They

by J. F. Gonzalez

  “We’ll do a drive-by the house first,” Frank had said. “Make sure the police aren’t there. Then we’ll leave.”

  That had been the plan. As they’d talked over breakfast, they ruminated over where the course of their actions would take them. Frank was confident that Bill Grecko’s FBI contact would produce results. The agent in question had broken up a large snuff-film ring last year that had been the result of Bill’s own hard work. According to Mike, Billy still didn’t like to talk about it.

  Once they’d finished breakfast and paid the bill, they’d headed straight to Billy Grecko’s office in Santa Ana. The drive was made in funereal silence. Mike had placed a call to Billy on the way over and the lawyer had met them in the lobby of the building his law office was housed in. It was the first time Frank had met the lawyer; he appeared to be around Mike’s age, with graying, curling hair that was balding along the crown, with a somewhat slim figure and weathered features that told Frank he was an ex-drinker. They’d shaken hands quickly, and then Billy had escorted them to the elevator and whisked them up to his office.

  Where behind closed doors they’d handed the laptop over. Billy had quickly summoned an IT tech into his office who began to promptly image Frank’s hard drive onto another laptop while Billy and Mike made small talk. Frank had sat on the sofa, trying not to fidget. When the IT tech was finished, he left both laptops in Billy’s office and exited the room. Billy nodded. “I take it this is everything?”

  “Most of it,” Mike said. He handed Billy the box that contained thirty years of secrets along with the key. “This is the box Vince’s mother kept. I told you about it a few days ago. You should be able to match the clippings and photos with the documents from Frank’s laptop.”

  Billy nodded. He held the box, his eyes never leaving Mike’s. “I can’t promise you anything,” he said. “But I know Hank, my Bureau friend, is very eager to see this.”

  “Thank God he is.”

  “Do either of you need any kind of professional surveillance or security?”

  Frank had perked up at this. “Can you help us out in that?”

  “I can arrange something. Pull a few strings. It might take me a few hours to get everything lined up.”

  “If you can do that, yeah,” Frank said. “That would be great.”

  “I’ll make some calls.” Billy looked at Mike. “You haven’t called the police yet?”

  “No.” Mike shook his head.

  “Don’t call them,” Billy said. “Hank and his team will take over once I get this material to him.”

  “What should we do now?” Mike asked.

  “I’d prefer if you stay here until I can arrange for you to go into hiding,” Billy said.

  “What about Vince and Tracy? We told them to go to the Venice Beach area and wait for our call.”

  Billy nodded at Frank. “You need to call them. Have them come here.”

  “I have stuff at the motel room I’m staying at,” Frank said. “I should really head back to get it.”

  “I’d like to get some things from the house too,” Mike said.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Billy said.

  “Why not? I’ll be in and out in three minutes.”

  “Because they know who you are now.”

  “He has a point, Mike,” Frank said.

  Mike turned to Frank. “Why haven’t they come after us then?”

  Frank shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Billy Grecko spoke up. “Is it absolutely necessary for you to go back to your house?”

  For a moment, Mike was silent. Then, in a soft whisper, he said, “If I’m going to live the rest of my life in some kind of witness protection program, I want…I want pictures of my kids. My wife…” He looked at Billy, at Frank, his soft blue eyes imploring them to understand. “If I have to spend the rest of my life away from them, I need…I have to—”

  Frank sighed. “I can go in the house with him. I’m armed and I’ll shoot first and ask questions later.”

  Billy Grecko appeared to think about it. Frank knew the lawyer had deep reservations about this, but he’d finally relented. “I want you both back here in an hour. If you aren’t back, I’m getting the police involved.”

  Frank rose to his feet. “We’ll be back.”

  And now they were in Frank’s motel room.

  It hadn’t taken long for Frank to pack the rest of his stuff into the single duffel bag. Once packed, he’d paused quickly to call Vince. He even tried Vince at his home number and got the answering machine. He looked at Mike. “I’ll keep trying.”

  “We should have gotten Tracy’s cell number,” Mike said.

  “Yeah,” Frank agreed. He checked his bag, checked the handgun he had strapped to a holster around his waist, his T-shirt concealing it. He was ready to go.

  He didn’t even bother to formally check out. He’d checked in under his real name. The electronic trail of Frank Black would end there, in that little dive-motel on the border of Costa Mesa and Huntington Beach.

  On the drive to Mike’s house in Huntington Beach, Frank’s thoughts drifted to Brandy and the day he told her he was changing their identities and moving them to New England. He’d given her the barest glimpse of what he was working on—he’d told her the basics years before, when they first met—and when he told her he was moving her and the kids out of the state, under assumed names for their own safety, she’d finally lost it. “You’re going to risk our lives because you’re digging around in a past you don’t even remember much of? Because you think your parents might have been drugged out hippie-freak devil worshippers? I don’t believe you! Why do you need to find out what happened to you as a kid now? Why can’t you just let it go? You haven’t so much as given a shit about your mother in over twenty years? Why are you letting her freak you out now? Why don’t you just let her go?”

  “Because I can’t” he’d bellowed at her. He’d flinched as she drew back at the ferocity of his voice. He’d told her the same thing the afternoon he handed her the plane tickets—and the doctored identities he wanted her and the children to live under. That had been three weeks ago, when he told her that he and Mike had stumbled onto something big, something that could very well threaten their lives. “The people my parents were involved in weren’t just another hippie cult; they’re fanatics. I think the things I was exposed to as a kid weren’t unintentional. I think it meant something, and I’m going to find out what it is, and who they are.” That was all he would tell her. As much as she’d begged and pleaded for him to tell him everything, as much as she’d tried to get him to tell her exactly why they were in danger, he’d insisted on sending her away to New England.

  Thinking about Brandy and the kids now made him miss them more than ever. He felt his chest ache, his throat constrict. A tear ran down his cheek as he tried to keep his pain from spilling out. He could very well join them. He’d created his own new identity back then, too, in the event he had to slip away. That new identity was now waiting for him in a safe deposit box in New Hampshire.

  When they reached Mike’s development, Frank cruised slowly, keeping a steady watch for anything suspicious—police activity, people sitting in vehicles parked at the curb. Mike was on the lookout too; he seemed more alert, more aware of his surroundings than he’d been since last night.

  They approached the street Mike lived on and drove slowly. “Look okay?” Frank asked.

  “So far, so good,” Mike answered.

  They drove past Mike’s house. Mike’s car was still parked in the driveway. The front door was still shut. To all intents and purposes, everything looked okay.

  Frank drove around the block, still keeping with a steady speed so they wouldn’t attract unwanted attention. “Do you know what you want to get out of the house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Upstairs, in my bedroom.”

  “What is it?”

  “My wedding album and the scrapbook
s Carol made. Jimmy and Doug’s baby albums. And Kimberly’s baby album too.”

  “Okay.” Frank couldn’t fault the man for wanting family heirlooms like that. “But you’re going to make it quick. I’ll go in with you.”

  “Don’t you think you should stand guard outside?”

  Mike had a point. “I’ll walk you to the front door and make sure you get inside. I’ll leave the car running. Anybody comes to the house, I’ll take care of them.”

  “What if it’s the police?”

  “I’ll take care of them.”

  “You’ll shoot them?”

  Frank shot a quick glance at Mike. “If that’s what it takes.”

  Mike remained silent as they drove around the block and began heading back up the street his house resided on, in the center of the quiet, middle-class, tree-lined residential neighborhood.

  Frank pulled the car into the driveway next to Mike’s car. He took one more quick look around, and then opened the driver’s side door. “Let’s do this.”

  Both men exited the car and headed to the house. Frank drew his weapon as they approached the door. Mike fished inside his pockets for the keys. He inserted the key in the lock, gripped the doorknob, turned it.

  Then they both stepped inside.

  Chapter Twenty

  WHEN THEY ENTERED the house, Frank stepped in front of Mike, gripping the handgun in front of him in classic shooter’s stance. Mike hesitated a moment, the destruction of the house bringing him back to last night when he’d first encountered the sudden horror of what had happened. He took a deep breath, feeling his adrenaline rise as Frank quickly made a sweep of the living room and kitchen. He hustled back to Mike and looked up the stairs. Go!

  Mike headed for the stairs and was startled when his cell phone rang.

  He stopped halfway up, glancing at Frank, who ushered him to keep going. Mike held a hand up and unclipped his cell phone from his belt. He gasped. “It’s Jimmy,” he said. He answered the phone and began heading up the stairs. “Jimmy?”

  “Dad!” It was Jimmy. He sounded frantic. “Thank God! I’ve been trying to call you for the past couple of hours and—”

  “What’s the matter?” Mike said, his alarm rising.

  “Kimberly’s missing,” Jimmy said, and then his voice broke. Mike felt his heart freeze up. Kimberly was his and Carol’s only granddaughter; she was three years old. “Cathy left the office and went by the daycare to pick her up for her doctor’s appointment and one of the aides turned white. She said that Cathy had been in an hour earlier to pick Kimberly up and now she’s gone!”

  “What are you talking about!” Mike had yelled into the phone. His heart was racing.

  From the foyer, Frank: “Mike, let’s get going!”

  “Somebody took Kimberly!” Jimmy was yelling, his voice panicked. “They took her and we can’t find her!”

  “Oh my God,” Mike said, and he felt the world spin. The air seemed to thicken, he felt his limbs grow heavy as the nightmare crashed down. He was at the top of the stairs and he leaned against the hallway, unable to continue any further.

  Frank called out from downstairs. “Mike! What’s happening?”

  “We’ve tried calling you, and we’ve been with the police since, oh I don’t know, since ten-thirty, eleven maybe,” Jimmy said, crying. “I even went by the house earlier and you weren’t home.”

  “When were you by the house?” Mike asked, feeling his throat constrict.

  “Around noon maybe,” Jimmy said. “Dad, I don’t know what to do!”

  “When did this happen?” Mike wasn’t thinking clearly as he resumed his walk down the hallway to the master bedroom. From behind him, he dimly heard Frank tell him to hurry it up, to get back down here now.

  “Cathy…Cathy tried to pick Kimberly up at a little after ten,” Jimmy stammered, “and…and they said that Cathy had been in at nine and gotten Kimberly. They said that Cathy had already been there! How could she have already been there? She was in a meeting at that time!”

  “I don’t know, son,” Mike said, feeling his heart freeze up as he suddenly stopped just shy of the master bedroom—

  —where there was a large splash of fresh blood staining the carpet.

  From downstairs, Frank called up to him. “Mike! You okay? Talk to me or I’m coming up.”

  “No,” Mike said as he took another step closer to the master bedroom, Jimmy forgotten, everything else forgotten now, even Frank as he stepped to the threshold of the bedroom he’d shared with Carol. From behind him and down the stairs, he dimly heard Frank say, “No, what?”

  There was a light on in the master bedroom.

  He heard Jimmy’s voice coming through the cell phone as he stepped into the master bedroom, his muscles tense. The blood spatters became more pronounced, more evident in its coppery scent as he entered the master bedroom and when he saw the new destruction in the bedroom his mind rebelled. It was so sudden, so ugly, so wrong, that his mind took it in as jumbled images: melted candles, still lit; the crude symbols written on the wall, painted on the carpeted floor, the bloody piece of meat in the center of the symbol that was strangely satanic in look and design but which did not resemble anything remotely satanic in any of the research he’d uncovered. Then he saw who was there and the shock was so great that Mike thought he was going to scream.

  At first he didn’t recognize them. There were six of them, three standing around the strange symbol, the other three seated on the floor. They all turned around at the sound of his entering and smiled at him, as if awaiting a long lost friend. Mike stood frozen in shock, trying to force his voice to unlock from the grip of fear. Who the hell are you and what the hell are you doing in my house? he wanted to say. What came out was a parched hiss.

  Then one of them stood up. He was tall, with black hair that was turning gray. He was dressed in tan slacks and a white polo shirt, and looked trim, muscular, and powerful, like he might be a banker or a corporate CEO. He had that aura of power. He smiled, his green eyes a blaze of fire. “Mike! So good of you to join us.”

  Recognition set in and Mike felt paralyzed. He hadn’t heard that voice or seen that face in over twenty-six years. “Tom,” he said.

  From below, dimly, he heard Frank Black yell that he was coming up the stairs.

  Tom Black smiled. “Yes, Mike, it’s me. Remember Gladys?”

  Mike’s eyes rested on the woman seated next to him. She was middle-aged, but she wore it well. She was dressed in a tan business suit, her stylish hair settled on her shoulders in a perfect wave. She nodded at him, her make-up expertly applied. Mike noticed a gold necklace around her neck that glimmered. “Gladys.”

  “Dad…dad?” Jimmy’s voice sounded tinny, far away. The connections fell into place as he cast his eyes around the room and when it was made he thought he was going to scream.

  Kimberly Peterson, three years old, the perfect age, innocent, pure, just what they used, the blood was so pure, so thick, so sweet, they used the blood of children in their most important rituals, he knew that, it was in all the research he’d done on them, it was in all the interviews he’d conducted with the few witnesses that had gotten away and were locked up in mental institutions or were homeless, just another crazy living on the outskirts of society and they all said the same thing. They used the blood of children, of innocents, and the sweetest sacrifice was one in which the child came from your own blood.

  His eyes locked with Carol Peterson’s from across the room. The Carol Peterson that looked across at him looked the same, but she was not the same woman he’d known and loved for almost forty years. She smiled at him. “How could you have guessed?”

  Mike started, confused. “Carol?” Did she just read my mind?

  “You’re right,” she said, as the others rose in unison and took a step forward. “The sweetest sacrifice, and the most powerful, is one where the child comes from your own blood.”

  From behind him, he felt Frank Black approach, heard Frank’s v
oice. “What the fuck?” Felt the rush of air as Frank stormed into the room, gun drawn.

  Mike didn’t even have time to scream before they swarmed over him and the shooting began.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  VINCE WALTERS AND Tracy Harris waited at a little café on Venice Beach for almost three hours.

  They spent most of that time talking, looking out at the boardwalk and the ocean. The boardwalk was crammed with joggers, roller-bladers, people walking dogs. There were street vendors hawking everything from bootleg designer clothing and perfumes, to ice cream and hot dogs. On the beach, sunbathers caught the last rays of the sun, and scratch volleyball games were underway. The cry of seagulls blended in with the hum of traffic, and the steady bass thumping of rap music that boomed from large boom boxes carried on tattooed shoulders. Vince and Tracy sat at their table and talked, their eyes hidden by dark sunglasses as they finally ate a light dinner of salads and chicken sandwiches.

  Vince tried to call Mike at two-thirty with his cellular phone. He got no answer. “Try Frank,” Tracy suggested. They had ordered drinks and were nursing them in the warm afternoon sun.