When we moved to Colorado Springs for my girlfriend’s dermatology residency, we began attending The Church of the New Blood, one of the many Evangelical churches that had sprung up around the city. Let by the charismatic Hamish MacDonald, the church attracted about 5,000 worshipers every Sunday. It was not a traditional service—a rock band replaced the choir and the pastor wore jeans and a t-shirt. However, in doctrine, the church was very conservative. After a ten minute intro where Rev. MacDonald would offer some trite advice on topics like dealing with stress and being true to yourself, the reverend would turn up his Scottish accent and deliver a fire-and-brimstone sermon that would make Cotton Mather and Jonathan Edwards blush.
It wasn’t my choice to attend. But since it was important to my Vanessa, my girlfriend, I agreed to go.
This past August, Vanessa invited me to go hiking with a group from the church on a Tuesday morning. I loved hiking, disliked most church folk, but since she seemed excited about it, and since it was a mountain I had never summited, I agreed to go.
We drove about an hour to the mountain, arriving just after 8. The parking lot was empty save for a yellow Porsche 911. Standing outside it was Hamish, looking ridiculous in a bright orange hiking jacket.
“Nice car for a pastor,” I said to Vanessa. “Looks like the money from your tithing went to a good cause.”
She sighed. “He’s a good man and has helped thousands of people. If he wants to have a little toy, let him.”
We got out of our jeep and approached Hamish. “Just us today?” I asked.
“Aye,” replied Hamish. “Looks like the rest of the club chickened out. Either that, or they had work. But more mountain for us. Let’s get going, we have a long day ahead of us. Just shy of 9 miles round trip, nearly a 14er, summit tops out at 13,996 feet.”
We walked in silence. First on a flat trail that weaved through a marshy alpine meadow, before we began a gentle climb through Ponderosa pines and Douglas firs. Soon the trail became steeper, and Hamish had to take a break every ten minutes or so.
“I’m not in as good shape as you, Jake,” Hamish said during one of these breaks. “You’re very fit, heard you were a football star at your university.”
“I’m not sure I could be considered a star,” I said, wondering how Hamish, who I had never talked to before, knew about my past.
“You sound a bit gloomy, mate. Here’s a joke to cheer you up. Why did the Scottish baby cough?”
“Why?”
“Because he had a wee cold.” He looked at me. “Come on lad, do you not get the joke? You can laugh.”
I forced myself to laugh, and we resumed our hike in silence, like monks walking the Camino.
As we gained in elevation, the trees kept getting smaller, looking more like shrubs, until only grasses lined the slopes. At noon, when we still had an hour to go before reaching the summit, I suggested turning around.
“No need for that,” Hamish said. “Look at the beautiful sky, Not a rain cloud in sight.”
“They say to be off the summit by noon,” I replied.
“No, it’s off by two. We have plenty of time. Trust me, I’m from Scotland, been climbing my whole life, since I was a wee lad. We’re fine, just have a little faith.” He started walking.
I looked over at my girlfriend, but she was following Hamish.
We finally reached the rocky summit a little after 1, much later than I anticipated. The weather was still good, but I knew it could change abruptly in the mountains.
“Let’s not stay too long here,” I said. “We really don’t want to get caught in a storm above the timberline.”
Hamish ignored me. He sat down and pulled out a trail bar from his backpack. A marmot, hoping for food, emerged from the rocks and approached the pastor, who swatted at the rodent.
“Annoying lilbugger,” he said, before turning to me. “Look at this beautiful view. Look at God’s creation. I don’t know how someone can see a sight like this and deny his existence.”
It was indeed a beautiful view. Pristine wilderness, no sign of civilization. As I scanned the vista, I thought I saw a large mass moving, about a mile down the trial.
“Look,” I said, pointing. Hamish and my girlfriend got up, but what I saw, if it was ever there, had vanished.
“Maybe it was a mountain goat,” Hamish said. “Or an elk. They’re common in these mountains.”
“Maybe,” I said. But it looked like it was walking upright. Perhaps just another hiker. But I doubted anyone would have started their hike so late in the day. I looked down the trail for several minutes. Saw nothing, but fog was beginning to roll in.
“So,” said Hamish, breaking the awkward silence. “There is something I want to talk to you about.”
I sighed. “Hamish, we do not have any more money to give you. Just because my girlfriend’s a doctor does not mean we’re rich. Judging from your car, you have more than enough. You don’t need a private jet too. Against my wishes, my girlfriend gives you 10% of her income. She’s not giving you more.”
“It is not money that I am after.”
“Then what do you want?”
He paused for a few seconds. “I need you to trust me. I trust you, so much that I will tell you something, something that I have never told any other members of the congregation. My birth name was not Hamish MacDonald, it was Ismail Qesari. I was not born in Scotland, but in the highlands of Albania. My family was part of an acting troupe; we traveled the mountains by donkey, performing in village after village. But that way of life was dying, and my parents knew they had to escape. They took out a large loan, a loan that they knew they would never, and could never, repay. We rode a bus to the capital of Tirana, where at the embassy we were able to obtain a visa, by producing forged documents which stated that we were to perform at the Fringe Festival in Edinburgh. After we landed in Scotland, we never came back. For if we, or any of our descendants, return, our lives will be in danger. For we have never payed our debt, so a blood feud, or a gjakmarrja, has been initiated.”
“What are you telling me this for,” I asked. “You’re confessing that you’ve been lying this whole time? That you’re a fraud?”
He shook his head. “No, I have never lied. When I first got to Scoland, as a lad of 8, I was bullied for my name, my accent. So I took a name as Scottish as bagpipes and haggis. I have never told anyone this before. For some members of the congregation would look with suspicion at someone who was born with a name like mine. I am telling you that because I trust you and want you to trust me. Most importantly, you need to trust God.”
“So what do you have to tell me?” I asked.
“I had a revelation from God last night, in the form of a dream. He has a plan, and he wants you, as well as me, to be involved in the plan.”
“I’m not listening to your nonsense,” I said, getting up. I turned to Vanessa. “And if you are going to listen to his nonsense, we are through.”
“Jake, my good lad,” Hamish said. “God has spoken to me in a dream. He has given me clear instructions, although I must confess, I do not understand his plan. He wants me to be with Vanessa, not you.”
“What?” I was not expecting this, not even from Hamish.
“I have prayerfully considered the vision I received, for one ought to be wary when they receive a vision, for Corinthians says that ‘Satan disguises himself as an angel of light.’ However, James 1:5 says ‘if any of you lack wisdom, let him ask God, who gives generously,’ and so I asked God, who provided me wisdom in abundance. This is a message from God. You do not always understand God’s plan, but if he tells you to do something, you do it.”
“Look, I’m sure you tricked many members of your flock, but I’m not deluded like them. I’m not going to be cucked by you.”
“God has revealed things about you to me, Jake. And about your girlfriend. You two are not saving yourselves for marriage, an all too common, but still grievous, sin. However, you go beyond that, by inviting other individuals, both men and women, to join you in your bed.”
I looked at Vanessa. “Have you been sharing our private life with him?” I asked. She shook her head and appeared as shocked as me. I believed her. I began walking down the path, slowly, for the fog was getting thicker, hoping she would follow me.
“Look!” Hamish cried, a few seconds later. I turned around and saw him levitating a few inches off the ground. “Do you believe me now?”
He stayed in the air for about five seconds. I don’t know how he did it, whether he installed some mirrors or wires on an earlier trip to the summit, but it didn’t change my mind.
“A cheap magic trick won’t convince me,” I yelled. “How many men and women have you fooled? How many have you coerced into sleeping with you? You’re not a man of God, you’re a charlatan, a fraud, a—“
A gunshot rang out, a bullet ricocheting off one of the rocks a few feet from us. Four more shots rang out in quick succession, spewing up dirt.
“We need to get out of here,” said Hamish, seemingly calm. “There’s a path that goes down the back of the mountain. It’ll be longer, but that shot came from the path we took up.”
I didn’t want to follow Hamish, but it seemed like I had no choice. I scurried back up to the summit. I had a feeling that Hamish was in cahoots with the shooter, so he could play hero and convince us that God sent him to deliver us from danger. Either that or it was some moron shooting randomly in the fog.
As we made our way down the mountain, the fog continued to thicken, visibility reduced to only a few feet. Thankfully, Hamish seemed to know the way.
Twenty minutes later, the fog began to lift. We were making our way along the narrow edge of a cliff, a steep drop off several hundred feet on our right, when a shot rang out, whizzing past my face. Hamish turned around, a look of shock on his face. Four more shots followed, the first three missing but the final passing through Hamish’s jaw. He opened his mouth as if to scream, but no sound was emitted, only a torrent of blood. Half a second later, his convulsing body fell off the cliff
I ran, almost losing my footing several times, taking shelter behind a large glacial boulder. I looked back and saw Vanessa close behind.
“You left me behind, you goddamn bastard,” she screamed as she dove behind the boulder.
“What was I supposed to do? Just shut up, so whoever’s here can’t hear us.”
She said nothing, tears filling her eyes.
We waited behind the boulder for several minutes, the fog slowly lifting. I peaked my head out. On the summit, not even a quarter of a mile away, was a man, dressed head to toe in camouflage, aiming a rifle towards us.
I ducked back behind the boulder just in time, a bullet whizzing past less than a foot from my face.
“We’re safe behind here,” I said.
“We’re not safe!” Vanessa said. “There’s a deranged lunatic with a gun who knows where we are hiding.”
“Just stay here. I’ve got a plan.”
She looked at me as if she knew that I didn’t have a plan, but she said nothing.
I hoped that the fog would roll back in, so we would have some cover, but none did. About thirty minutes later, I heard footsteps coming down the edge of the cliff. I quickly told my girlfriend the plan I had just devised. I thought she would argue, but she didn’t.
“Come out, come out little kitties,” the gunman cried, in, to my surprise, what sounded like an Australian accent. “Come out to papa, my darlings. I know where you are hiding.”
“Now,” I whispered to me girlfriend, when the gunman’s footsteps sounded to be about twenty feet away. She ran, perpendicular to the cliff’s edge, towards another boulder.
Half a second later, I left the cover of the boulder, charging the gunman, screaming like a banshee. He quickly readjusted his aim, away from my girlfriend, and fired a single shot at me, grazing my left arm. Adrenaline pumping, I tackled him as he aimed to fire a second shot, hearing a crack as his head slammed into the rocky path. I tried to wrestle the gun away from him, but, despite his injury, he held on tight. After a few seconds of tumbling on the ground, perilously close to the edge of the cliff, I managed to yank it away from him. I fired a single shot into his skull and kicked his lifeless body off the edge of the cliff.
I ran back to Vanessa, hugging her. She examined my arm, rinsing it off with water from her bottle and bandaging it with a piece of my shirt.
“Barely grazed you,” she pronounced. “Keep applying pressure and keep it elevated. Bleeding should stop soon. My main worry is it getting infected from all the dirt and debris that entered. I’d recommend visiting an urgent care clinic once we’re back. And getting a tetanus booster if you haven’t had one recently.”
“Wow, you sounded like an actual doctor for a second,” I said. “Thought all you dermatologists did was pop pimples.”
“How many rounds does that gun have left,” she said, ignoring my quip.
“I’m not sure. I honestly don’t know how to check.”
“You’re useless,” she said, picking the gun off the ground. “It’s empty, you fired the last round.”
“Lucky me,” I said. “Bet if it weren’t I’d be joining the pastor and our Aussie friend.”
She threw the gun off the cliff. “No use in lugging that around.”
Once the bleeding stopped, we resumed our descent. We were still above the timberline when a lighting storm rolled in, large chunks of hail falling all around us. There was no gap between when I saw the lightning and heard the thunder; the storm was right over us.
We spread out, crouching on our backpacks to avoid any catching any currents from the ground. But I knew we were going to die. Lightning was striking all around us. It was only a matter of time till a bolt found one of us. However, after twenty minutes the storm abated, and we continued our descent, soaked but alive.
It was after sunset when we finally made our way back to the parking lot, soaking wet, bruised and bloody, but alive. There was no cars but ours and Hamish’s. The nearest town was over ten miles away, and I doubted that the shooter walked all that way armed with a sniper rifle.
We entered our jeep, but the ignition wouldn’t start. I popped open the hood. The battery cables were sliced.
“We aren’t going anywhere,” I said. I checked my phone. As I expected, there was no service. “We can either stay here, hoping that the gunman’s accomplice ran off, or try walking the mountain roads ten miles in the dark to the nearest town.”
We decided to stay. The temperature dropped down into the forties, and we cuddled in the backseat for warmth. Around midnight, a black sedan entered the parking lot.
I watched as, to my surprise, a woman exited the vehicle. From the trunk, she pulled out a tripod. And then, to my great relief, a large camera. She was just an astrophotographer. We were saved.
The local newspaper identified the gunman as Ian O’Rourke, a former Australian infantryman who had been living in the United States for several years. It made no mention of a possible motive. Was he a hitman, hired to kill Hamish by the family of the cheated lender back in Albania? By one of the husbands who Hamish had cucked? Or was Hamish not the target? Was he after me?