J. Gonzalez - They

“What do you remember about her parents?” Frank asked.

Vince thought hard to remember. “Her dad wasn’t around much. I… I want to say that he was a truck driver because I remember her talking about that.”

“That’s what he told Nellie and her mother,” Frank said. “Nellie was one of the lucky ones. She wasn’t subjected to the group in any way. Her mother wasn’t a member, but her father was. He was a contract killer. The truck driver ruse was just a cover. He’d leave for the road in truck driver garb, and he’d call in to home on the CB frequencies truckers used to checkin. He was set-up so that by outward appearances he was a truck driver. He was incorporated as a carrier and everything. He even worked with a dispatching service to field messages.”

“Shit,” Vince whispered. He’d never known, had never suspected. “Did my mom know?”

“I suppose she did,” Frank said. “Mine sure as fuck did. Their job was to keep the wool pooled over Lucy’s eyes. Lucy was Nellie’s mom. Remember her?”

Vince’s memory of Lucy was even more vague. He shook his head. “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

Frank was pensive from his spot on the sofa. “Lucy eventually filed for divorce from her husband. Even Mike and I could never get his real name. He went under a lot of aliases.”

“You’ve… done some checking on Nellie? What… what ever happened to her?”

“She’s married with four kids,” Frank said. “Her husband’s a mechanic. She goes to church every Sunday with her husband and kids. Her husband is part owner of the garage he works out of and she manages the business end from home. By outward appearances, she appears to have a good life.”

“Appears to have a good life?”

Frank was silent for a moment. “You’ve got to understand, Vince. These people are really good at blending in. They’re like fucking chameleons. That’s why we didn’t want you blabbing everything to your girlfriend, Tracy. She appears normal too. So do the rest of your friends. Brian Dennison and his wife, the people you hang out with at the office. Your late wife. The truth of the matter is, they’re really good at concealing their true selves.”

“Now you’re just being paranoid.”

“We’ve identified some of them,” Frank continued. “By outward appearances, the ones we’ve identified seem on the up-and-up too. Community service leaders, doctors, lawyers, respected business people. We were able to ID them as cult members due to some stealth investigation into their background and matching their known associates. I also did some light surveillance on a few. We did the same thing with your friends, as well as people Mike and I know. They all checked out. But then, we did the same kind of investigation on acquaintances and friends of the folks that know us… that know you… and do you know what we found?”

Vince shook his head.

“We went back two and three degrees of separation on all known acquaintances and friends of everybody involved. On the surface, they checked out fine. But we found an anomaly in one. He almost passed with flying colors, but there was something about his background that seemed a bit off, so he merited further scrutiny. And… well, to tell you the truth, it’s still inconclusive as to this guy being a member of the cult. It could go either way. And his outward veneer is rock solid, just like everybody else.” Frank paused. “That’s what I mean by when I say we can’t be too sure about anybody. Dig?”

Vince didn’t know what else to say. Frank was silent as they sat, looking toward the window out at the little sliver of darkness between the curtains. Finally, Vince said, “What do you think will happen?”

“With us?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know. But I know what I want to do.”

“What’s that?”

Frank turned to Vince, fixing him with a piercing gaze. “I want to kill my mother and I want to kill my step-father. And then I want to kill Samuel Garrison. I want to blow all those motherfuckers to hell.”

Vince shuddered. Frank’s tone of voice suggested he meant everything he said.

Vince wound up staying up until one a.m. with Frank, mostly talking, their voices lowered so they wouldn’t wake up the rest of the house. Vince tried to keep the conversation away from the topic of why they were here, instead focusing on what he’d been up to the last twenty years, trying to coax Frank to tell him more of the same and letting the conversation run from there. Because they’d led such rich, varied lives, they talked about a wide range of subjects: music, politics, literature, economics, travel. Vince could have stayed up all night talking to Frank. When Frank rose from his chair and went to the kitchen and began preparing a pot of coffee, Vince glanced at his watch. “My God, it’s almost one!”

“Yeah,” Frank said, looking through the cupboards for coffee filters. “Time flies when you’re having fun, doesn’t it?”

And with that, Vince decided to call it a night and headed for his bedroom.

REVEREND POWELL WOKE Vince up at eight a.m. “Rise and shine,” he said, opening the door and poking his head in. “Frank’s making breakfast. Come out and join us. We got a lot to talk about.”

Vince groaned and rolled over. He rubbed his eyes and glanced out the window. He could tell by the sunlight streaming through the curtains that it was going to be a warm day.

He shuffled out of bed, pulled on a pair of jeans, and padded to the bathroom. He splashed water on his face, finger-combed his hair, and reached for the toiletry bag he’d left on the counter last night before turning in. He brushed his teeth hurriedly, wondering what happened in the last seven hours or so that he’d been asleep.

When he emerged from the bathroom the scent of sizzling bacon and freshly brewed coffee greeted him. Frank was standing at the stove, cracking eggs into a skillet. “How do you like your eggs, Vince?”

Vince rubbed his eyes again. Frank was standing in front of the stove wearing a pair of shorts and nothing else. In addition to his heavily tattooed arms, his chest and back were tattooed as well. So was his right thigh; some kind of design snaked down below the hem of his shorts, stopping just shy of his knee.

“Well?” Frank was waiting for an answer.

“Over-easy, I guess.” He entered the kitchen, honing in on the coffee. “You can cook, too?”

Frank snorted. “What, you don’t think that I can cook? Shit!” Frank cracked two more eggs into the skillet and turned to another skillet, turning the bacon over with a pair of tongs. “I’ve been on my own since I was twelve years old, dude. I can probably cook Emeril or Wolfgang Puck out of the kitchen.”

“I can vouch for that,” Mike Peterson said. He was seated at the dining room table, a newspaper spread out before him. He was wearing a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. He took a sip of coffee. “The man can make a mean casserole.”

“No shit?”

“No shit,” Frank said. He put two slices of bread in the toaster. He turned to Vince, looking more awake than Vince felt even though he’d gotten less sleep. “That’s the trouble with people like you, Vince. You take one look at me and figure because of the long hair and all the tattoos that the only thing I can fix is my motorcycle. I’ve never owned a motorcycle. What they don’t know is that I can cook any damn thing I want to, can brew a great pot of coffee, and can write most best-selling authors under the table even though I’m not being paid to do it.” He grinned. “I’m also the best husband and father in the world!”

“Of course you are,” Reverend Powell said, returning to the kitchen from the master bedroom. He’d changed into fresh clothing—clean blue jeans and a white cotton T-shirt. Reverend Powell looked to be in a better mood this morning, too. He poured himself a cup of coffee. “Frank, what you’re preparing smells wonderful. Vince! Have some coffee and join us at the table. We have a lot to talk about.”