J. Gonzalez - They

“Thanks.”

Frank read through the rest of the microfilm and followed up his research in the periodical room. And despite a careful analysis of the local newspapers, he didn’t find anything else, save the local reporting of Maggie Walter’s murder.

IT WAS ONLY eight-thirty in the evening, and even though it was still sunset it felt like night had fallen fast.

Hank Powell, Mike Peterson, Vince Walters, and Frank Black were gathered in Reverend Powell’s basement. Hank had set up a card table and some chairs in the den, and the four men sat around the table eating take-out pizza that Frank and Mike had brought back from Caruso’s. Vince had called Frank as he was walking back to the motel from the library and told him the latest plan: they were joining forces with Reverend Powell and would be spending the rest of their time at his home. Frank expressed concern at first, but Vince assured him that Mike had made the call. Vince was still reeling from the emotional turmoil of the past few hours and had come to rely more on Mike’s judgment. “We talked about it upstairs out of Hank’s earshot,” he’d told Frank over the phone. “Mike did some checking on him before you even contacted me. He came out clean. He has no prior contact with any cult member except for my mother, and he’s expressing all the classic symptoms of shock at what he’s hearing. Mike’s checked the house out, and once Hank found out the extreme nature of this group, he even pitched in to help. The guy’s an ex-cop and knows quite a lot about surveillance. He says he would have known if somebody had been following him, so he’s just as paranoid as you two are.”

“I guess that’s good to know,” Frank said.

Mike had driven over to the motel to pick Frank up and gather their things. As a precaution, he hadn’t checked them out of the room. They’d picked up two large pizzas at Caruso’s after Hank phoned the order in, and now they were gathered around the card table, a half-eaten pizza and empty beer bottles on the table. Frank had gone through two cans of Coke already. They’d brought Hank Powell up to speed on everything that happened since Maggie’s murder—including the murder attempt on Vince and Tracy—and Frank’s own background. Hank had nodded solemnly, casting a sympathetic glance at Frank. “You’ve been through a lot, my friend. Thank God you lived through it.”

“There’s a well-known quote by the German philosopher Frederick Nietzsche,” Frank said. He was sprawled comfortably in one of the fold-up lawn chairs Reverend Powell had set up around the table. “‘That which does not kill me makes me stronger’ That’s how I look at what I went through.”

Hank Powell looked at his guests and sighed. Vince had watched the man pound down no less than a six-pack of beer and numerous shots of Jack Daniels and the guy wasn’t even the least bit wobbly. Perhaps it was true about ex-cops and preachers—they could hold their liquor. “Well, I’m with you on this,” he said. “As Maggie and Lillian’s friend and minister, and as a soldier for the Lord, I feel compelled to work with you to fight Satan. I know that’s who we’re up against and I thank God for your courage.” He nodded at each of them, his nod lingering longer on Frank. “Especially you, Frank, after finding out what you’ve gone through.” He nodded at Vince. “And you, Vince. As an unbeliever, I know this is hard for you to accept. But I also know you loved your mother, even though the two of you had problems. Despite what you may feel, I refuse to accept that this group feels that you are the Anti-Christ. They want you for something else. Satan hates to lose, and it’s obvious that he feels he lost two great souls when your mother took you and hightailed it out of that den of iniquity. He’s trying to get you back. And he will fight hard for you.”

“So you don’t think I’m the Anti-Christ?” Vince asked. He asked this half-jokingly. He really felt no different physically since coming to these wild conclusions. He imagined that if he were some sort of supernatural being he would have been aware of it long before now.

“No, Vince,” Hank Powell said. “You’re not the Anti-Christ. Confused and scared maybe, but not the devil’s imp.”

Frank chuckled. “You weren’t bad luck to people whom you’ve known the last twenty-five years, were you?”

“No.”

“And you haven’t noticed any unusual marks, right? No six-six-six tattoos or markings on your scalp?”

“No, but then I’ve never looked, either. I could shave my head and we can solve this all right now.”

“That’s unnecessary,” Mike said, bringing the seriousness back to the tone of conversation. “Vince, you’re not the Anti-Christ, so stop thinking such nonsense.”

“Why else would they be after me?”

“It’s like I suggested,” Reverend Powell said, rubbing his jaw. “Satan hates to lose. He wants you back.”

“If that’s the case, why do you claim it’s outlandish that they might think I’m the Anti-Christ?”

“ Vince !” Mike’s tone sharpened.

Vince turned to Mike. “Hank believes the devil is pissed off about losing me and Mom. He’s placing this belief in a supernatural entity. If you believe Hank, why can’t you believe they see me as the Anti-Christ?”

Mike fidgeted. He cast a glance at Frank, who remained stoical. Finally, Frank said, “I don’t believe you’re the Anti-Christ, and to tell you the truth, I don’t believe in the devil either.”

“What do you believe in, son?” Reverend Powell asked.

“I believe we’re dealing with a group of fanatics,” Frank said. “I believe we’re dealing with a group of people that’s just as fanatical about their beliefs as the most rabid, fundamentalist Bible-thumper.” Hank Powell’s expression darkened at that description, but Frank ignored him. “To tell you the truth, I think organized religion is a crock of shit. I think Pat Robertson is just as dangerous as Louis Farrakhan and that nut that lives in that cave in Afghanistan, Osama bin Laden. I think these guys are operating on the same delusions as all your television evangelists, only they—”

“The Lord God is not an illusion,” Reverend Powell said, sternly.

“—believe in the devil. Frankly, I think the whole concept of Christianity, Judaism, and Islam is a fraud. I think they’re all based on a bunch of old myths and the early churches and mosques and synagogues forced this crock of shit down people’s throats as a power trip. They made people believe this shit—”

“That’s enough !” Hank Powell thundered. His face was beet-red.

“—and they had the power to either make people pay lip service or they’d kill them. Haven’t you ever heard of the Crusades or the fucking Inquisition?”

“I will not have you curse in my house!” Reverend Powell said through gritted teeth.

“Frank,” Mike said, sternly. “ That’s enough.”

“It’s true!” Frank turned to him. “You told me the same thing. Or have you forgotten about that?”

If this embarrassed Mike, he didn’t show it. “Our personal spiritual beliefs are not the issue. The main focus of our discussion is the various crimes perpetrated by this organization, and their threat on Vince’s life.”

“And that’s all based on their spiritual beliefs,” Frank said. “Their belief that they are somehow aiding in God’s plan by helping to bring about the end times as described in the Bible. What they’re doing is no different than some Christian wacko who blows up a Planned Parenthood clinic because he says God told him to kill the abortion-providers.”

They were silent for a moment. Reverend Powell was glowering with anger. “You may not believe now,” he said, his gaze fiery, “but as we go deep into battle you will believe. I pray to God that you believe before it’s too late.”