J. Gonzalez - They

“To her it probably is the world’s wickedest secret,” Reverend Powell said. “The sins of one’s past life can put a tremendous burden on our walks with Christ if we do not shed them. I’ve no doubt that Maggie has shed her sins through Christ, but why she would keep the mementos of those sins, I can’t say.”

“So you really think that’s what they are?” Lillian had asked. “Newspaper clippings maybe, or old photographs of the person she used to be?”

“Of course,” Reverend Powell said. He’d pulled his feet off the desk and sat forward. He was a big man, but gentle. His voice, which was a deep booming baritone, could be surprisingly mellow and soothing. “We won’t know what she has in that box until the day has come when what she has asked us to do comes to pass. But if it puts your mind at ease, it’s my sincere belief that all it carries is probably pictures of her past life, maybe an old scrapbook or phone book. Maybe there’s information on her family in it.”

“She’s never talked about her family at all,” Lillian said.

“Maybe she has a reason not to. Maybe they… treated her badly at some point in her past. Neglected her, abused her. Maybe they were heathens. And the reason she’s keeping this material is because the blood tie is strong. Only the Lord knows. And I think we should respect her wish.”

That had been the end of it. She’d never asked Maggie about the contents of the box, and she never brought the subject up with Reverend Powell again. On the morning they learned Maggie had been murdered, her mind went back to that afternoon over a decade ago when Maggie made her promise to dig up the box and she’d cast her eyes over at Reverend Powell, who was consoling Mary Rossington in her grief. Reverend Powell’s eyes met hers over Mary’s curly-topped head and held them. They were both thinking the same thing. The time had come for that box to be unearthed.

Lillian rose from her chair and went to the kitchen. She went to the closet where she kept her garbage can and fished around. Her fingers grasped the handle of a shovel and she pulled it out, hefting it in her hand. It was almost eleven o’clock, but she didn’t feel the least bit tired. The key was taped to the pages of a Bible that Maggie had given to her as a gift a year before, but there was no need to retrieve it yet. Nor did she feel like waiting until tomorrow to fulfill her end of the promise she’d made. She pulled open one of the drawers of the countertop and pulled out a heavy flashlight. She turned it on. The beam was strong. She turned the flashlight off and carried both tools to the living room. She set the shovel down, leaning its handle against the wall, and put the flashlight on a small end table. Then she grabbed her tennis shoes and put them on. When her shoes were on, she grabbed the flashlight and shovel and was just about to exit the house by the back door when a hand clamped over her mouth and strong arms yanked her back in the house.

Her heart leaped in her throat as she was spun around. A man she didn’t recognize stood in front of her and she could sense another man behind her, his hand still clamped over her mouth. The man in front of her was holding a piece of duct tape. “We need to talk,” he said, as he stepped forward and deftly covered Lillian’s mouth with the tape.

Oh my God, it’s the same men that killed Maggie ! Lillian’s mind shrieked. She knew this was the case even as the man behind her guided her into the living room. Her eyes grew wide as she entered the living room as her gaze lit across a third person in the house. A young woman with blond hair, her features pleasant, wholesome, all-American. The woman looked up with anticipation.

“Sit.” The man behind her barked, and strong hands pushed her into a chair. She looked up at the two men, her adrenaline pumping through her veins. She felt suddenly hot in the claustrophobic closeness of her little home.

The man that had grabbed her stepped in front of her, and now she got a good look at him. He was young, with short dark hair, wearing dark slacks and a dark coat over a white shirt. His accomplice was blond, his features gaunt, his skinny frame bearing loose fitting jeans and a billowy shirt. They looked indifferent as they gazed down at her. What do they want from me, oh my God, what do they want —

“We can make this easy, or we can make this very hard,” the first man said in slow, measured tones. “It doesn’t matter to us, but it will to you. You can either go through the same torture your friend went through, or you can tell us what we need to know right now. And if you think your death will be connected to your friend’s, you can forget it. If you decide not to cooperate, we will torture you, but the authorities will think you’ve succumbed to heart failure. It’s really quite simple to do, especially once you’ve given yourself over to the Dark Lord.”

Oh sweet Jesus, help me Lord, give me strength, get thee behind me Satan —

“So what will it be, Lillian?” The man leaned forward as the young woman stood up and pointed at her. The young woman began chanting in a fluting, musical voice. An homine en guterish en domine en deamon ia, shggth nggslamna hanbi .

“So what will it be, Lillian?” the man said and suddenly, as if by magic, hundreds of large spiders were crawling on her, covering the floor, crawling up her legs and body, some already crawling up her neck. She instinctively tried to bolt out of the chair but something was holding her back as if she was tied down. “Will you tell us everything Maggie Walters told you? We know she told you about her son and us. Please, indulge us.”

Lillian looked up at the man, her eyes open wide in fear as she felt the first spider sink its fangs into the soft flesh of her belly. A minute later another spider bit into her neck and Lillian screamed through the tape.

“We can make this all go away now if you wish. You know what to do.”

Maggie’s words went through Lillian’s brain. You are not to tell anybody about this. You are to dig up the box, then take it and the contents to Reverend Powell. Read them together . She thought about what Maggie had died for, thought about the way she’d died, about the symbols written in blood on the wall of her bedroom. There was no way she was going to betray her friend. There was no way she was going to give in to these denizens of Satan.

And Lillian, her fear rising, casting a quick prayer up to her Lord to give her strength, shook her head slowly. No .

In the end, the torture was to be a thousand times worse than Maggie’s.

June 24, 1999, 10:30 PM, Pacific Standard Time.

Hollywood, California.

FRANK BLACK SAT at the bar inside Harry’s Pub on the Strip, surprised that the glass sitting in front of him didn’t contain an alcoholic beverage.

He took a sip of his Coca-Cola and surveyed the bar from his position. Man, how the place had changed. Originally an Italian restaurant, Harry’s quickly became a haven for movie stars and producers in the forties and fifties. Due to its proximity to the Rainbow Bar and Grill across the street, the spot became a hangout for rock stars in the 1980s. With Gazarri’s (now called the Key Club), the Roxy and the Whiskey A Go-Go across the street as well, Harry’s quickly became the watering hole for members of Led Zeppelin, David Bowie, Aerosmith, and every rock star that came to Los Angeles. In the 1980s it became the hangout spot for the scores of aspiring musicians that played the clubs and littered the sunset strip with flyers for their bands. The LAPD made nightly arrests for everything from fights to public drunkenness to drug dealing. Sometimes they busted people for no reason other than to provide amusement for themselves, thus proving militant blacks wrong that the LAPD was down on African Americans. Frank had seen them beat the crap out of people of all races just because they felt like it. Once he’d been arrested while walking to Harry’s. He hadn’t taken a drink all day, he hadn’t been carrying, and he was cold sober. The pigs had just wanted to hassle him because he was wearing a leather jacket and had long hair.