J. Gonzalez - They

Snaring a rental car in Philadelphia, Vince drove the three of them to the hotel, a Marriot near the airport. The room price was steep considering its proximity to the airport, but Mike paid for it with the credit card he had secured under his David Connelly pseudonym. As Vince stood in the lobby with Frank, Mike signed them in. They’d met at LAX and traveled together without talking much. Mike had spent a considerable amount of time on his cell phone, back turned to the two of them some twenty yards away while they waited to embark on their plane. Judging from the animated conversation, Mike was probably arguing with his wife. Frank had watched through mirrored shades, his features grave. When Mike came back, Frank nodded. “Trouble?”

“No trouble,” Mike had said, sitting down, his features pensive. “Everything’s fine.”

Things didn’t look fine to Vince, though, but he kept silent about it.

After checking into their room, Mike had suggested they get some sleep so they could wake up early for the drive to Lancaster County. The room had two queen-sized beds. Mike and Frank shared one after flipping coins for dibs on the beds, and Vince wound up the winner.

After an eight a.m., wake-up call they showered in alternating shifts, dressed hurriedly, and then checked out. After stopping at a restaurant for breakfast and coffee, they made their way to Lancaster County.

They were heading south on Route 222 when Vince suggested the Ephrata Motel. “It might be a good idea to be outside of Lititz, just in case,” he suggested. Mike felt that was a good idea. He pulled off at Main Street in Ephrata at Vince’s directions and they pulled in front of the motel within five minutes.

The motel was an L shaped building with twelve cabins facing a small parking lot. It reminded Vince of the Bates Motel in its simplicity. Mike went to the office and came back a few minutes later. “We’ve got a room that sounds pretty cramped. It has one queen sized bed and one single rollout cot. Best I could do.”

“That’s fine,” Vince said. They carried their luggage down the short walkway to cabin number 5 and waited while Mike got it unlocked.

The room was small, with the bed, the cot, a small dresser, a small television mounted on a stand bolted to the wall, and nothing else. There was a small bathroom off the entrance. “What do you expect for thirty bucks a night?” Mike said, flipping the light on.

It was just after twelve-thirty in the afternoon. Vince flopped down on the bed. “Well, what do we do now?”

“How far is Lititz from here?” Mike asked.

“About ten, fifteen minutes maybe,” Vince said.

“Does Reverend Powell have any other job outside of ministering to his church?” Frank asked.

“When I lived out here I remember he used to be a general contractor,” Vince said. “I think he’s still doing that.”

“So if we call him at home he might be there,” Mike said. “Unless he’s off at a job site.”

Vince nodded. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Why don’t you give him a call? Tell him you’re in town and see if he’s willing to meet with us. Is there a library around here?”

“Yeah, there’s one off 272,” Vince said, motioning outside. “It’s probably about a half-mile walk or so.”

Mike turned to Frank. “If the Reverend is in, why don’t you head over to the library and do some research? Check out back issues of area newspapers and see if there are any stories of unusual crimes that have occurred in the past few years or so. You know what to look for.”

Frank nodded. “Sure thing.”

“You have your cell phone with you?”

Frank nodded, patting his hip pocket.

“Keep it on. I’ll call you from the Reverend’s home if anything happens. Otherwise, let’s plan on meeting back here in three hours.”

“What are we going to tell Reverend Powell?” Vince asked.

“We’ll tell him the truth,” Mike said. “Surely as a man of God, he’s going to have to believe what we have to tell him.”

Vince picked up the phone and began dialing Reverend Powell’s number from the business card he’d given him last week.

WHEN MIKE PETERSON and Vince Walters pulled up to Hank Powell’s house he was waiting for them on his front porch. He looked paler than the last time Vince had seen him and his eyes had a haunted look. He kept looking out at the cornfield across from his home. “Come in,” he said, ushering them in the house. “I’m glad you could get back here so quickly.”

Vince introduced Mike to Reverend Powell and the two men shook hands. Vince had explained to Hank on the phone that he’d just arrived back at Lancaster County with two friends who were helping him unravel the mystery of his mother’s death. He’d told Reverend Powell that Mike had information on his mother’s background and upon hearing this, Hank had told Vince in a breathless tone that he’d found the box Maggie buried. “I’ve made some startling conclusions that I hope and pray to God aren’t true,” he’d said. “Perhaps your friend can help me understand it.” Excited by the fact that Reverend Powell had found the box, Vince told Mike, who suggested they head over to Lititz immediately.

Reverend Powell closed and locked the front door. It was ninety-five degrees outside with high humidity, making it feel like the tropics. The house was cooled by central air conditioning. Reverend Powell patted the butt of a handgun he had tucked into his belt. “Don’t mean to startle you with this, but ever since finding… what I’ve found out, I’ve been a trifle scared.”

“That’s understandable,” Mike said. “We’ve been taking our own precautions as well.”

Reverend Powell nodded, then turned to Vince. “It’s downstairs.”

They followed Hank Powell downstairs to the basement. Reverend Powell motioned to the sofa and chairs in the den. “Have a seat. I’ll go get it.” He headed toward the storeroom.

Reverend Powell unlocked the door to the storeroom and Mike and Vince waited by the pool table as he rummaged in the cubby and pulled the box out. They retreated to the den and sat down. Reverend Powell opened the lock with a key and looked at Mike Peterson. “I’m hoping you’ll be able to make some sense of this. I… I have my own suspicions based on… what I’ve seen here, but… I don’t know if I’m just being paranoid or what.”

Hank handed the box to Mike, who positioned it on his lap. Vince was sitting next to him on the sofa and the minute he saw the pictures, a thousand memories exploded in his mind. They came as a kaleidoscope of images; playing on the back porch of an apartment building somewhere in a big city; sitting quietly at the feet of his mother as her and daddy’s friends gathered at the house ( but was it really daddy or was it Tom? ), their dress and hair counter-culture-like; the long-haired bearded man trying to kill him as his mother screamed and the others made a mad grab to save him; sitting on a raised dais in a darkened room as black robed adults bowed before him.

“Oh my God,” Vince whispered.

“What?” Mike said, pausing from his perusal of the photo album.

“Looking at these brings back so many memories.”

“Good,” Mike said, turning back to the photo album. “That’s what we’re here for.”

Reverend Powell was watching them from his perch on the easy chair. He looked nervous. He rubbed his mouth with his left hand, glancing up the basement stairs every so often as Vince and Mike went through the photo album.

“That’s Gladys,” Mike said, tapping a photo that Vince remembered from when they’d lived in Orange County. The photo showed a woman in her late twenties or early thirties seated at a table with a man around the same age. They were smiling into the camera. The perfect picture of early seventies normalcy.