They

by J. F. Gonzalez

  “I don’t know,” Vince said, sighing. “I know it sounds stupid, but…everything that’s happened has just been so…chaotic and…just imbued with secrecy. Like why did my mother have all this information buried in a box in her backyard? Why was she afraid to talk about it? Why did she pull stakes twenty-five years ago and take me, change our names, tried to bury our past? Was she hiding from something? Running away from something, or somebody? I don’t know.” He looked at her. “And Frank. He just suddenly pops into my life, telling me I’m in danger and he knows all this stuff that’s happened. He knows my mom was murdered, he knows about Laura’s death, he’s been spying on my friends—”

  “That’s the scary part,” Tracy said, looking concerned. “The fact that this guy actually poked around in your life. My life!”

  “Exactly! I mean, he seems to be a pretty nice guy and all, and considering the circumstances of what he and Mike have told me and what I’ve found out, I don’t blame them. In fact, I feel good that you came up clean.”

  “What do you mean?” Tracy frowned.

  Oops. Vince tried to dismiss the blunder with a shrug. “Nothing. Just that Frank said that you and Brian and some of my other friends came up with clean records. You aren’t part of the all-sinister Children of the Night.” He chuckled, trying to make everything a big joke.

  Tracy looked serious. “What if he’d told you that I was a member?”

  Vince’s laughter dried up. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Tracy shook her head. Her features had taken on a grim, stony-faced appearance. “No, I’m not. Suppose Frank had told you that I’m a member of The Children of the Night.” She cocked her head. “What would you have done?”

  All the spit seemed to dry up in Vince’s mouth. His stomach turned into a ball of lead. “Um…I don’t know…”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I…” Vince was at a loss for words. Tracy waited for him to answer. Her persona had taken on a tone of deadly seriousness; she was no longer the flirtatious, laughing, sexy woman he’d met and fallen in love with. Now she resembled a dangerous, sly, secretive woman who was holding a winning hand.

  “You don’t know what you’d do…isn’t that right?”

  Vince nodded. “I guess not.” He searched her face for some tell tale sign of the Tracy that he knew.

  Finally, she smiled. “Scared you, didn’t I?”

  Vince relaxed, feeling as if a sudden weight had just been taken off his shoulders. “Jesus, Tracy, you scared the hell out of me!”

  Tracy laughed. “I got you good, didn’t I? You didn’t know what to think!”

  Slightly embarrassed by having scared the crap out of him, and slightly imbued with playfulness, Tracy didn’t resist as Vince wrestled her onto her back. She squealed. “Hey, wait a minute, I was only kidding!”

  “Only kidding?” Vince tickled her sides. Tracy howled with laughter. “Only kidding? How’s this for kidding, huh?”

  Vince tickled Tracy’s side and under her chin as she laughed and playfully slapped his hands away. The tenseness that had been present between them when Tracy suggested that she was a cult member was gone now. Vince caught her flailing wrists and pinned them down to the mattress above her head. Tracy’s eyes flared. “Oh, you domineering man, you!”

  Vince laughed and kissed her.

  The kiss led to other things. When those other things ended thirty minutes later they reclined again against the headboard. They lay atop the sheets, the sweat cooling from their bodies amidst the air conditioning. Vince swallowed some water from the bottle of Evian on the nightstand. “Can I ask you something?” Tracy asked. He looked at her. “Seriously?”

  Vince nodded. He capped the bottle and replaced it on the nightstand. “Sure.”

  “Suppose Frank did come back and say I was a cult member? Suppose he did it to keep you away from me due to his…his paranoia?”

  Vince thought about it. She had a point. “I don’t know if I would believe him.”

  “I would hope not.”

  Vince laughed. “Really, Tracy, I’d have to make him see the error of his ways. I mean, if you were a cult member why would you seduce me and lead me on like this?”

  “As part of some grand scheme to get you back into the group?”

  Vince shook his head. It was bullshit, but in a way it made sense, too. It would be the kind of answer Frank would give him. “There’d be no arguing with him I guess,” he said, regarding her calmly. “Then I’d know he’s a nut. Especially if he claimed Brian was a cult member, too.”

  Tracy rolled her eyes. “Oh yeah, Brian Denison, mister atheist. Guy who has no time for religious lunacy in any way, shape, or form. That would be a big giveaway.”

  Vince chuckled. “Of course you and Brian are pretty similar. If Frank thought you were a cult member I’d know he was full of shit. I know you; he doesn’t.”

  “And you don’t think your theory is full of shit?”

  “What theory?”

  “The one you just told me,” Tracy said, looking serious. “That you think you’re their Anti-Christ.”

  So this was where Tracy’s tactics were leading. Suddenly Vince saw his theory for what it was worth. A fragile notion perpetuated by his own rising sense of fear and confusion over the chain of events that had taken place over the past few weeks. A notion helped along by good old-fashioned paranoia. “Well, now that you put it that way,” he said.

  Tracy’s mouth was set in a smirking grin. “See? You can see the error of your ways!”

  Vince laughed. “I guess I can.”

  Tracy smiled. She took his hand in hers. Vince smiled back at her and the look in her eyes told him that she supported him and believed in him. And in knowing that, he began to believe in himself.

  FRANK WAS TYPING the week’s diary entries into his journal when his cell phone rang.

  He’d spent thirty minutes on the phone with his literary agent, Peter, who reported that everything was fine with Brandy and the kids. Naturally they were worried and missed him, and Frank had assured Peter that what he was working on was almost finished. He’d been assured his family was safe (“not even the IRS knows where they are, Frank,” Peter had said. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”). Frank had given Peter a message to relay to Brandy and the kids, then hung up. He’d been detailing the weeks’ events in his notes on his Compaq laptop when the phone jarred him out of his thoughts.

  He groped toward it automatically. “Yeah.”

  “Frank!” At first Frank didn’t recognize the voice. Whoever it was sounded panicked, frantic. “Ah, thank God you’re there Frank.”

  “Mike?”

  “Carol’s missing!” It was Mike and he sounded scared to death. His voice wavered on panic. “The place is a mess and…and there’s blood everywhere!”

  Frank felt himself grow light headed with shock and he had to force himself to stay calm. “Okay, what happened?”

  “I don’t know.” Mike panted, as if he were out of breath. “I got home and saw that Carol’s car was in the driveway so I figured she was home. And when I got in…” His voice strained, on the verge of trembling into sobs. “…the place was…was trashed! And it…it…” He began to stammer.

  “Calm down,” Frank urged.

  “She just wasn’t there!” Mike cried, and now he was crying. He didn’t heave great wracking sobs, but Frank could hear the tears in the man’s voice. “The place was ransacked and she’s gone!”

  “Where are you now?”

  “I’m here, at home.” Mike whined. Frank could tell that Mike was trying to keep his emotions under control and was having a hard time doing it.

  “You need to get out of the house, Mike.”

  “There’s nobody here. I went through the house already.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Have you called the police?”

  “No.”

  “Stay where you are. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
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  “They got her, Frank.” Mike began to cry again. “They got her, I know they got her.”

  “I’m leaving now,” Frank said. He hung up, grabbed wallet, keys, jacket, made sure his nine and extra clips were in the jacket, and then he left.

  THANK GOD EVERYBODY in Southern California drove like maniacs. Frank drove like one on his way to Mike Peterson’s home in Huntington Beach, and as he rounded the corner to the development off Beach Boulevard he saw the older man leaning against his car in the driveway. His face was buried in his hands and Frank pulled in front of the house and killed the engine. He was out of the car in a flash. “You okay?”

  Mike nodded, his eyes closed. The man trembled and he wouldn’t look up. Frank reached out and gripped his shoulder. “Mike,” he said softly but forcefully. “Come on man, I know…this is hard.” Frank imagined himself in Mike’s shoes. He’d be going through the same kind of hell now if something happened to Brandy or the kids. Hell, he’d be a fucking basket case. Mike seemed to be handling it well in spite of the situation. “Mike, I’m here.”

  Mike finally looked up at Frank. His eyes were red, his cheeks damp with tears. He took a deep breath. His features looked haunted, as if he’d just seen a ghost. “I shouldn’t have taken them for granted,” he said. “I was so careful in setting up my other identity. And I was so careful with all of us. If they know about me, they know about you and—”

  “You haven’t called the police yet?”

  Mike shook his head. “No…I…I almost did…”

  Frank looked up and down the quiet neighborhood. It was an upper-middle class neighborhood, similar to the one his aunt Diane and Uncle Charlie resided in El Paso where he’d lived for five years. All two-story tract homes with BMW’s and Mini-Vans parked in the driveways. Nobody was watching them. “I take it we haven’t attracted the attention of the neighbors yet, otherwise the cops would already be here.”

  Mike took a deep breath. “I…I tried to control myself as much as possible.”

  “I’ve got to go in,” Frank said, looking at Mike. “Do you want to stay out here?”

  Mike shook his head. “I know it sounds crazy, but I can’t. I have to find out what happened to her.”

  “Then let’s go in,” Frank said, his hand still resting on Mike’s shoulder gently.

  They went into the house together.

  The first thing Frank noticed when they crossed the threshold was the heat. It felt stale and musty, as if the house had been closed up for an extended period of time. Then he noticed the smell. It was the faint, coppery scent of dried blood.

  Mike seemed a little more prepared for the destruction that followed than Frank was. The older man led him into the living room and Frank gasped at the sight. The room was in shambles. The couch was ripped open, the stuffing from the cushions strewn about. The television was bashed-in, books were toppled to the floor from the built-in oak bookcase. Carol’s fragile china was shattered, the cabinet they’d been housed in broken, destroyed. “This way,” Mike said, heading for the stairs. “The minute I saw…what you’re seeing now, I headed up the stairs and started calling Carol’s name.”

  Frank followed Mike up the staircase, feeling himself tense up. There was something about this, some sixth sense that was telling Frank that something wasn’t right. How could they have found him? he thought. Mike was more careful than any of them, more careful than his Aunt Diane and Uncle Charlie, more careful than John Llama. His false identity was foolproof. So what happened?

  “This was what I saw,” Mike said as he stepped aside and allowed Frank entry into the master bedroom.

  Frank stood in the doorway to the bedroom. The room was destroyed; the furnishings were in the same slashed and broken state as the furniture downstairs. Framed pictures that had hung on the walls were on the floor, now shattered. Frank took a step into the room and Mike turned on the light. Frank saw the dark maroon splotches on the white carpeting right away.

  Carol had bled quite profusely.

  Mike hung back in the hallway as Frank stepped further into the room. He wasn’t a homicide detective, but it was obvious from the spilled blood and the destruction in the room that a struggle had taken place. A splash of red caught his eye; it was a streak of blood on the wall leading into the bathroom. Frank ventured inside, dreading what he would see.

  Blood had splashed into the sink. The mirror was shattered, smears of blood dotting its surface. Bottles of soap and shampoo had been spilled onto the floor along with combs, brushes, a hair dryer, and a box of curlers. One lone blue towel had been pulled off the metal towel rack and lay on the floor amid the toiletries. More blood dotted the tiled floor and a bath mat that ran the length of the bathroom. Frank cautiously avoided stepping in the blood and leaned over to peer into the bathtub. It was empty.

  He made his way carefully back into the bedroom. “Did they take anything?”

  “I don’t know.” Mike looked shocked and haunted.

  “Did you guys keep cash or jewelry here?”

  Mike shook his head. “Not on your life.”

  Frank glanced back in the bedroom. There was a television mounted on a small entertainment unit; its screen was gutted. “Whoever did this is not your usual junkie who wants to hock your shit to score a fix.” Frank turned back to Mike, his mind racing. “They were after something. Are you positive you didn’t keep anything about the investigation at the house?”

  “I’m positive,” Mike hissed, seeming to perk up a little under the interrogation.

  “Are you sure?” Frank pressed him on the issue. “Think! Why the hell would they chance such a bold breakin if they didn’t know something was—”

  Mike’s eyes lit up. “The key!”

  Frank felt his heart stop. “What key?”

  “The key to the safe deposit box.” Mike looked anguished. “I…I called Carol before you guys met me at LAX and told her what I was working on. I told her where the safe deposit box was. She knew what happened to John. She didn’t want me to poke into this again. I told her I wasn’t doing anything, that all I was doing was helping you out in some family stuff.” He looked at Frank. “I swear I didn’t tell her anything else. I don’t know if she believed me or not, but—”

  “You better not have mentioned my name,” Frank said. At the mention of Mike telling Carol that Frank was involved, he felt angry.

  Mike ignored him. “I put all the files I’d accumulated and a zip disk of my investigation into a safe deposit box I kept under my pseudonym. I…I told Carol that if I wasn’t back by Friday to open it and do something about it.” His eyes were wide at the implication. “They—”

  Frank tore into the bedroom. “Let’s start looking.”

  They began searching for the key to the safe deposit box. Mike pulled out drawers and rifled through them, but it was obvious that whoever destroyed the house had already gone through them. Whatever clothes weren’t spilled onto the floor had been thrown or pushed aside. Jewelry and knickknacks had been spilled onto the floor. Frank began going through clothes in the closet. “Where would she have kept it?”

  “In the bedroom on the dresser somewhere,” Mike said, searching frantically. “It’s not here!”

  “Maybe they missed it,” Frank said. Yet the more they searched, the more he realized that whoever had broken into the house and taken Carol by surprise had probably also gotten the key.

  Fifteen minutes later they abandoned the search. Mike looked frustrated and scared. “Oh my God what are we going to do?”

  Frank felt just as frantic and stressed but he was trying not to show it. “Okay,” he said, running a hand over his dark hair. “Let’s think about this for a minute.”

  “She’s gone, the key’s gone, they got her and they know about us!” Mike said, poking through the rubble again.

  “They don’t know about us.”

  “Yes, they do!” Mike whirled around, his face red with tears. “Look at this place! They knew what they were looking for, and t
hey got Carol in the process. Now we’re fucked! This whole thing is just fucked!” Mike breathed heavy, his features showing his anger and frustration.

  “First things first,” Frank said, trying to be calm. “We’ve got to get the hell out of here.”

  “Suppose they have it?” Mike asked, looking at Frank frantically. “What are we going to do? Suppose they came here….the evening we left and—”

  “Stop it!” Frank grabbed Mike’s shoulders and shook him. Mike flinched, as if afraid the bigger man was going to throw him against the wall. Frank leaned his face close to Mike’s. He could have kissed him if he wanted. “Calm the fuck down. If we panic, that’s going to expose our weakness. So just calm…the fuck…down!” Frank interjected menace in the command, punctuating it by shaking Mike as he enunciated each word. Mike got the message.

  “Okay, okay,” Mike said, the anger and frustration deflating a moment. “Okay, we gotta do something, though.”

  “First we gotta get the hell out of here.”

  Mike looked up at Frank, his eyes wide. “You think we should call the cops?”

  “Fuck no!”

  “But what about…”

  “I’m sorry, buddy,” Frank’s resolve was strengthening him, empowering him to take charge. He grabbed Mike by the shoulders again and spun him around, marching him out the door to the bedroom and down the stairs. “But right now we’re getting the hell out of here. And I’m leaning very strongly in favor of going to Billy Grecko with this shit as soon as possible. Like tonight.”

  “But Carol—” Mike protested, starting the merry-go-round of grief again.

  “We’ll find Carol,” Frank said, herding Mike outside. He closed the door behind him, made sure it was locked, and then led Mike to his car. “We’ve gotta get back to my room and think about this, talk a new strategy. Where’s the shit we brought back from PA? The box Maggie Walters had all those newspaper clippings in that Reverend Powell gave us?”

  “Still in my car.”

  “Get it.” Frank steered Mike to his car and waited while the older man fumbled to disarm it with his key fob. He rummaged in the backseat and grabbed it as Frank stood guard, watching the neighborhood silently. Nobody was observing them.