J. Gonzalez - They

For a minute Vince didn’t think he would be able to speak. Finally he sputtered, “Doesn’t she know enough after what happened? All I’m going to do is tell her I’m leaving town for the weekend. Why keep anything further from her?”

“For the reasons I told you yesterday, and what Mike and I told you last night at dinner.” Frank sighed wearily. “Look, Vince, I don’t like playing the crazy conspiracy theorist. I really don’t. But until this thing is over, we need to keep a close knit on this thing. You don’t want to endanger Tracy further, do you?”

“No.” Vince saw Frank’s logic, but he still didn’t understand the paranoia. If Tracy wasn’t one of them, what was the harm in telling her he wasn’t going to be able to see her this weekend? He voiced this to Frank. “We already made plans,” he said.

Frank appeared to struggle with this, and then relented. “All right,” he said. “But quickly. Tell her your flight is leaving in an hour and you have to head to the airport.”

Vince picked up the phone and started dialing Tracy’s work number again, wondering if Frank was going to give him privacy. Frank stood beside him, waiting. Vince listened to the phone ring on Tracy’s end, trying not to let his displeasure toward Frank’s eavesdropping show.

“Tracy Harris.”

“Tracy, it’s Vince.”

“Vince!” Her voice brightened instantly and Vince’s heart warmed at the sound of it. Yes, he was definitely beginning to develop feelings for her. “You coming in today?”

“No, I’m not,” he said, feeling the pressure of Frank standing over him, listening to every word that was being said begin to intrude on him. “In fact, I won’t be in for probably the next two weeks. I’m leaving for Philly in about an hour, and I just wanted to let you know. I’m sorry that spoils our weekend, and I’m sorry I can’t explain more, but—” He detected a faint nod of disapproval from Frank and continued on. “—I’ve got more stuff to take care of regarding my mother. I’m sorry.”

Tracy was silent for a moment. Vince could picture her in her cubicle, holding the receiver to her ear, looking stunned at this sudden news. “That’s okay, Vince,” she said. It was evident from her tone of voice that she was shocked at the sudden news. “I know you… have to get through all that’s happened with your mother and… what happened Sunday, but… I just… wish you would have told me sooner.”

“I wish I did, too,” Vince said. “But then all this has happened so suddenly.” He detected movement out of the corner of his eye and looked up at Frank, who was making a slashing motion across his throat. Time to cut this conversation off now . Vince nodded. “I’m sorry about the suddenness of all this and I promise to make it up to you. I’ll call you when I get back, okay?”

“Okay.” Her voice still sounded surprised; he didn’t know her well enough yet to detect whether there was a trace of hurt feelings, but he supposed that under the circumstances there was. “When will you call me?”

“As soon as I can,” Vince said, and now Frank was making the cut-off gestures more frantically now. “I gotta go honey, my shuttle is here. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Tracy said, and then Vince hung up.

He sat on the bed for a moment, still stunned at how sudden and awkward the conversation had been. Frank sighed. “I’m sorry I had to be so abrupt with you, Vince, but I hope you understand.”

“I hope someday I do understand,” Vince said as he stood up and, not looking at Frank, headed to the master bathroom for his shower.

Lititz, Pennsylvania

REVEREND HANK POWELL carried his Colt Python with him everywhere he went now.

Even when he was in the house.

Especially when he was in the house.

If they could only see me now , Reverend Powell thought to himself as he trudged warily down the stairs to his finished basement. While he was dressed in his usual attire—a pair of clean, fresh jeans, a short-sleeved cotton shirt, blue tennis shoes—he hadn’t shaved or showered in three days. His thinning hair was heavy with grease and dandruff. His stubble was thickening, and Hank paused occasionally to scratch his itchy cheeks. Most prominent were his eyes, which were red-rimmed and haunted, dark circles and bags prominent under them. What little sleep Hank Powell had been able to get had been in fits and starts, in two hour snatches.

He always had the Colt within easy reach, even when sleeping. Most of the time he fell asleep with it clutched in his hand.

Reverend Powell’s finished basement had been built into a very comfortable living space. The stairs to the basement led to a comfortable den with a plush sofa and easy chair and a twenty-seven-inch Minolta TV on a polished oak stand. To the right of the den was a separate room that Reverend Powell had converted to a guestroom. Beyond the den was a recreation room flanked by a bar. Three barstools at the bar, and the glass shelving behind it housed an impressive liquor cabinet. An impressive looking pool table took up most of the space in the recreation room, and perched on the far wall was the head and shoulders of a buck he’d taken down ten years ago in Berks County. He headed past the pool table to a door that led to a small storeroom, the only space in the basement that wasn’t completely finished.

He opened the door and turned on the light from the string that hung down from the bare sixty-watt bulb in the ceiling. The room was small, twelve by fifteen feet perhaps, with wood shelving and a concrete floor. Reverend Powell kept what few tools he had and various odds and ends down here; old books, photo albums, things he couldn’t bear to throw away. He stepped further into the room and reached into a shelf space and felt around the bare concrete wall to a spot that was a natural cubby-hole, his groping fingers brushing against what he’d stashed in there three days ago since finding it. Now he brought it out with shaking hands, wondering why he was looking at it again when he knew it was just going to make him more afraid and paranoid.

He found the box the day Vince left for California. He’d headed over to Maggie Walter’s place that evening very late, hoping to avoid the curious speculations of the few neighbors who lived in the area. He’d parked his truck behind her home, and headed to the backyard where he sat on her porch for awhile, letting his eyes get adjusted to the dark. It had been a clear night, with a half-moon riding high in the sky providing all the illumination he would need. He’d looked out at the backyard, noticing a few of the marks in the ground he’d dug then covered up, not giving a damn if it would attract the attention of the authorities if they decided to come poking around again. He decided it wouldn’t matter. If anybody decided to ask him he would suggest that it was probably animals digging around in her backyard.

The first time he’d come to the yard in that first futile attempt at locating the box he counted off the ten paces just as Lillian had told him. That first dig yielded nothing, so he tried to the immediate left and right of that first attempt. Then he’d tried a foot ahead, again to the left and right. He’d left that evening, not wanting to arouse too much suspicion.

The next trip had proven to be a charm, though. He counted ten steps again, this time taking to mind Maggie’s smaller stature. He wound up two steps behind his original ten from his first attempt and started digging. Five minutes later he hit pay dirt.

He’d brushed the dirt off the box, covered up the hole, then climbed in his Explorer and driven home. The key he’d lifted from Lillian’s home on the day she died was in his bedroom drawer. He’d gotten it, then opened the little silver lock that held the box closed.