They

by J. F. Gonzalez

  And before then? He really didn’t remember.

  If the events of his dream were real, if they’d happened to him a long time ago when he was three or four years old as the dream suggested, he would have blocked it out of his memory. An experience like this would have been traumatizing. And if it had happened, then somebody really tried to kill him when he was a toddler. But why? If the people they were with were hippies, could the would-be killer have been on drugs?

  Could this be the reason they’d left California so abruptly? Had his mother angered a cult of hippies?

  He reflected on the images written in blood on the bedroom walls of his mother’s house…strangely occult-like in design. He thought of the dreams.

  He thought about the attempt on his own life.

  Vince turned over on his back, staring at the ceiling. These questions and hundreds of others gnawed at him. He knew he wouldn’t be able to rest until he did some investigating of his own and found out exactly why he and his mother had pulled up stakes so suddenly and moved out of California. And the only way to do that was to try to contact the people he only had a faint memory of. But without last names he was sunk.

  When he finally drifted to sleep he went down deep and he had no dreams.

  Chapter Eight

  June 29, 1999, 11:30 p.m.

  REVEREND HANK POWELL was afraid.

  Very afraid.

  Night had cast its dark pall over the vast Pennsylvanian sky, and Reverend Powell closed the curtains of his living room window, which he’d been gazing out for the better part of the last thirty minutes. He made sure the window was double-latched, then went to the front door and made sure it was locked and bolted. He swallowed a dry lump and stood in the silence of his house. The living room lights and the light over the stove in the kitchen were on. Other than that, the house was dark.

  Feeling better that the windows and doors were locked, Reverend Powell retreated to the bedroom. He turned on the light and went straight to the closet.

  He began rummaging along the top shelf, past old shoe boxes and books until he found what he was looking for.

  The Cavalry Model Colt he’d purchased two years ago was an authentic reproduction of the 1873 Hartford Model. It had a 7-inch barrel. He took the Colt down along with the extra cylinder and a box of .45 shells that he’d bought with it. He opened the cylinder, made sure it wasn’t loaded and that there wasn’t a shell in the chamber, then returned to the living room with the gun and the shells.

  He sat at the kitchen table and laid the gun and the box of shells on the counter top. He cleaned the cylinder with a white rag as his mind turned over the events of the last week. If it wasn’t for the promise Maggie Walters made Lillian Withers swear to, he supposed he wouldn’t be so nervous. As it was, the fact that he’d felt Maggie Walters was telling the truth about the buried box in her backyard for Lillian to easily dig up was what scared him.

  The fact that he’d finally found it and taken a look at what was in it scared him even more.

  He couldn’t think about what was in the box now. Instead, his mind flashed over the gruesome images of the past week; Maggie’s butchered body sprawled across the bed in her home; those hideous symbols smeared in her blood on the wall; the reappearance of Vince Walters after God knew how long of an absence; and then Lillian’s sudden death five days ago.

  Reverend Powell finished cleaning the Colt and began to load it. He did it slowly, inserting one bullet at a time in the cylinder. When the cylinder was loaded, he snapped it in place and spun it, just like Clint Eastwood did in those Dirty Harry movies. He raised the Colt to the side door that led to his garage and closed his left eye, feigning a sharp shooter. Blam! I got you Satan. Get thee behind me.

  He shivered at the thought that what he’d preached against, what he’d warned his brethren time and time again in his services, in his ministering to the unsaved, was not only a real force but that it had touched down upon Lititz. As a man of the Lord, Reverend Powell knew the love of God and knew of His greatness. He had felt God’s presence in times of prayer. Heard His voice. Been inspired by His teachings. Believed in Him and loved Him with all his heart, soul, and mind.

  But if there was good there was most definitely evil, and it walked the earth in human form now. He knew this to be the truth. Maggie Walters had told him that much; she had been in the presence of it a long time ago, and she knew of the Prince of Darkness’ plans. She’d told Hank that the Devil’s Imp was a man nobody would ever imagine, and that when his time came he would gather his followers with his mighty power and the world would fall under his spell so fast that even the followers of Christ would be astounded. He would work like a thief in the night. Reverend Powell had felt the sincerity of Maggie’s revelations come off her, pure and with steadfast conviction, and as he prayed for her a part of himself wondered what Maggie had been involved with before she and Vince moved out of California and became saved.

  What…evil had they been exposed to?

  Whatever it was, it had caught up with her. That much, Hank was positive of. When Maggie made her confession/revelation to him eight years ago, Hank had tucked it into the back of his mind, ministering to her spiritual needs and turning what she said over in his mind. He knew there was a devil, but like most Christians he put that icon of all that was evil and unholy in the back of his mind. Why dwell upon the negative side when there was so much to celebrate in the positive? But not dwelling on it was a symbolic way of sweeping the nasty under the rug. If it’s swept away where it won’t be seen it won’t exist. I’ll never have to see it or deal with it.

  Now he was dealing with it. And it wasn’t just because of what Maggie had confided in him eight years ago.

  It was what he felt.

  Dr. Adam Walsh over at the county coroner’s office attributed Lillian Withers’ death to a heart attack. A perfectly natural death, Dr. Walsh had said. Hank didn’t think it was natural. Lillian was one of the healthiest people he’d known. Two months ago she’d gone for her annual physical and she’d been given a clean bill of health. Doc says I got one healthy ticker, he remembered her telling him after church the Sunday after her appointment. He said with a heart like mine he doesn’t see any reason why I can’t last another hundred years!

  With such a clean bill of health how could she have died of a massive heart attack?

  And then there was the foremost question of Maggie’s murder.

  Chief Tom Hoffman attributed Maggie’s death to murder at the hands of a burglar she’d surprised. Hank could tell Tom was lying when he told him his theory, but Hank hadn’t pressed it. The police had their job to do, praise God, and if they had to downplay the facts so they could go ahead with their job, so be it. But Hank had caught the strong whiff of fear from Tom as they talked the day after Maggie’s body was discovered. Hank had only heard about the condition of the body and the room from John Van Zant, who’d found her, and that had been enough to be worried about. Feeling the vibe emanate off of Tom Hoffman as the Chief told him that the murder was probably the work of “some doped up kid robbing the place” was enough to convince Hank that Tom didn’t believe that one bit. He thought it was the work of something much worse. But whether he knew what it was, Hank couldn’t tell.

  And then there were the symbols…

  John said the symbols were satanic. Hank was of the type to never take anything for granted. If other brothers and sisters in the Lord claimed that Proctor and Gamble was a satanic organization because of their company logo, then he would go the other way and accuse those brothers and sisters of bearing false witness. He’d seen examples of this time and time again, from the endless crusade so many of his fellow Christians heaped against popular culture; rock and roll, movies, books, certain ethnic groups, other religions and Christian denominations. It all defeated the purpose of the Gospel. When a heavy metal artist like Marilyn Manson declares himself an Anti-Christ Superstar on an album, it was for shock value. Hank Powell didn’t endorse it, didn’t
approve of it, but he didn’t see it as part of some Satanic conspiracy. He believed artists like that were lost, true. The secular world didn’t see the symbolism for what it was; they were ignorant of the powers of darkness, but that didn’t make them evil. They were lost sheep. Likewise, when Jerry Falwell gets up on his pulpit and tells his followers that homosexuals deserved everything they had coming to them including discrimination, AIDS, and the violence of gay bashing, Hank Powell had to attribute the Reverend Falwell’s misguidedness to the Prince of Darkness again. The Lord may work in mysterious ways, but Satan had his fingers on everything and was a master of deception. To turn scripture around to make it sound hateful and bigoted was the devil’s way of snaring those who were destined to reign in the Kingdom of God.

  So when John related to Hank that the symbols drawn on the wall of Maggie’s home were satanic in origin, he had to question it. What were they, half moons or something? Maybe a star drawn in blood? he remembered asking John. He was getting sick of Christians seeing the devil in everything from a moon to a simple star.

  John had shrugged his shoulders. Just symbols. Weird things. They looked satanic to me.

  Hank had asked Tom Hoffman if he could view photos of the symbols John described seeing and the Chief had politely refused. I can’t, he’d explained calmly, patiently. Not while the investigation is ongoing.

  He’d asked Tom about the symbols John had seen on the wall. Tom wouldn’t comment on those, but Hank could tell from the look of the lawman’s face that John had been telling the truth. The symbols existed, and Tom’s refusal to comment on them was most likely for the sake of the investigation. But Hank got the faint hint that Tom Hoffman was afraid of something as well. Afraid of commenting on it because it would expose his inner thoughts as to what he really felt was behind the brutal slaying.

  Hank sat at the kitchen table of his home, the Colt in his hand and the box of shells within easy reach. He sat in the silence for a moment, noting the tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway, the chirping of the crickets outside, the soft rustle of the wind. He sighed and rose to his feet. He was nervous and while he thought he knew why, he still felt like he was groping in the dark for an answer. I’m a man of the Lord, he thought. If I believe in all that is holy and pure in spirit, why do I find it so hard to accept the fact that when all that is Unholy and Satanic comes and practically strikes me in the face, I find it hard to admit it?

  Perhaps it was because he hadn’t been confronted with it before. A person is more likely to believe in something that is physical. But my faith in God is just as strong as my faith that the wind blows, that a tree is made of wood and bark, that I am covered with skin and hair, that I am part of the Mammal kingdom. That concrete is made of sand and stone. If my faith in God is as strong as my belief in the existence of the things He has created, why do I find it so hard to believe that something truly evil has happened in this village?

  Hank Powell sat in his favorite easy chair in the living room cradling the Colt .45, debating this in his mind. He thought about what he’d found in the box, which he’d missed by a scant two feet during his first dig. He’d found the key to the lock in Lillian’s home, taped to the inside front cover of the Bible with the black leather cover where she said it was going to be. He’d looked at the photographs and newspaper clippings, read them over and over again with slowly mounting horror, then put them away, not knowing what to do. Surely they couldn’t mean what his frantic mind was trying to warn him was the truth. Despite his conflicting thoughts, there was one thing he was certain of; in order to fully believe in what his mind and soul were battling, he didn’t want to be faced with it the way Maggie Walters and Lillian Withers had.

  VINCE WALTERS WAS at his desk in his office the following morning preparing for the Tillinghast Project when his private line rang.

  He picked it up on the first ring, thinking it was probably Detective Staley. The detective had called him earlier this morning to tell him they had a suspect in custody, and that he would be calling later to give him more information. “Yeah?”

  “Is this Vince Walters?” The voice was male. Vince didn’t recognize it; it surely wasn’t Detective Staley.

  “Yes, this is,” Vince said, slightly irritated. There was a deadline on this project and this had better not be some goddamned secretary calling to schedule a meeting. Nobody knew his private number except for Tracy, his secretary Glenda, and Brian.

  “I have some information on your mother’s death that I think you might find interesting.”

  Vince was startled. “What?”

  “You heard me right the first time,” the voice said. “I’ll only repeat it one more time: I have some information on your mother’s death that I think—”

  Vince’s heart was racing madly and it took all his will power to lower his voice. “Who the hell are you and how did you—”

  “If you want to talk to me, meet me in twenty minutes at the Holly Street Bar. You know where it is?”

  Vince’s mind was racing. Was this a trick?

  “Holly Street Bar and Grill in Irvine. On Jamboree Avenue next door to Tower Records. I’ll be in a corner booth. Twenty minutes.” The line went dead.

  Vince held the receiver in his hand, the open dial tone humming. He put the phone down and rested his head in his hands. His stomach was doing slow flip-flops and his hands were shaking. His mind was a jumbled mass of questions that threatened to tumble out of him. How the hell did this guy know his name and who was he? How did he know mom was dead and how did he get my private phone number?

  Vince looked out his office window into the business park Corporate Financial had their offices in. He’d gotten a police escort to work this morning, and with the news of the arrest of a suspect in yesterday’s attack Vince guessed that they might be scaling back their protection of him. After all, he was only an ordinary citizen, and it was probably costing the city of Irvine a lot of money to give him and Tracy what protection they’d been able to give. He wasn’t even planning to go to work, but he had a project deadline and decided to go in for a short day to tie up those loose ends.

  Vince contemplated the repercussions of heading out to this meeting. Surely there wouldn’t be any harm in darting out real quick, would there? He’d be careful, would pay attention to everything around him, and he knew enough not to get himself in a sticky situation. It wouldn’t take long, either. Ten minutes to drive over, ten minutes back, maybe five minutes to get the bottom of this and he’d be back in his office. No problem.

  He left for Holly Street Bar and Grill three minutes later.

  HE WAS NERVOUS on the drive, checking his rearview mirror constantly. Several times at stoplights he was afraid every car that pulled up next to him was going to be an assassin. Several times he found himself flinching, one time almost ducking. He kept telling himself, they’ve got the guy in custody, it was just some fucking nut and we’ll find out why he was trying to kill me later this afternoon. That calmed him down, and he was able to drive to the mini-mall with a renewed sense of ease.

  Once he found the mall, he swung into the parking lot and cruised until he found a spot. He killed the engine and sat in the car. He looked out at the mini-mall, which was bustling with business as teenagers out of school cruised for action and soccer moms shopped with their kids. The mall housed a Ralph’s grocery store, a Target, a couple of gift shops, a Barnes and Noble Bookstore with an attached Starbucks coffee shop, and an assortment of fast food eateries. Holly St. Bar and Grill was situated in the middle of the structure, between Tower Records and Round Table Pizza. Vince got out of the car and started walking toward it.

  He’d driven to the mini-mall in a numbed state of shock. All he could think about were two things: this was a scam to get him out of the office so they (whoever they were) could kill him; and who was the man that called? As he drew up to the restaurant his stomach began fluttering again. His hands were clammy. He gripped the brass door handle and pulled.

  The
restaurant was a classy version of one of those Bar and Grill restaurants that sell burgers and taco salads and chicken strips and also have a full bar. The restaurant was filled with tables and booths, all of which was situated around a full bar. I’ll be in the corner booth, the voice had said. Vince craned his head, trying to look over the sea of people. A pretty blonde hostess smiled at him. “Can I help you, sir?”

  “I’m here to meet someone,” Vince said, stepping inside.

  He walked slowly to the rear of the establishment, looking for a corner booth. There were no booths back there save for one along the side against the wall. The booths had those high-backed seats that made it difficult to tell if a patron was actually seated there.

  He reached the corner booth toward the rear of the restaurant.

  Empty.

  He let out a sigh and turned toward the front of the restaurant. He was scanning the tables, trying to make eye contact to see if somebody would meet his gaze and rise to meet him. None did. He glanced at his watch. It had taken him ten minutes to drive over here, and he supposed that from the time of the call and the time it took him to leave and get out of the building, close to twenty minutes had passed. So where was he?