The moment passed. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“The Lord has given me to understand that you are telling the truth. That is all the thanks I need.” Reverend Joe stood, assisted by his cane, and said, “Come with me. My wife and I have a spare bedroom, now our son’s grown and gone. No reason you can’t stay in it for a while.”
—
Chris rode in an aging Ford pickup to Reverend Joe’s house. The windows were open, and with the wind, the heat no longer felt oppressive. Baxter sat next to him on the seat, head out in the slipstream, tongue flapping. A Christian music station was playing low on the radio.
The Reverend and his wife, Dolores, a rawboned woman with steel gray curls and dark eyes set in an angular, high-cheekboned face, lived in a neat ranch-style house on the north end of the town. It had rows of glowing marigolds along the walk and underneath the windows, leaving Chris no doubt as to who looked after the landscaping at the church. An embroidered sampler with the legend “God is Lord” hung in the entryway. The interior of the house was spotless, but had few knick-knacks and other adornments. A framed photograph of a smiling man of about forty leaned on the mantelpiece above a wood stove, with a blond woman and a boy and girl in their early teens. The man’s oval face and dark eyes left no doubt that Chris was looking at the Harpers’ son, whose bedroom he’d be occupying.
Dolores Harper didn’t question her husband’s statement that Chris was a poor man who needed help, “as the Lord hath commanded us.” However, she was also eminently practical. She offered Chris a shower and a change of clothes, and to launder Chris’s own garments, which were, by now, very much in need of it. Baxter was given a saucer of water and a bowl of kibble, and took care of both in short order. He then acquainted himself with the Harpers’ two spaniels, Zeke and Jimbo. After a moment’s suspicious circling, tails started to wag. The canine pleasantries exchanged, all three dogs lay down on the long throw rug in the living room.
Chris took this as a sign that he could excuse himself and take advantage of Mrs. Harper’s offer of a hot shower. He stood under the spray as long as he could. There was something ineffably comforting about feeling the warm water running down his skin. Finally, he got out, toweled off, and dressed in the clothes—rather too large for him—that Mrs. Harper had given him to wear until his were laundered, and then he went back out into the living room.
He was immediately struck with the smell of frying food, and his stomach gave a loud rumble. His time with Champion had been pleasant enough, but his meals had been lacking both in quantity and quality. Whatever Mrs. Harper was cooking smelled better than anything he’d had to eat in the previous month.
It turned out to be fried chicken. With biscuits, green beans, and a big glass of cold milk. Grace was said before eating, another novelty for Chris, who simply bowed his head until Reverend Joe was finished praying. Then all three dug in, for the most part in silence. Dinnertime conversation was, apparently, not something the Harpers indulged in. The whole affair was about as different from the noisy meals he remembered growing up as anything he could imagine.
After the last of the chicken was eaten, hands were wiped and napkins crumpled up and added to the plates full of bones and biscuit crumbs, Reverend Joe leaned back in his chair, and patted his ample belly. “That was a mighty nice meal, Dolores.”
“It was wonderful. Thank you for your hospitality.”
Dolores nodded. “I’m happy you enjoyed it.” Then she looked at her husband. “Chase Ballengee called while you were out.”
Reverend Joe smiled and frowned at the same time. “Chase? Haven’t heard from him in an age. What’d he want?”
“Just to see if we had any odd jobs he could do. I told him the first thing was for him to attend Sunday services for a change, and stop spending his money on beer. He just laughed.”
“I expect we could find something for him to do, if it came down to it. I could use help with the lawn mowing, both here and at the church, now that my knees’re so bad. You can only do so much yourself, you know. We’re neither of us getting any younger. And for all of Chase’s bad habits, he’s a good worker.”
“He is,” Dolores said. “He means well enough, I suppose.”
Conversation lagged and Chris became uncomfortable. What were his responisbilities as a guest? Should he excuse myself, at some point? Did they spend their evenings in this part of the world sitting at the dinner table, silently staring at the dirty dishes?
Reverend Joe spoke again, interrupting his thoughts, and this time directing a question to Chris. “You have family you need to get a hold of? Let them know you’re okay?”
“I don’t know if I can. I think that the people who are after me can somehow track my emails and phone calls.”
Reverend Joe absorbed this in silence. Mrs. Harper didn’t react. Chris suspected her husband had told her about Chris’s plight while he was in the shower. Or perhaps she didn’t question Reverend Joe’s decisions. Didn’t the Bible say something about wives being obedient to husbands?
“You married, Chris? Any kids?” Reverend Joe asked.
“No. Neither.”
“Still, you must have family and friends, right?”
“Yes. But I’m afraid to contact them. I don’t want to put them in danger.”
Reverend Joe nodded. “Lord Jesus bless you, son. That’s a hard road to travel, being alone like that.”
He shrugged. “I wouldn’t have made it this far without people like yourselves who are willing to help me. In fact, I’d be long dead.”
“You must be tired,” Mrs. Harper said.
“I’m exhausted.”
“I keep the bed made up for guests,” she said. “I’ll throw your clothes in the washing machine, and hang them to dry tomorrow, if the weather’s good. Till then, you’ll have to make do with those castoffs of the Reverend’s. Better than nothing, although they wouldn’t fit unless you put on a few pounds.”
“They’re fine, Mrs. Harper. But if you don’t mind, I think I’ll head to bed. It’s been a while since I slept in a comfortable one. Thanks again for dinner. It was amazing.”
He stood, and went out into the living room and then down the hall to the room that had been pointed out to him earlier as their son’s old room. He opened the door, and flipped on the light switch. A digital clock glowed red, its display reading 8:14, but he felt like it was after midnight, and that he could sleep for days. The room was as sparely decorated as the rest of the house, with only a bed, a dresser, a chair and small writing desk, a night stand, and a small set of bookshelves containing a Bible, a book called Daily Inspirational Readings from the New Testament, and a hardcover with a glossy, brightly-colored spine called Jesus Guides My Life.
Chris considered the Harpers as he prepared himself for bed. His first encounter with serious Christians had left him with the impression that they were, other than the frequent mentions of God and Jesus, pretty ordinary folks, and a significant distance from the shrieking maniacs from the Westboro Baptist Church that made it onto the nightly news every so often. Even so, he felt no particular inclination toward the devotional reading available from the books on the bookshelf, so he shut the lights out, undressed, and climbed into bed. Baxter was already snoozing at the foot of the bed. He hadn’t asked the Harpers if it was okay for his dog to stay with him, but he figured that he could always apologize afterwards if he’d breached protocol.
The bed was supremely comfortable, and he relaxed into it, feeling his joints creaking as the stress of the previous days drained from him. Moments later, he was deeply asleep.
—
Chris woke out of a sound sleep, some uncertain amount of time later, when the light switch turned on.
He sat up, blinking and dazed, the blanket slipping from his bare chest.
“I think you may owe us an explanation, son.”
He frowned, squinted. Reverend Joe was standing in the doorway, a piece of paper in one hand, and a hunting rifle held at his
side. “I brought my gun with me for my own protection, because Mrs. Harper insisted. But I’m open to talking, and I need to hear what you have to say.”
“What—?” Chris began. “About what?”
“About this.” He held out the sheet of paper. “You need to give me some answers. This… it doesn’t cast you in the best of lights.”
Chris slid a hand out from under the blanket, feeling like he was in the middle of some sort of dream, where everyday objects and words no longer make sense. He took the sheet of paper, turned it over.
Two things jumped out at him immediately, even given his sleep-addled condition. The first was the word, bolded and capitalized: WANTED.
The second was a smiling photograph of himself. It was, he realized, his last school nametag photo.
“Mrs. Harper told me this morning that I should check out your story.” Reverend Joe’s voice was heavy with what sounded like disappointment. “She’s more suspicious than I am, sometimes. So while I was drinking my coffee, I got on the computer and did a search for ‘Chris Lake, fugitive.’ I wasn’t expecting anything to come up, and honestly, I don’t believe she was, either. I think she was as caught up short as I was when something did. Now she’s telling me I should call the sheriff, and you need to tell me why I shouldn’t.”
Chris looked back down, and continued to read the fine print underneath the photograph.
WANTED
Christopher David Franzia, age 52, of Guildford, Schuyler County, New York. 6’1”, black hair, brown eyes, slim build. May be traveling under the name “Chris Lake.” Should be considered armed and dangerous. Do NOT approach if seen, but contact the authorities at the number listed below.
Last known to be in Sutherland, Nebraska. May be traveling west. Law enforcement agencies in western Nebraska, Colorado, and Wyoming should be on the alert for this dangerous fugitive.
Wanted in connection to a series of murders in Oregon and Washington state.
Reward available for any information leading to Christopher Franzia’s arrest.
Contact 1-800-555-9003 with leads, or email [email protected].
Chapter 13
“I didn’t kill anyone.” Chris looked into Reverend Joe’s eyes as steadily as he could, given the situation. Sitting in bed, wearing only a blanket, and having a man standing there with a gun and a wanted poster with your picture on it didn’t really foster self-confidence.
Reverend Joe frowned, shook his head. “I want to believe that, son, I truly do, but that’s not enough. You need to explain why that poster says you did.”
“I told you that there were people who were trying to kill me.” Slowly and carefully, he leaned back against the headboard. Anything to keep that rifle pointed at the floor. “They’re the same ones who committed the murders they’re referring to in this wanted poster. Five friends of mine in college have been hunted down one by one and murdered. I, and one other person, are all that’s left. Neither of us has any real idea why we’re being targeted. But now, the ones who are after me have changed their tactics, it looks like. Before this, they were trying to kill me themselves, by whatever it took. Since that hasn’t worked, it seems like they’re hoping to get someone else to do it for them, for the reward.”
“That’s quite a story. But most people, hearing your tale, would say that’s exactly what someone’d say, in your situation. How would you answer that?”
Jesus, was he getting sick of this shit.
“I don’t know.” He gave a harsh sigh. “I don’t really have any evidence. The people who are chasing me haven’t been leaving a lot of footprints. But as for you, I thought you said God told you I was telling the truth, yesterday.”
“So He did. So He did. And God never speaks anything but the truth.”
“Then why are you even questioning me?”
“Our finite minds don’t always hear His words correctly.”
“Well, that’s convenient.” Chris let his exasperation show in his tone. “So, I guess that throws you back on your own brain to figure it out.”
Reverend Joe frowned. “Now, there’s no need to get angry, son. But put yourself in my place. If you took in a man, and saw a wanted poster with his face on it, wouldn’t you ask a few questions? Especially if it said he was armed and dangerous. You aren’t armed, are you?”
“Look.” Chris pulled the blanket back. “It’s a little hard to carry a weapon when you’re not wearing any clothes. Unless I have a hand grenade stuck up my butt, I’m pretty much defenseless.”
Reverend Joe stared at him for a moment, and then broke out in a belly laugh. “Heck, son, you got me there.”
“If you want to make sure, the clothes you lent me are in a pile next to the bed. You can feel the pockets. The only things in them are my wallet and keys, the latter of which won’t do me a lot of good, given that the people who are trying to kill me blew up my house, and I had to abandon my car in some town in Missouri to keep from getting my head shot off.”
“All right.” Reverend Joe held one hand up. “Settle down. I believe you. Either you’re telling the truth, or you’re the best liar I’ve ever met.” He went over to the jeans and flannel shirt that Chris had dropped on the floor when he’d undressed for bed, and gave them a cursory check. He tossed boxers and the jeans to Chris, who caught them in midair.
“Get yourself dressed, son, and come on out into the dining room. Join us for breakfast, and tell us what you can of the story. You’ve got me convinced, now you need to convince Mrs. Harper. I should warn you, though. She’s a harder sell than I am.”
—
Twenty minutes later, he was working his way through several links of sausage, leftover biscuits from the previous evening’s dinner, and orange juice. Despite her feeding him well, Mrs. Harper stared at him the whole time through narrowed eyes, like a hunter waiting for her prey to make the first move.
Reverend Joe’s laptop was open on the table in front of Chris, and he saw on the screen the image they’d printed out. He shuddered involuntarily at once more seeing his smiling face underneath the word WANTED.
“What is ‘ctis.gov?’”
“I’m not exactly sure.” Reverend Joe shrugged. “I can’t keep up with all those government agencies and their initials.”
He typed in www.ctis.gov and pulled up a site for Central Terminal Information Services. The Official Seal of the United States figured prominently on the page, but other than that, there wasn’t much information about what it actually did. The website had some vague verbiage about Acting as a clearinghouse for data involving issues of national security and Seeking to ensure justice and the safety of American citizens both at home and overseas. Clicking through the associated links didn’t provide much in the way of additional information, although on a page titled Current Cases Under Investigation, Chris did find an entry for Elisa Ann Reed (also known as Elisa Ann Howard) whose last known residence was St. Cloud, Minnesota. She like Chris, was said to be involved in a string of murders in the Northwest, and was described as armed and considered dangerous, but her current whereabouts were listed as Unknown. Her photo was an old one, and looked like it had been culled from a newspaper.
“Elisa is the only other one of us who is still alive.” Chris pointed at her blurry image on the screen.
“So you say.” Obviously, Mrs. Harper was as yet unconvinced.
“Yes.” Chris kept his voice level. “So I do say. Because it’s the truth.” He opened up a Google search page, and typed in Central Terminal Information Services, and got a series of hits, all of which brought him back to the ctis.gov pages.
“You’d think if this was a real agency, there’d be more online about them.”
Reverend Joe pointed at the address bar. “It’s a dot-gov site. You can’t get one of those unless you’re legitimate.”
“There are probably ways around that. Even if it’s official-looking, it might not be for real.”
“That’s true. But it still could be a government agency.”
He rolled his eyes. “Government doesn’t mean it’s good.”
Reverend Joe snorted. “Especially these days. I can’t stand Obama and his liberal lackeys. Leading the whole country down the road to perdition.”
Chris looked up. He wasn’t going to waste time discussing politics. “Look, I know I don’t have any hard evidence to convince you with. Just think about it, though. What’s the likelihood that I’m some kind of most-wanted criminal? Here I am, fleeing across the country, with nothing but my dog.” He gestured down at Baxter, who was sitting next to him, leaning against his leg. “No car, no gun, nothing. Just me and a dog. Does that seem plausible to you?”
Baxter, seeming to sense that he was being talked about, wagged his tail. Chris gave him a bite of sausage.
Mrs. Harper crossed her arms across her chest. “Seems like you got the Reverend convinced. I’m a little more cautious, I guess. I mean, Joe, think about it. Besides the up-front danger of harboring someone who might intend us harm, there’s the fact that we could get in a lot of trouble if we make a mistake. If he actually is a criminal on the run, and they find out we sheltered him? Knew about the wanted poster and didn’t tell anyone? We’d be charged as, what are they called…?”
“Accessories.” Reverend Joe took a sip of his coffee. “Accomplices.”
“Right.” Mrs. Harper nodded. “We’re law-abiding citizens, Mr. Lake. Or is it Mr. Franzia?”
“It’s Franzia.” Chris tried to keep the anger from his voice and only partly succeeding. “I was going by Lake because they could track me otherwise. But seems like they found out, anyway, probably in Missouri, where I lost my car. I’m guessing they checked the motel register there.”
“I don’t know.” Mrs. Harper’s lips tightened into a grim line. “Joe, I know you want to help this fellow, but I’m worried. Why shouldn’t we call the number on the wanted poster, and let the authorities sort it out?”
Kill Switch Page 14