The Devil Always Collects by John Moore

Author:John Moore [Moore, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-01-07T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen:

Funerals and Stashes

When we awakened, Tom made me stay in bed for one more round. God, I loved this man. But the harsh reality of the world was pressing upon us both. We needed to get moving. Sarah’s funeral started at 10:00 and I wanted to be there a little early. I knew Jenkins would be there, Jess, people we worked with, and Susan but, I wondered, who else?

We arrived at the funeral home and walked into the viewing room. There she was, beautiful as ever in a morbid sort of way. The makeup the mortician used was thickly caked on her face and neck to disguise her wounds. Disguise but not cover. I wanted Sarah to talk to me. I wanted to feel her gentle touch and hear her calming voice. And I wanted to hear that inner voice she was reclaiming after so many years. The voice of an investigative reporter.

I sunk onto the prayer kneeler placed in front of Sarah’s coffin. I closed my eyes and silently recited the two prayers I remembered from Catechism classes, the Hail Mary and Our Father. Overcome by emotion, I looked up to heaven and spoke to my mother. “Mom, look after Sarah. You and Sarah each made your choices for noble, selfless reasons. Mom, your words are true. The devil always collects. I want you to know that these words are also true. The devil cannot collect if a deal is never made. Your daughter will never make any deal with the devil. This I vow. And, Sarah, I will find who killed you, and I will find the sunken barge. You will have your redemption.”

I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see the tearful face of Mr. Jenkins. He was clean-shaven and dressed in a suit but smelled of yesterday’s bourbon. He had a sleepless look, like a med student who had crammed for finals for two solid weeks, existing on Raman Noodles and no rest. The image of a dead man walking came to mind.

“I miss her so much,” he said. “Her smile, her gentle ways, her loving heart, all gone now.” He looked at her lying motionless and started breathing heavily. His eyes rolled back in their sockets, his breath hitched, and he crumpled to the floor. He lay behind me, beside Sarah’s coffin, mumbling. Words struggled to leave his lips. A word, only one word was recognizable. “Sorry,” he exhaled.

“Mr. Jenkins! Are you alright? What’s wrong? Call 911. Call 911!” I screamed.

Two men carried Mr. Jenkins into another room. Shortly after, EMS transported him to Tulane medical center. He didn’t look like the powerful man for whom I once worked. He was a sketch of his former self. I wondered if his life of burning the candle at both ends – fueled by bourbon – had finally taken its toll. Or was it something else? Why did he deteriorate so quickly?

Thoughts of Sarah flooded my mind. I lost myself for a while wandering through my memories of good times, so many good times.

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