The Perfect Candidate: A Lance Priest / Preacher Thriller (No. 1)

  THE PERFECT

  CANDIDATE

  __________

  A LANCE PRIEST NOVEL

  CHRISTOPHER METCALF

  TT Tree Tunnel Publishing

  Copyright © 2011 by Christopher Metcalf

  Published by

  Tree Tunnel Publishing, LLC

  Tulsa, Oklahoma

  Cover artwork and photos courtesy Wikimedia Commons.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-0-9837447-0-2

  www.treetunnelpublishing.com

  For Diana

  It’s not a lie, if you believe it.

  — G. Costanza

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Too many to thank. Diana is supportive, always. I’m blessed to call her mine. To me, she is love. Kids who let their father put on headphones and disappear into a computer screen and keyboard are more than treasured. Ann is reliable and an example for all. She’s also Mom. Mike is generous for allowing me to steal. Phil blazed an inspirational trail. The Internet, Wikipedia® and Google Maps® are constant companions. But long before the World Wide Web, there was the CIA World Factbook. It is online now. Do yourself a favor and see what interesting things it has to say about your favorite countries.

  Prologue

  Patient was the killer.

  He was stealth and strategy and confidence. Most of all, he was composed. No question or hesitation in his resolve.

  His target was deserving of death. Deserving of much worse than the brief moment of pain he was soon to endure. But there simply wasn’t ample time to perform a procedure proportionate to his many offenses. This kill needed to be carried out in an expert fashion that left no trace of evidence. This job demanded nothing less than flawless execution – a bad pun, but still.

  Planning was over. It was time. Peering around the corner, the killer reviewed the scene. No change in the last half-minute. Nothing much had changed in the four minutes since he silently entered the structure.

  He evaluated his target one final time. The man was comfortable, seated with legs propped, at ease in his blissful ignorance. His attention forward, seemingly absolute. The guy was oblivious to his surroundings, hypnotized by the television his eyes were glued to. Two empty bottles on a side table provided evidence of his chemical-induced stupor. He had left himself unprotected. Vulnerable.

  The killer reached up and turned the dial on the thermostat to 72°. Significantly cooler than the sweltering 90-degree-plus evening temperature outside. His extensive surveillance and reconnaissance of the location revealed useful details such as the obnoxious noise produced by the aged air conditioning condenser unit when it kicked on. Right on cue, the rattle and hum outside was immediate. That noise would conceal the sounds of execution.

  Consummate preparation brought the killer here this evening at this time. His patient, exhaustive observation of the target and location identified this precise window of opportunity when the man would be alone, defenseless.

  The killer was silent in his approach. He had removed his shoes outside to further dampen the fall of his feet on the floor. He held the target’s own gun gripped in a gloved hand as he stepped closer. His advance recon of the building had uncovered the gun in the bedside dresser. It was perfect.

  Peripheral vision confirmed what he knew already. No one else was here. No witnesses.

  The killer was in position, just behind the oblivious target. His approach undetected. He had practiced this kill, trained for this moment. Silently, he stepped to the right to gain the proper angle. No hesitation now. In one fluid motion, the killer leaned to the right and forward to allow his outstretched right arm to move around the target and bring the barrel of the gun up until it made contact with the unsuspecting man’s chin. Not the chin per se; the area between the chin and Adam’s apple. The submaxillary triangle, for those familiar with human anatomy, like the killer.

  The target tensed as the cold barrel jammed into his skin. But there was no time. No time to move or scream or plead. The trigger was levered and the bullet exploded up through and out the top of the man’s head. The killer simultaneously stepped forward and to the right to avoid the matter that followed the bullet up to the wall.

  A fine mist of blood droplets was still settling as the killer moved the gun from under the corpse’s head down to a lifeless hand. He placed the gun into the dead man’s right hand with the pointer finger inserted into the trigger space. He aimed the weapon at the television a dozen feet in front of the chair and applied the pressure necessary to pull the trigger.

  The television tube suffered a quick death just as a running back avoided tacklers and stepped out of bounds on the sideline. To anyone examining the scene, this second bullet would be interpreted as the first shot fired. The gunshot also left microscopic amounts of gunpowder residue on the man’s hand. Proof the deceased had indeed fired the weapon.

  The killer then brought the gun and sagging hand back up under the deceased’s chin and released them. The appendage and gun slid naturally with gravity’s help down to the dead man’s protruding belly where it now rested.

  The count in his head was up to 11 seconds since the first shot. Right on schedule. The killer quickly exited the room the way he had entered 21 seconds earlier. The accomplished killer stepped out the sliding glass door next to the kitchen table onto the patio and closed the door behind him. He slid his shoes back on and listened to the sounds of the night before moving. Nothing.

  Once on the backyard lawn, his movements were precise. He jogged diagonally across the yard and climbed the fence at the corner. His motions sure and fluid, as if he’d done it hundreds of times.

  Once over the fence, he continued his trek into the blackness of a clearing and then onto a quiet street. He removed the leather gloves and put them in his back pocket for the moment. They would be disposed of properly in a dumpster a quarter of a mile away. The dumpster sat in an alley behind a small shopping center. Situated in the middle of the center was his destination, his alibi.

  The killer didn’t dwell on the job just completed. It was simply a function necessitated by the target’s irresponsible, dangerous actions. The reckless man had placed too many in danger with his selfish desire for dominance. His predilection for violence and abuse of power had signed his death warrant. Threats against innocent bystanders and those beyond reproach required decisive action. His recent escalation of terrorizing behavior to include death threats toward those who dared oppose him was simply the last straw. He had crossed a line.

  There would be repercussions. Always were. Tears and pain and glowing sermons would flow, even though this target had alienated or offended most everyone in his sphere of influence. Even those who were now free from his oppression and constant torment would be in pain for a period. But it would pass. This was, at its core, a righteous kill. But the killer knew that was for someone else to decide. He had merely done a job, a service.

  He reached the shopping center in a comfortable minute and 49 seconds. The gloves were placed in the dumpster under several broken-down cardboard boxes and stuffed plastic garbage bags. Twenty-three seconds later, the killer entered his destination through a back door propped open with a pencil 12 minutes earlier. A good many pubescent and adolescent boy
s, heads down playing games, populated the video arcade. A smattering of young girls waited for the boys’ attention. A few adults could be seen, mostly playing pinball and electronic darts. The chubby shopping center security guard sat on a stool talking with the arcade’s manager as the killer walked past. No new faces in the room since he slipped out the back door.

  The killer took in the room in a flash, cataloging hundreds of details as he stepped over to the Galaga machine. Before dropping his quarter into the coin slot, he surveyed the room again. One of the young girls looked his way and smiled.

  Didn’t need that. Last thing he wanted right now was a pre-teen girl crushing on him. He smiled back though. If nothing else, her look of longing reinforced his alibi. The killer turned back to the game and proceeded to kill hundreds of alien ships. They all deserved their demise.

  Chapter 1

  Tuesday, November 10, 1987 – Dallas, Texas

  “Damn. This is really happening.”

  Lance said it as much to himself as he did to Geoffrey Seibel. The older man was seated across the small conference table Lance stood leaning over. He took a quick survey of the facts, the new reality enveloping him. Two men alone in the room, a table between them. A threat with a definitive and immediate timeline had been issued. Elton John singing a classic in his head. Oh, and Lance held a gun to Seibel’s head.

  Lance Priest was undeniably the worst shot in his family. Worse than his little brother, his mother and even his aunts. But even Lance wouldn’t miss from this distance with the gun’s barrel making a little circle-shaped indention in Seibel’s left temple.

  He just wished Elton would wrap up the song. He needed to think, to plan. Sometimes songs just start playing in his brain at the most inopportune times. Like this one.

  He would be running soon. In a matter of minutes, he’d run for his life, burst from the room, from the building and break into a full sprint once outside. His lungs would ache; his legs would scream at the pace he pushed them down streets and alleys in downtown Dallas. But right now Lance needed more information. He’d missed too many details already today.

  In the seconds preceding the current situation, Lance had gone out of body to look down on the scene from above, formulated a plan and executed it to perfection. It surprised the heck out of him how well it worked. Lance was simply faster with his gun and turned the tables on Seibel, if that was even the dude’s real name. He didn’t linger on the fact he held the gun to the guy’s head. It had just worked out that way. He pushed the barrel deeper into Seibel’s temple. The song was into its final chorus. What now? He needed to think. The seconds hesitated, time slowed.

  He’d basically lied his way here today. Hell, truth be told, and it wasn’t often told by Lance Priest, he’d fibbed and lied and B.S.’d his way through most of his 21 years. A half-day of whoppers and white lies told to others during the Foreign Service Officer oral assessments was nothing. It was fun.

  That is, up until about two minutes go when Seibel pulled out a gun and put in on the table. He followed this surprising action with the equally surprising words, “You will be of no use to your country or anyone for that matter unless you can survive the next 72 hours.” Damn. Didn’t look like Lance could lie his way out of this one.

  No time to think about where all this started. Lance could cram a lot of thinking into a second or two, but this was going to take time to figure out. Time he didn’t have if what Seibel had said moments earlier was true. Lance had apparently walked into a shit storm and now had just over four and a half minutes until two brutal killers somewhere else in the building started chasing him, hunting him, like an animal. It would be a whole lot easier to think, to devise a plan, if the guy sitting in front of him with a gun to his head wasn’t smiling like he knew a secret. It was slightly unnerving.

  Seibel turned his left wrist that Lance held pinned to the table to look at his watch. “Four minutes and 29 seconds. You need to move Mr. Priest.” He smiled as he said the words. He almost giggled really. The guy did know a secret.

  Lance snuck a glance at the clock on the wall over Seibel’s head. Something about the clock wasn’t right. He’d noticed it when he came in ten minutes earlier. It didn’t belong there.

  But no time for those thoughts now. He didn’t have the time to process every detail. Ten minutes. Man, his life had changed in those few rotations of the hands on a clock.

  Rewind. He went out of body and back to 11 minutes earlier. Lance walked out of a large conference room on the fifth floor of a nondescript federal office building on Commerce Street in downtown Dallas. Gathered in the room behind him were U.S. Foreign Service Officer candidates who had passed the written exam portion of the process and traveled to Dallas from around the region for group and individual oral assessments.

  They had been placed in various fictional situations during the morning and asked to come up with responses. They had all participated in a full-group exercise followed by smaller group sessions. Lance’s small group had been tasked with handling the repercussions of a deadly tourist bus crash as members of the U.S. embassy staff in Zimbabwe. Lance had dominated the session by literally making stuff up on the spot, like usual.

  After lunch, the next phase of the day was individual interviews. Lance was ready. He lived for moments when he was challenged to create characters and build backstories, traits, wants, needs and desires. Lance was a born liar. Leopards have spots. Fish swim. Lance Priest lies.

  He walked down the hall to a room marked “3” with a piece of paper taped to the door, took a breath, opened the door and entered. He was only mildly surprised to see Seibel and the liar who called himself Marsco sitting behind the lone conference table. Drew Marsco wasn’t his real name. Lance was sure of that. The man, who had sat in on Lance’s small group session earlier this morning, had been in Tulsa on a rainy Saturday at the University of Tulsa eight weeks earlier when Lance and 40 others took the Foreign Service Officer Written Examination. Marsco, not his real name obviously, was across the room watching Lance most of the time instead of filling out answers on his exam. And in Tulsa, the guy wasn’t wearing a wig, fake mustache and glasses like he was now. Bad disguise.

  The two men didn’t get up and didn’t speak as Lance entered. He closed the door behind him, stepped forward and sat in a chair facing them. Seibel’s eyes drilled into him. Seibel was a different person than the jovial and dapper gent who greeted all the candidates this morning. In fact, as far as Lance could tell, this was the fourth different persona Seibel had played today. Lance was impressed. The changes Seibel manifested at different times during the day were subtle – hunched back, drooping mouth, bright shining smile, a locked, furrowed brow. Lance seldom encountered people who could “chameleon” like he could. Seibel was good.

  “What color is the wall on your left?” Seibel asked pointedly.

  Lance responded immediately. “Green, like the one on my right and behind you. The wall behind me is yellow for some reason.”

  “Are my shoes loafers or wing-tip?”

  “You’re all wing-tip, all the time.”

  “Where is Grisham from?” Seibel asked. Grisham, or whatever his name was, had led the small group exercise Lance had participated in this morning.

  “He said Billings, Montana.” Lance returned Seibel’s glare.

  “But you don’t believe him.” Seibel’s left eyebrow rose.

  “He is from somewhere east and north. Not Montana. No doubt.” Lance replied.

  “Why would he lie to you?” Seibel’s right eyebrow rose to join the left one.

  Lance let the question hang in the air and smiled. “I think the question is why did Grisham, Sarah, Mackenzie, Waters, you and Mr. Marsco here lie to me.”

  “What do you mean?” Seibel’s eyebrows furrowed.

  “What do you think I mean?” Lance asked.

  “How did everyone lie to you?” Seibel’s eyes now squinted.

  “First things first, none of those are their real names.”<
br />
  “How so?”

  Lance’s smile widened. “People aren’t born with names. They are given them. They become them. A Jim is named James at birth but ends up a Jim. Michael stays Michael instead of becoming Mike. Elizabeth becomes Lisa or Liz. Either way, you become that name. It’s who you are. You carry it with you, wear it. When people lie about their name it is easy to tell. It doesn’t fit. I see it all the time on the car lot.” Lance sold used cars part-time at a dealership when he wasn’t in class or studying or running. Yes, a used car salesman.

  “So just the six of us lied to you, not the rest?” Seibel just smiled.

  “Just five lied about their names. You have lied every time you’ve opened your mouth, but not about your name.” Lance smiled.

  “How could you tell they lied about their names? Exactly please?” Seibel inquired.

  Lance shrugged his shoulders. “Sarah gave it away with her eyes first thing this morning. She simply had no investment in the name. It wasn’t hers. Grisham worked too hard to be Grisham. Said it too many times. Mackenzie doesn’t wear glasses and didn’t need them. They were just glass, no magnification. You could see it from the side. Just like you could see the lie in his name. Waters simply didn’t dress the part. And the gentleman playing the role of Drew Marsco here decided to put on a wig and mustache today to disguise himself.”

  Seibel turned to Marsco whose real name is Braden, Stuart Braden, psychologist and talent evaluator. Braden is a human lie detector, or better, spy detector. And he was stunned, flabbergasted yet again by Lance’s performance. Just like he’d been eight weeks earlier in Tulsa. The glance between Seibel and Braden was its own language. The psychologist shook his head, closed his notebook and placed it in his briefcase. He got up and walked out of the room without a word. Seibel followed.