J. Gonzalez - They

So when John related to Hank that the symbols drawn on the wall of Maggie’s home were satanic in origin, he had to question it. What were they, half moons or something? Maybe a star drawn in blood ? he remembered asking John. He was getting sick of Christians seeing the devil in everything from a moon to a simple star.

John had shrugged his shoulders. Just symbols. Weird things. They looked satanic to me .

Hank had asked Tom Hoffman if he could view photos of the symbols John described seeing and the Chief had politely refused. I can’t , he’d explained calmly, patiently. Not while the investigation is ongoing .

He’d asked Tom about the symbols John had seen on the wall. Tom wouldn’t comment on those, but Hank could tell from the look of the lawman’s face that John had been telling the truth. The symbols existed, and Tom’s refusal to comment on them was most likely for the sake of the investigation. But Hank got the faint hint that Tom Hoffman was afraid of something as well. Afraid of commenting on it because it would expose his inner thoughts as to what he really felt was behind the brutal slaying.

Hank sat at the kitchen table of his home, the Colt in his hand and the box of shells within easy reach. He sat in the silence for a moment, noting the tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway, the chirping of the crickets outside, the soft rustle of the wind. He sighed and rose to his feet. He was nervous and while he thought he knew why, he still felt like he was groping in the dark for an answer. I’m a man of the Lord, he thought. If I believe in all that is holy and pure in spirit, why do I find it so hard to accept the fact that when all that is Unholy and Satanic comes and practically strikes me in the face, I find it hard to admit it ?

Perhaps it was because he hadn’t been confronted with it before. A person is more likely to believe in something that is physical. But my faith in God is just as strong as my faith that the wind blows, that a tree is made of wood and bark, that I am covered with skin and hair, that I am part of the Mammal kingdom. That concrete is made of sand and stone. If my faith in God is as strong as my belief in the existence of the things He has created, why do I find it so hard to believe that something truly evil has happened in this village ?

Hank Powell sat in his favorite easy chair in the living room cradling the Colt .45, debating this in his mind. He thought about what he’d found in the box, which he’d missed by a scant two feet during his first dig. He’d found the key to the lock in Lillian’s home, taped to the inside front cover of the Bible with the black leather cover where she said it was going to be. He’d looked at the photographs and newspaper clippings, read them over and over again with slowly mounting horror, then put them away, not knowing what to do. Surely they couldn’t mean what his frantic mind was trying to warn him was the truth. Despite his conflicting thoughts, there was one thing he was certain of; in order to fully believe in what his mind and soul were battling, he didn’t want to be faced with it the way Maggie Walters and Lillian Withers had.

VINCE WALTERS WAS at his desk in his office the following morning preparing for the Tillinghast Project when his private line rang.

He picked it up on the first ring, thinking it was probably Detective Staley. The detective had called him earlier this morning to tell him they had a suspect in custody, and that he would be calling later to give him more information. “Yeah?”

“Is this Vince Walters?” The voice was male. Vince didn’t recognize it; it surely wasn’t Detective Staley.

“Yes, this is,” Vince said, slightly irritated. There was a deadline on this project and this had better not be some goddamned secretary calling to schedule a meeting. Nobody knew his private number except for Tracy, his secretary Glenda, and Brian.

“I have some information on your mother’s death that I think you might find interesting.”

Vince was startled. “What?”

“You heard me right the first time,” the voice said. “I’ll only repeat it one more time: I have some information on your mother’s death that I think—”

Vince’s heart was racing madly and it took all his will power to lower his voice. “Who the hell are you and how did you—”

“If you want to talk to me, meet me in twenty minutes at the Holly Street Bar. You know where it is?”

Vince’s mind was racing. Was this a trick?

“Holly Street Bar and Grill in Irvine. On Jamboree Avenue next door to Tower Records. I’ll be in a corner booth. Twenty minutes.” The line went dead.

Vince held the receiver in his hand, the open dial tone humming. He put the phone down and rested his head in his hands. His stomach was doing slow flip-flops and his hands were shaking. His mind was a jumbled mass of questions that threatened to tumble out of him. How the hell did this guy know his name and who was he? How did he know mom was dead and how did he get my private phone number ?

Vince looked out his office window into the business park Corporate Financial had their offices in. He’d gotten a police escort to work this morning, and with the news of the arrest of a suspect in yesterday’s attack Vince guessed that they might be scaling back their protection of him. After all, he was only an ordinary citizen, and it was probably costing the city of Irvine a lot of money to give him and Tracy what protection they’d been able to give. He wasn’t even planning to go to work, but he had a project deadline and decided to go in for a short day to tie up those loose ends.

Vince contemplated the repercussions of heading out to this meeting. Surely there wouldn’t be any harm in darting out real quick, would there? He’d be careful, would pay attention to everything around him, and he knew enough not to get himself in a sticky situation. It wouldn’t take long, either. Ten minutes to drive over, ten minutes back, maybe five minutes to get the bottom of this and he’d be back in his office. No problem.

He left for Holly Street Bar and Grill three minutes later.

HE WAS NERVOUS on the drive, checking his rearview mirror constantly. Several times at stoplights he was afraid every car that pulled up next to him was going to be an assassin. Several times he found himself flinching, one time almost ducking. He kept telling himself, they’ve got the guy in custody, it was just some fucking nut and we’ll find out why he was trying to kill me later this afternoon . That calmed him down, and he was able to drive to the mini-mall with a renewed sense of ease.

Once he found the mall, he swung into the parking lot and cruised until he found a spot. He killed the engine and sat in the car. He looked out at the mini-mall, which was bustling with business as teenagers out of school cruised for action and soccer moms shopped with their kids. The mall housed a Ralph’s grocery store, a Target, a couple of gift shops, a Barnes and Noble Bookstore with an attached Starbucks coffee shop, and an assortment of fast food eateries. Holly St. Bar and Grill was situated in the middle of the structure, between Tower Records and Round Table Pizza. Vince got out of the car and started walking toward it.

He’d driven to the mini-mall in a numbed state of shock. All he could think about were two things: this was a scam to get him out of the office so they (whoever they were) could kill him; and who was the man that called? As he drew up to the restaurant his stomach began fluttering again. His hands were clammy. He gripped the brass door handle and pulled.

The restaurant was a classy version of one of those Bar and Grill restaurants that sell burgers and taco salads and chicken strips and also have a full bar. The restaurant was filled with tables and booths, all of which was situated around a full bar. I’ll be in the corner booth , the voice had said. Vince craned his head, trying to look over the sea of people. A pretty blonde hostess smiled at him. “Can I help you, sir?”