Contempt (Decision Chronicles #3)

          “I need your help, Mike.”

          “Who is this?” Michael shifted his seat on the park bench, pressing the phone closer to his ear.

          “Mike I’m—is it okay if I call you Mike? Or are you hard-set on Michael?”

          “Who is this?” Michael repeated.

          “Right. Sorry.” A high-pitched giggle. “I’m nervous. Fletcher. My name’s Fletcher.”

          “Okay, Fletcher,” Michael set his briefcase on the seat beside him. The voice on the phone was young—just a boy. Maybe sixteen or seventeen. “What can I do for you?”

          “You’re a lawyer, right? Good one I hear. That’s what I need, Mike. I need a—are you good with Mike? You never said.”

          “Mike is fine. And yes, I’m a public defender.”

          “Public defender. Right. That’s what I need, Mike. Some good old fashioned public defending.”

          Michael propped an arm over the park bench—probably his bench by this point. Ate lunch here every day—two hundred feet to the step from the PD’s office. How did this kid get my number? “Son, if you’re being prosecuted and choose to be represented by a public defender, you’ll be assigned one randomly. There’s nothing I can do to—”

          “Not if I hire you as private counsel.” Such an unsettling voice—fast and tremulous, with frequent breaks into spastic giggling. A mischievous little kid waiting for teacher to sit on a thumbtack. I should just hang up. But if the teen truly needed help…

          “As employees of the government, public defenders aren’t typically allowed to accept cases outside of—”

          “They can when they’re part-time employees. Like you, Mike. Or should I call you ‘Pastor Mike’?”

          Michael frowned. How did this kid know so much about public defenders? Or that I’m a pastor? He loosened his tie. Hot today. Beads of warm sweat trickled down the back of Michael’s dress shirt. “What exactly are you being charged with?”

          “Started out as petty-theft. I’m a pickpocket.” No shame. Perhaps even some pride.

          “You say ‘started out’?” Michael prodded.

          “Yeah. I got a little mouthy with the judge.” Giggle. “Now they’re hitting me with contempt.”

          More pride in place of shame. Does this kid not understand consequences?

          Michael squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Don’t just see the problem—see the person. “Okay. I may be able to help you. I just need to know what—”

          “That’s a nice watch you’ve got, Mike.”

          Michael’s stomach slowly knotted. He glanced at the silver watch on his left wrist. He can see me?

          He scanned the park—lunch hour on a warm spring day. The place was packed. The kid could be anywhere. Or could he? “You said you were charged with contempt?” Michael questioned, scanning the crowds.

          “A little sweetheart like that? I could get that baby off your wrist in less than a second.” Giggle. “And you’d never feel a thing.”

          This doesn’t make any sense. If they charged the kid with contempt of court, he should be sitting in a jail cell right now. “Fletcher, how are you talking to me?” Michael stood, grabbing his briefcase. “How are you seeing me?”

          “Doesn’t it seem weird to go to jail for an itty-bitty thing like that? Contempt?”

          “Answer me, Fletcher.” Irritation crept into his voice. “If you want me to help you, you need to answer my questions. How are you able to see me right now?” He’s playing with you, he chided himself. Lots of people wear watches. He’s just messing with you because he’s a dumb kid.

          Michael joined the crowds streaming the pathway. Something jostled his arm. He checked his wrist—still had his watch.

          Laughter from the other end of the phone. “Did you see me, Mike?”

          Michael whirled, searching the swarm for a teenage boy. He clenched his jaw. “I hope you enjoyed your little game, son, because it’s over now.” Michael slid his thumb to the ‘end call’ button. 

          “I don’t think you want to hang up on me, Mike.”

          Something about the voice stiffened Michael’s fingers. Playful mixed with an oily ominousness. “And why is that?”

          “Because I’m the one who’s been stealing from your church.”

          All the hair stood up on Michael’s neck. “What are you talking about?”

          Even as he spoke the words, a dozen unexplained incidents popped into his mind—strange disappearances over the last few weeks. Random, innocuous items—umbrella handles and piano keys and knobs off the kitchen stove. Michael had written them off as baffling annoyances. Never would have jumped to theft.

          “Let’s play a little game,” Fletcher said. “You try to find me. If you do, I’ll give back everything I stole. In the meantime, I’m going after that pretty little watch.”

          “Why would I agree to that? Why not just hang up and walk away?”

          Giggle. “Man, you must not want your stuff back.”

          Michael hesitated. Replacing a few piano keys was no big deal. But someone repeatedly breaking into the church was more concerning. How long until Fletcher started targeting members of the congregation? Play along for a bit. Try to catch a glimpse of him so you’ll know who to be on the lookout for.

          Michael walked slowly down the path, studying each face that passed. Most were like him—professionals on lunch break. Not many kids or teenagers. “So, I take it you’re not really looking for legal representation?”

          “No. That would mean they caught me. And they never catch me. They never even see me. I’m just too small.”

          Too small. Michael stored the nugget away, adjusting his eyeline to search for someone short. Something bumped him from behind and Michael checked for his watch. Still there.

          “Why are you doing this, Fletcher?” Michael continued down the park’s circular path, eyes darting from face to face. “Why steal from the church? Why play this game with me?”

          “Why do you do what you do, Michael? Public defender and a pastor? You must be a ghost to your family.”

          True enough. Didn’t see much of Gloria and the boys these days. Work was piling up on both sides, leaving him barely enough time to—

          A muted blur slipped past, elbowing him hard in the side. A dank aroma filled Michael’s nose—an unholy blend of body odor and motor oil. He tried to follow the blur—already gone. Disappeared into the crowd. “There! I just saw you!” And I’ve still got my watch.

          “Did you, Michael?” Another giggle. Man, that’s getting annoying. “Then what do I look like?”

          “You’re—” Michael stopped. Gritted his teeth in frustration. What had he really seen? A blur of motion. The vague essence of a being. But nothing he could describe.

          Michael spotted his bench up ahead—he’d made a full circuit. An idea came to him. “Tell me, Fletcher,” he said, walking to the bench, “how did you get my number?”

          “The same way I get anything, Mike.”

          What does that mean? Didn’t matter. He set his briefcase down and stood with the bench at his back, studying the streams of people passing by. Should have done this from the start—force the thief to come to him. With the bench protecting his backside, Fletcher would have to reveal himself—even for just a moment—if he wanted the watch.

          C’mon, kid. Show yourself. The more he talked to the giggling pickpocket, the more uneasy he grew. There was something off about Fletcher. Something bent and corrupted, surpassing typical juvenile delinquency. Behind that playful voice lurked something evil. Something deadly.

          Something that needed confronting.

          “I like the strategy, Mike. Get something behind you. Force me to come from the front. Now you’re getting it.”

          Michael searched the park desperately. Pine trees, water fountain, dog-walkers—no kid on a phone.

He’s looking at me right now. Why can’t I see him?

          Fletcher giggled again, the sound scraping Michael’s raw nerves. Only this time it didn’t stop. It continued on and on, devolving into full on guffaw. Michael fought the urge to hurl the phone, scanning the passing faces over and over. He should be able to see a laughing boy on a phone, right? Why can’t I SEE HIM?!

          “Oh, it’s not fair, Mike. It’s not even fair. Winning against someone like you is just so easy.”

          “Winning?” Michael checked his watch for what felt like the millionth time. Still there, glinting in the sunlight. “You didn’t win. I’ve still got the watch.”

          More laughter, high and screeching like a bat. “But I stole everything else!”

          Icy horror crept from the tips of Michael’s toes to the roots of his hair. My briefcase. He checked the bench—gone. He felt for his wallet and work phone, knowing before he checked that he’d find nothing but empty pockets.

          “You were”—Fletcher laughed so hard he could barely get the words out—“so focused on a thirty dollar watch that you let me take everything actually valuable!”

          Blind rage filled Michael—partly for Fletcher. Mostly for himself. How could he have been so stupid? “Where are you?” he growled. “Are you such a coward that you can’t even show your face?”

          “Sorry, Mike, but I’m already gone. If you want your stuff back, I suggest you follow me.”

          “Where are you going?”

          “C’mon, Mike. You already know.”

          Fletcher was right. He did know. He checked his breast pocket—good. Still had his car keys. He said he was small. Maybe he can’t reach that high.

          His phone beeped and Michael checked the screen.

Call ended.

He slipped the phone into his pants pocket and raced for the parking lot. He’s yanking my chain. He’s not giving the stuff back.

But what choice did he have?

          Had to keep playing.

          Twenty minutes later, Michael burst through the doors of the church, breathing hard. No other cars in the parking lot—but he’s here. The dank, oily odor he’d smelled in the park saturated the air. 

          He walked through the sanctuary, scanning the empty building. “Where are you, Fletcher?”

          “I’m everywhere, Mike.”

          The voice did seem to come from everywhere—around the pillars. Behind the piano. Up in the balcony.

          Michael backed slowly down the aisle of empty folding chairs, heart pounding. “Enough hiding!” he demanded. “Come out in the light where I can see you.”

          “You still can’t see me?” The giggling voice echoed through the empty church. “That’s no surprise. I was made for this, Mike. I’m just so small! And double-jointed to boot—I can go anywhere, squeeze in anywhere. I live in closets and cupboards and the space behind doors.”

          “But why?” Michael demanded, searching between the rows. “Why hide in the church? Why steal all these worthless odds and ends?”

          “Worthless?” Fletcher’s laughter rang from the ceiling and floorboards simultaneously. “Mike, you still don’t get it, do you? You don’t understand why I’m so good at what I do.”

          A sound behind him. A hand on his back. Michael whirled. Nothing there. Only that nose-wrinkling odor.  

          “You sure put in the hours, don’t you, pastor? Slogging through cases at the PD’s office. Then burning the midnight oil here—preparing sermons. Counseling poor, wayward souls. Tsk, tsk.” The wet, condescending sound oozed from the rafters. “Your kids probably don’t even remember what you look like.”

          Another dig at his family life. And the most insidious part—he’s not wrong.

“You’ve had some success here this past year. Haven’t you, Mike?”

          Michael jogged to the side wall, checking behind the pulpit. “We’ve been growing.” Had to keep him talking. Had to trace the source of the voice.

          “Don’t be modest, Mike. The past two months you’ve filled every seat. Won’t be long before you outgrow the building.” Giggle. “Maybe that’s why you haven’t seen me in the crowd.”

          Michael’s hands clenched into fists. Don’t let him get to you. “So, you’ve heard me preach?”

          “Well, I’ve been a little too busy to listen.”

          The statement stopped Michael in his tracks. “What do you mean?”

          A contented sigh. “I’m just so small, Mike. You have no idea. I’m so small! Slithering in and out of rows. Tapping this shoulder. Nudging that elbow. They never even see me. I’m quiet too. When I want to be. Barely a whisper. Too soft to draw attention. But loud enough to hear.”

          Light began to dawn in Michael’s mind. For the first time he began to understand who Fletcher was. What he was.

He looked around the empty church. The things Fletcher stole—piano keys, stovetop knobs—not worthless at all. Just perceived that way. But once you needed to bake a cake or play a song—and couldn’t—all at once these “odds and ends” became invaluable.

          “You got me to stop valuing them. My briefcase. Wallet. Phone.” Michael shook his head. “You had me so focused on the watch, I forgot to value them.”

          “Contempt, Michael. Look it up.” The voice reverberated off the windows. “’Disregard for that which should be taken into account’. I make my living on it. If someone locks their treasure in an iron safe, I can’t get near it.” Giggle. “But no one protects what they don’t value.”

          Reality slammed Michael in the chest—he had seen Fletcher, hadn’t he? Had seen him for months, but overlooked him. As he’d stood ministering the Word, hadn’t he seen the face of Fletcher time and again in the midst of the congregation? Seen him in every stifled yawn and rolled eye. Every bored check of the watch. Every disinterested slouch and fold of the arms.

Contempt.

He’d seen the signs, but never the double-jointed pickpocket slipping between the rows. Touching elbows. Whispering in ears. Making ready a flock ripe for fleecing.

          “Okay, Fletcher,” he muttered. “I’m onto you now.”

          But something was wrong. He felt it deep in his gut. I’m missing something. Searching a park full of strangers while a tiny pickpocket snatched his briefcase from a park bench. He ran his eyes slowly around the building—folding chairs, pulpit, piano, windows…

          A chill ran through him. It’s just a building. Wood, piping, conduit, vinyl—worthless.

          Michael dropped to his knees and began searching the undersides of the chairs. He found it halfway down the row—a tiny speaker. He plucked it out and examined it—barely larger than a horsefly. He’s probably got them all over the building. Projecting his voice even after leaving the building. If he wasn’t here, that only meant one thing: he’s going after what’s truly valuable.

          And as Michael stood in an empty church filled with empty folding chairs, he knew exactly what it was. Knew the priceless treasure he’d neglected to value.

          Knew what he’d treated with contempt.   

          Michael reached for his phone—gone.

His heart stopped. That hand on his back—Fletcher, stealing his phone right from his pocket.

No, no, no!

He couldn’t warn them.

He had to stop Fletcher himself—before it was too late. 

Michael bolted for the parking lot, ripping out his car keys—thank goodness he couldn’t reach my breast pocket. If only he’d kept his phone there. He leaped in the car and squealed out of the parking lot.

          The entire frantic drive, Michael could do nothing but desperately pray that he made it in time.

That he somehow reached his treasure before Fletcher.

He whipped around the final turn and roared up the tree-lined driveway—his driveway. The car barely stopped before he bolted out and sprinted to the house. He rounded the corner and spotted a small, dark figure entering a window on the far side, one leg already inside the house. Michael shouted and the intruder shrieked, taking off into the woods with otherworldly speed.

          Michael stopped at the open window, gasping for breath. A dark, viscous oil lingered on the windowsill, reeking with that foul odor he’d first smelled in the park.

          A buzzing sounded below him and he looked down—his phone, lying in the tangled grass below the window. He picked it up, wiped away the dark oil smearing the screen, and held it to his ear. The laughing voice of an out-of-breath Fletcher wheezed from the other end.

          “Almost…almost had you there, Mike. Almost…pulled it off.”

          Hot rage filled Michael’s chest. “Don’t you ever come to my home again, do you understand?”

          A high-pitched giggle. “Don’t you get it, Mike? I had a foot inside your house. If I’d made it all the way, you’d have never gotten rid of me. I’d be living in the walls. Crawling through the vents. Watching from the grates and between cracks in the floor.” He laughed his screeching laugh. “You think you’re such a big man when you’re standing in the courtroom or behind the pulpit. But when I came to your house, you weren’t here. And the window was wide open.”

          Shame filled Michael. He looked through the open window into the room beyond—his children’s playroom. Dinosaurs and picture books scattered across the Winnie the Pooh rug. Gloria’s white sweater draped across the rocking chair.

How much of himself had he given to his job and the ministry while becoming a ghost to his own family? How much had been stolen away? Given away? “I’m sorry,” he whispered to the empty room. He swiped a tear away with the heel of his palm. Sorry for treating you with contempt.

          Fletcher giggled. “See you Sunday, pastor.”

          “No.” Strength surged into Michael’s voice. “No, you won’t. We’ll be watching for you now. All of us.”

          “Well, you can try. But I’m pretty small.” All the humor dropped from Fletcher’s voice. “You should know, pastor. Someone else is coming.” Pause. “And he isn’t small.”

          “Whoever it is, we’ll be ready for him. We’ll all be ready.” Michael climbed through the window into the playroom. Wiped the oily gunk from the sill.

          “I doubt that, Mike. I really, really doubt that.”

          Michael hung up the phone and slipped it in his pocket.

          Then closed and locked the window.