Page 22 of The Reaper

The man in front of me chuckled before standing, pulling his zipper up and buttoning his pants. “I’ll be back tonight,” he whispered, tucking the gun into his waistband.

“The church will be locked,” I said, when I should’ve said Don’t come back.

A laugh escaped his mouth as he grabbed the curtain. I had a feeling locked doors wouldn’t stop him. It didn’t matter. I wouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be here.

“Archer,” he whispered.

“Huh?” I asked. I was so shocked my brain misfired.

“My name is Archer,” he repeated before yanking the curtain back so hard it startled an “Oh!” out of one of the people standing nearby.

What a fitting name for someone like him.

“Archer,” I whispered.

Fourteen: The Reaper

Ididn’t know what possessed me to tell Father Saint James my real name. I could’ve easily pulled a fake name out of my ass. But, like the last time we were together in the confinement of his confession booth, I was all out of sorts because of him. His face was painted with shock, and I had to repeat my name a second time before he realized what I’d said. My brain knew what needed to be done, but my mouth seemed to have a mind of its own. The truth was, I wanted to hear how my name sounded coming from his lips. I didn’t get a chance to find out since I marched out of there before he ever said it.

Before I was The Reaper, I’d had another name. The one that was passed through four generations, starting with my great-grandfather down to me, where it would end. It was a kind name. It was a name no one feared. Archer Dawson. I loved that name. But, just like my former life, it had to be buried six feet in the ground. Because, to the rest of the world, I no longer existed.

My friends used to call me Archie. My grandparents called me Little Arch, not to be mistaken for Big Arch—my father—and Grand Arch, belonging to my grandpa. My recollection of my parents was murky. Sometimes, I got bits and pieces of them through vague memories and vivid dreams. But I questioned how many of them were true or were a product of my imagination and wishful thinking. I didn’t know much about my mom and dad, but my grandparents I remembered very well, even though I wish I didn’t.

My father was killed in the Gulf War, or at least that was what my mom told me before disappearing herself ten days after my father’s death, forcing my grandparents to look after me at eight years old. Vividly, I could still remember that night when they came for me, one of the very few fragments of my childhood etched into my head.

It was during the dead of winter. It had snowed the night before and a white blanket covered the ground. The door flew open, frigid air invading the dark house. I had run out of newspapers and books to burn after two days. I was too hungry and weak to gather wood outside during the storm. The house was so cold.

Dark silhouettes appeared. “Archer!” my grandpa yelled. It should’ve been the first sign of the horror that would come after. He never called me by that name unless I was in trouble or something serious was about to happen. I didn’t know it then, but it would be the beginning of the series of unfortunate events coming my way. My grandparents tried to shield me from it, but they could only do so much where The Firm was concerned. My grandparents were David to The Firm’s Goliath. Only in this story, David didn’t win.

The cold winter breeze gushed through the wide-open door, carrying flakes of snow inside. I opened my mouth to say something but my body was numb, perhaps from sitting under the table for two days straight. “In here,” I croaked.

“Archer, my love, where are you?” my grandma repeated when she didn’t hear me. She closed the door and flipped the light switch, to no avail—the power had been out for a couple of days; no heat either.

I swallowed my spit to clear my throat, grimacing from the pain. It was as if tiny pins and needles were piercing my windpipes. “In here,” I yelled, hoping they could locate me with my weakened voice. I’d moved under the table two days ago after the men who ransacked our house had left. They barged in when I was in my bedroom waiting for my mother.

“You will be safe here,” my mom used to tell me as she was building a small compartment under the floor of my closet. “Remember, when I tell you to hide, this is where I need you to go, okay?” She must’ve said those words a few times, and when I was finally older she told me: “There are some bad guys out there and they might look for us.”

So, when the door opened with a loud bang and noise from the chaos downstairs carried to my room, I hid. Hungry and afraid, I emerged after a couple of days. Our house had been turned upside down. Papers were scattered everywhere, and a mound of snow was blocking the still-open door. I used my legs and pushed the door with my back, shoving the snow outside. I was in the middle of inspecting the damage when lightning struck one of the poles outside, killing the lights. Out of fear, I ran under the only piece of furniture left standing: the dining table.

“I’m here, Grandma,” I called with what was left of my energy.

“Oh, my baby,” she said, rushing to me. She pressed her warm hands on my cold cheeks. “My goodness, you’re frozen.” Her voice was laced with relief and concern, tears cascaded down her cheeks.

Grandpa removed his jacket and wrapped it around my frail body.

That was all I could remember from that evening. It was funny how memories worked. Sometimes, no matter how hard you tried to remember more, the mind wouldn’t let you.

I sucked in a lungful of fresh air and, once sobered from my body’s response to Father Saint James, I realized that revealing my name should be the least of my concerns, especially after admitting that I killed for a living. “Fuck!” I cursed, punching my helmet out of frustration. This had to stop before it turned into something I couldn’t control. I had to end it tonight.

I climbed onto my bike, turning the ignition on. My phone vibrated; the watch synced to my cell notified me of an incoming call from a New York City area code. Ignoring the call, I whipped out of Boston to go to my ‘office,’ the makeshift building made from an old shipping container. My phone buzzed again. The tiny watch screen displayed the same number. After half a dozen persistent calls, I pulled over. “What?” I barked into the phone.

“This is Marilyn. Can you talk?” Marilyn Ellis was a fearless investigative journalist, covering the most dangerous stories, from the cartel to bombings in the Middle East. She’d made a name for herself by exposing corruption, fraud, and the wrongdoings of companies and politicians. She took no prisoners when it came to finding the truth. “Are you there?” she asked after I didn’t answer.

“Yeah, I can talk.”

“Give me the list and I’ll expose them,” she said.

Shocked, I asked, “What made you change your mind?” Marilyn had initially said no when I’d reached out to her months ago. I didn’t blame her. If I didn’t live in the shadows, I would’ve called myself insane.

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