that had happened back at the church and what was going to happen if he left it as it was. The preacher had lost his job at his precious church, but he’d sure enough find another gig in one of the surrounding towns like Westminster or Hubbardston or one of the backwater places like Phillipston or Royalston.
The one thing that Carl would not be able to stand, the one thing he simply could not allow, was the preacher finding a job close to Old Wachusett. What would that say to the world about Carl Sanderson and the kind of man he was? Carl knew damn well what it would say. He might as well drive around Old Wachusett in his shitty-brown Ford with a sign hanging from the ass end that read ‘I’m Carl Sanderson, take anything you want from me—including my wife—‘cuz I won’t fight for it. Everything’s fair game!’ Hell, Carl knew that’s exactly what everybody and his mother-in-law would be thinking. There goes Carl, hey, did you hear how the preacher stole his main squeeze? Carl, me and the boys were wondering, could we maybe borrow your wife tonight, you know, for a little go ‘round? Gee, Carl, we always knew you were a pushover, but come on, isn’t this pushing it a little far? Get it…pushing it? Get it, Carl? Pushing it!
Carl got it, all right. He patted the bulk in his coat pocket again. He more than got it. He got it so much that he had pulled a few strings with one of his buddies in the Old Wachusett Police Department, who in turn pulled a few more strings to shed light on the background of Mr. Graham the goddamn preacher man. Come to find out, the good preacher formerly of Albany, New York, ain’t so good after all. Yeah, Carl got it all right.
He might not be much in Old Wachusett—hell, just a diesel mechanic for Lashua’s Oil who went home to his wife every night with grease stains under his nails and smelling like oil—but he was an honest man earning an honest day’s wage, tryin’ his damndest to keep his head above water and hold his marriage together. So far, he’d been doin’ an all right job of it. Been with Lashua’s since straight out of high school, first pumping gas, then doing maintenance around the place, learning all he could from the guys in the garage that worked on the delivery trucks, earning his way up the ladder. Married ten years this summer, been faithful all those years, never once looked anywhere else to get his tank filled or his furnace lubed and running hot. The guys at work respected him, his wife loved him.
Carl hacked up a wad of phlegm and launched it out the window.
That had all changed. He could already see it in the guys at Lashua’s, the way they looked at him, tip-toed around him, afraid to say anything the past few weeks. He was certain they found out before he had. Soon he’d hear the whispers, and before he knew it he’d be the butt of every sex joke that circulated around the garage.
He unscrewed the cap on the flask, gulped, and screwed the cap back on. He twisted it too much and stripped the threads and the cap just spun and spun. Shit. Ain’t that ironic. First time doin’ some serious drinking and I break the damned thing. What a screw up. Ha! Get it, fellas? Screw up. Ha! Carl flicked the cap out the window and watched it land in the snow.
The bigger point of the whole thing, much bigger than his reputation at Lashua’s, was his marriage. He was damn-well determined to save it, but how the hell was he supposed to do that if that prick of a preacher found another cushy job in the area? Hell, Jess had already screwed the man once, what was to stop her from trying it again to see if it was as good the second time around? Nothin’, that’s what. Before Carl could say ten Hail Mary’s she’d be goin’ back for seconds, and thirds, and then it’d be sayonara, Carl baby, I’m hittin’ the road and goin’ on a revival tour with the preacher prick hallelujah and pass the wafer and the wine and the lubricating oil!
Carl picked up the flask and emptied the rest of it, the last few drops feelin’ smooth and easy as they flowed down his gullet. He tossed the empty flask out the window and watched it land next to the cap that was now buried under a dusting of snow. Comin’ down at a pretty good clip. Good. Carl didn’t know why it was good that it was snowing, didn’t really care, but there had to be one good thing about today so it might as well be the weather.
He felt the weight in his coat pocket. He’d brought the gun along with the hope of scaring the preacher, show the bastard that Carl meant business. But Carl hadn’t done that. It was as if he’d forgotten that he’d had the gun with him back in the preacher’s office. Or maybe he had chickened out, too afraid of what might’ve happened had he dared pull the piece on that no-good-for-nothin’ prick.
Carl looked at his reflection in the rearview mirror. He looked like a man who needed a good pep talk. That being the case, and with no one else around, he was the man to administer such a talk. “Carl, my good man, that prick took something that belonged to you, something that you held dear to your heart. Safe to say you plan on doin’ somethin’ ‘bout that?” Patting his coat pocket, feeling the weight in it—and the power—Carl grinned and answered the mirror. “I surely do, my good man. I surely do.”
Carl put the truck in gear. The wipers swept away the snow. He was going to do his own sweeping away soon enough. He turned the truck around and headed back the way he’d come, oblivious to the storm enveloping Old Wachusett, while slowly yet certainly succumbing to the one brewing inside his head.