J. Gonzalez - They

The sketches in question were rendered with stiff brushstrokes of heavy pencil. Even though the caricatures didn’t resemble any of them remotely, Vince was able to pick out who was supposed to be who. Frank was easy to pick out—his sketch showed a longhaired man with a puffy face and squinty eyes and a stubbled beard. Good thing they’d all gotten haircuts. As far as a puffy face went, Frank never had one to begin with. So much for witness descriptions.

Mike and Vince’s sketches were crude, and if presented side by side with their actual photographs, one would be hard pressed to find any resemblances. The one Vince guessed represented Mike’s depicted a guy with less hair than Mike really had, also with squinty eyes. Vince’s own sketch revealed a guy that looked like Timothy McVeigh; stony-faced, cold, emotionless.

The broadcaster finished by saying that the State Police and the FBI had been brought into the case and that a manhunt was now underway. And, of course, anybody seeing anybody resembling the sketches was urged to call a special hotline that had been set up.

Mike turned to Vince and Frank. “Good thing we parked our first rental car in a public parking garage. Let’s leave it there. We’ll drive the other one to Pittsburgh and turn it in and catch the first plane we can get tomorrow.”

“Sounds good to me,” Frank said.

“You think that’ll be enough to throw them off?” Vince asked.

“You don’t see them breaking down the doors to get to us now, do you?”

“No.” That wasn’t the point, though. There was still the possibility the authorities would eventually catch up with them.

“We’ll see what’s in the paper tomorrow,” Mike said. “And check out the news on the major networks. That should give us some clue as to how the investigation is progressing. Maybe they’ll ID the other guys by then. For now, I think we should get some sleep.”

That was easier said than done. They shed their clothes for T-shirts and boxers, and they all took turns in the shower. They flipped a quarter for the sole bed and Mike won. Vince lay down beside Frank in one of the beds, facing the window, thinking about all that had happened and wondering when the nightmare was going to end.

EVERYTHING WENT SMOOTHLY the following morning, Friday. After waking up, they washed up, brushed their teeth, dressed into the suits they’d purchased the day before, packed their things, and exited the room. Mike turned the TV on while they changed, hoping for more news on the shoot-out but there was nothing else forthcoming. They meandered downstairs to check out. Mike signed the bill and they were off.

Vince was nervous as they headed through the hotel’s parking garage to the vehicle Mike and Frank secured yesterday. He kept expecting federal agents to pop out from behind cars and black SUV’s brandishing weapons yelling, “ Freeze! You’re under arrest! ” Or, worse, another assassin popping out from behind a parked car and letting loose with more automatic gunfire.

Of course they were armed again, but Vince didn’t feel any safer. Mike unlocked the car—an Audi—and they stowed their luggage in the trunk and Vince slid into the front seat. Mike drove. Vince watched to see if they were being followed as they exited the garage and headed up Broad Street. “We aren’t being followed,” Frank said fifteen minutes later as Mike headed west out of the city limits.

“How do you know?”

“Because I know. I’ve been on alert like this for a year now. I’d know if we were being followed.”

Vince almost responded with, if you’re so good at telling if we’re being followed, how come you didn’t know we were followed to the Family Cupboard yesterday? That only would have sparked a fight and he didn’t want to fight with Frank.

They made the drive to Pittsburgh in silence. Vince fiddled with the radio, then stopped at a rock station playing the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Mike turned the air conditioner on, and Vince sat back and watched the scenery flash by.

It was a four-hour drive. Once they got to the Pittsburgh city limits, Mike pulled over to a gas station to fill up the car’s tank. Frank went into the station’s kiosk and emerged with bottled water, sodas, and a map. They consulted the map over their refreshments after the gas tank was filled up and ready to go. “Pittsburgh Airport looks to be a twenty minute drive,” Mike said. “Let’s go.”

Thirty minutes later they were at the Pittsburgh Airport parking garage. Mike turned to Frank. “Let’s get these in the suitcases,” he said, taking out his gun and the spare clips from his coat pocket. They packed the weapons securely in the suitcases then, carrying their luggage and looking very much like normal, upper-middle class businessmen, they made their way to the rental car agency where they turned in the keys to the Audi. Mike led the way to a United Airlines terminal. He walked to the ticket counter and talked with the agent for fifteen minutes. When he came back he was holding three tickets. “I got us stand-by seats on a flight that leaves in two hours,” he said. “Let’s go to the gate and hang out.”

They walked leisurely through airport security, then past various gates. Frank nodded toward a newsstand. “Let’s see if there’s anything in the paper about us.” Vince and Mike followed him.

Vince spotted the New York Times with a headline story about the shoot-out. “Here we go,” he said, picking it up. One of the sub-titles read Victims Identified .

Frank paid for the paper and they sat down near one of the gates, passing the paper around. Most of the article covered what they already knew. What was new to them were the identities of the three dead assassins: they were being identified as Matt Newberry, Hank Warner, and Andy Duncan, members of an apocalyptic Christian church called Soldiers of Christ. Information on the group was sketchy and a church spokesman, speaking on a condition of anonymity, said the church had no statement other than the three dead men were acting alone and that they had no knowledge of their criminal intentions.

“ This is proof,” Vince said. “Soldiers of Christ. On a mission to wipe out the Anti-Christ. Me.”

Mike folded the paper. His features were stern. “When we get back to California we’ll do some research on the Soldiers of Christ.”

“Don’t worry, bro,” Frank said, patting Vince’s shoulder. “We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

Vince tried to take assurance that Frank and Mike would take care of things, that now that the proof had been presented to them they would have to take extra precautionary measures. When he read that the gunmen were members of the Soldiers of Christ he’d experienced a feeling of immense dread as his fears were confirmed. “We might not need to do anything,” he said. “I’ll bet right now a bunch of journalists are all over this and by tomorrow, information about these guys will be all over the news wires.”

Mike didn’t say anything and Frank nodded. Vince checked his watch. “Guess we should head to our gate.” They stood up and began walking down the gateway, and even when Vince was strapped in his seat in the DC-10 two hours later he still didn’t feel calmed by the knowledge that he now knew who it was that was trying to kill him. If anything, it only made him feel more in fear for his own life.

WHEN THEY EXITED the plane at Los Angeles International Airport, Vince couldn’t help but be nervous. He kept expecting to be arrested by cops waiting for them to get off the plane. He scanned a sea of faces that didn’t acknowledge him as he, Frank, and Mike set off down the terminal. There were no plainclothes detectives lying in wait to ambush them. In short, they’d made it home undetected.