by J. D. Barker
With that, the guard led her away, the sound of her soft shoes shuffling down the hallway.
Sarah turned to Sam. “What did she write?”
He flipped the diary around so she could see the page:
12 Jenkins Crawl Road
Simpsonville, SC
59
Poole
Day 3 • 2:03 p.m.
Poole knocked again, louder this time.
The icy wind numbed his cheeks and neck, and he cursed himself for not wearing a scarf.
His knocking at the house on the left side of the abandoned property had gone unanswered. He’d peeked in the windows, and it didn’t look like anyone was home. A dog spotted him, looked up from under a blanket on the floor, then went back to sleep without a single bark.
A neighbor had been home at the house on the right of the abandoned property, but she offered little in the way of useful information. The woman answered the door in a huff, her fingers clasping her thick pink robe tight around a rather rotund body. Golf blared from the seventy-inch television behind her at an ungodly volume. The display seemed completely out of place, much too large for the small living room and outdated décor. Empty Amazon boxes were stacked precariously just inside the door next to a coat rack dripping with at least a dozen coats, hats, and scarfs. Two small dogs sat on the couch and began yapping the moment he knocked, their agitation increasing as the door swung open and he came into view. The house smelled like cheese.
The woman frowned at him, yellow teeth behind chapped lips. “What?”
Poole held up his badge. “I’m with the FBI. I’d like to ask you a few questions about the house next door.”
She ignored the badge, her stare fixed on him. “I don’t know nothing about next door.” She turned back to the dogs. “Shut the fuck up! The both of you!”
They hushed long enough to regain their breath, then started again.
“Have you seen anyone enter or exit the house in the past few weeks?”
“The owners don’t give two rat’s asses about that place. Since Hector died, his kids have let it go to shit, the ungrateful lot. He should have let me have the place. I was the one who took care of him when the cancer began to eat him up and he couldn’t go to the store no more. I was the one.”
Poole could only imagine the caregiving skill set this woman possessed. “What about after Hector passed, who was in the house?”
Her hand shot up and scratched her cheek, leaving the dry skin pink. “Ain’t nobody been over there but maybe kids. Better they hang out there than in the streets, so nobody says much about it. If Hector’s kids don’t want them in there, they should install a better lock. Maybe put some paint on the place. Hector wouldn’t have let his house go like that.”
“What about the mail? Is someone keeping an eye on the mail for Hector’s kids? I didn’t see anything piled up, so someone must be collecting it.”
“Man across the street took to collecting the mail. Nice fellow.”
“Which house?”
The woman pointed. “The green one there.”
When she released the robe, the frayed terry cloth fell open enough for Poole to get a glimpse of the happenings underneath, and he wished he hadn’t.
Poole now stood at the green house across the street.
He knocked again.
60
The Man in the Black Knit Cap
Day 3 • 2:04 p.m.
Knocks.
So loud.
The damn incision on the side of his head ached with the noise, and he wanted to shout out, tell them to stop, put an end to it. But the knocks came again and again, each louder than the last until he found himself sitting at his desk with his hands pressed to his ears, the marker falling from his fingers to the floor at his feet.
He stood up.
He stumbled for the door of the small room, for the stairs, nearly tripping over his daughter’s clothing strewn about.
He descended the stairs carefully, releasing his ears only long enough to steady himself on the railing.
Each knock echoed in his head.
The pain was worse than a migraine. Worse than a knife to the eye.
He wanted it to stop.
Needed it to stop.
He reached the bottom of the stairs and stumbled across the foyer to the front door. When he reached it, when his fingers slipped over the brass doorknob, he drew in a deep breath. He forced the breath into his lungs, into his muscles, his flesh. He forced the calming air to fill his body and relax the pain. He felt the burning at his cheeks dissipate. He felt the pain begin to lessen. His thoughts cleared.
He forced a smile onto his face and opened the door.
61
Poole
Day 3 • 2:04 p.m.
When the door opened, Poole was looking down at the badge in his left hand, his right hand about to knock again.
When the door opened, Poole didn’t realize it was Anson Bishop doing the opening. He didn’t look up into the other man’s face until a moment after the man spotted his badge.
He had time enough to register his mistake before Bishop’s fist wrapped around the collar of his jacket and pulled him inside the green house with the strength of a man running on pure adrenaline. He had time enough to hear four words slip from Bishop’s lips before he pulled him inside and threw his body against a small table in the hallway, sending him crashing to the floor.
“You’re not Sam Porter.”
62
The Man in the Black Knit Cap
Day 3 • 2:04 p.m.
He opened the door.
Two people stood on his porch. Teenagers, a boy and a girl of about sixteen.
The boy was the first to speak. He wore a white shirt and black tie beneath a heavy down coat. “Good afternoon, sir. We are visiting you and your neighbors today to spread the truth. Mind if I ask what religious beliefs you follow? Are you Protestant? Catholic?”
The girl was staring up at the wound on his head, an uneasy smile on her face.
He tugged the black knit cap down tight, covering the inflamed incision as best he could. He returned her smile. “I . . . I recently had surgery. I’m sorry, I usually keep it covered. It can be . . . offensive.”
The boy glanced over at the girl, then turned back to him. “If you are still with us, the Lord clearly meant to spare you. Scars are not offensive. They are a sign of healing, proof of faith, as are the trials that lead to them.”
The man in the black knit cap found himself nodding, the pain and itch all but gone. “Would you like to come in? Get out of the cold?”
The girl shuffled her feet. She weaved her fingers into those of the boy at her side.
The boy smiled. “We’d love to.”
63
Poole
Day 3 • 2:05 p.m.
The small table shattered, and Poole’s shoulder burned—he crashed to the floor with pieces of wood raining around him.
Bishop grabbed him by the knee with one hand and just below the shoulder with the other, picked him up, and threw him against the opposite wall of the hallway with a half spin. Poole felt his head impact first the wall, then the hardwood floor with a deep thud. A burst of white light filled his vision, followed by a pain so intense, he thought he might black out. The pain started at his shoulder, right below his neck, and traveled down the length of his arm.
Poole crashed to the floor in a puddle, the butt of his gun digging into the sensitive flesh under his arm.
Bishop kicked him in the ribs.
A new pain, harsher than the first.
Through cloudy vision, he saw Bishop take a step back and pick up one of the broken legs from the table. He knelt beside Poole. “You’ll have to forgive me—I wasn’t expecting guests. Had I known you were coming, I would have picked up something nice from the bakery down the street. They make these delicious scones, not too sweet. I believe the chef adds a dab of honey, although she’s a bit tight-lipped about it.”
&
nbsp; Bishop raised the table leg and brought it down on the base of Poole’s neck. All went dark.
64
The Man in the Black Knit Cap
Day 3 • 2:05 p.m.
The man in the black knit cap ushered his two visitors inside and offered to take their coats. The boy removed his and handed the coat to him. The girl did not. She didn’t so much as lower the zipper.
He smiled at them both. “I was about to make hot chocolate. Why don’t you join me? Nothing better on a cold day than a cup of hot chocolate. Let’s get comfortable in the kitchen, and you can tell me all about your cause.”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned from them and proceeded down the short hallway to the kitchen. The boy followed him, the girl behind them both. It was her footfalls he listened to, the hesitancy in her step. Her boots had hard soles.
In the kitchen he pulled two chairs out from the table. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. This will just take a minute.”
“You’re very kind,” the boy said.
From the corner of his eye, the man in the black knit cap watched the boy pull out the chair a little farther for the girl. She gave him a look and sat down. A soft thank-you from her lips.
“Please tell me, what are your names?”
He retrieved a deep copper pot from the cabinet above the stove, poured in some milk, and set the pot atop the gas burner. The blue flame licked across the bottom.
“My name is Wesley Hartzler, and this is my friend Kati Quigley,” the boy told him, setting some reading materials on the table before folding his hands.
The Watchtower and Awake!
“Jehovah’s Witnesses?”
“Are you familiar?” the girl said. Her hands were on the table too, but she still wore thick gloves, her fingers a blur of nervous motion.
Her voice was sweet. It held the ring of a crystal bell.
He retrieved a large wooden spoon from the drawer at his left and began to stir the milk. “I am familiar with God’s word in many forms. I have to say, though, when Witnesses come calling, they’re usually much older than the two of you.”
“We’re sixteen, sir. Plenty old enough to spread the word,” the boy said.
“Wesley, is it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I couldn’t help but agree. There is so much to be learned from today’s youth, and you are so often disregarded.”
He fetched three mugs, located the tin of Godiva hot cocoa mix he kept above the stove, and scooped a large helping into each mug. When the milk began to simmer, he poured equal portions into each mug, then added a drop of vanilla. “My mother used to make cocoa like this, with vanilla, and even after all these years I haven’t been able to shake the habit. Vanilla adds just a bit of mystery, a hint at something special.”
He placed a mug in front of each visitor and returned to the table, cradling the third. He sat and smiled at them both. “I imagine spreading the word is a difficult task in today’s world. So many people are lost. It must be frustrating.”
“What religion do you follow? Mr . . . .” Kati Quigley asked. She removed her gloves and wrapped her fingers around the mug. He noted that she did not drink.
“You may call me Paul.” He smiled at her and sipped his cocoa.
“Like the apostle,” Wesley said, before drinking from his own mug.
“Just like the apostle.” He wiped his lips on the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “I suppose I’m a bit of a searcher when it comes to religion. I’ve pulled a little from here, and some from there. I’ve found that discovery can be just as enlightening as scripture.”
“Our hall is less than a mile from here. You should join us. We have open meetings every Saturday beginning at eight in the evening, and they only go for an hour or so. I’m sure everyone would love to hear your views.” Wesley took another drink of his cocoa. A drop of chocolate stuck to the corner of his mouth. “This is delicious.”
At his side, Kati jumped, narrowing her eyes at him.
Had he kicked her under the table?
Wesley went on. “After the meeting, there is usually cake and refreshments. Maybe you can share your hot chocolate recipe.”
“That sounds like a splendid time.”
Kati raised her mug to her lips. He watched her sniff at the steaming beverage. She took a short, hesitant sip. “Mmm, this is wonderful.” She placed the mug back on the table in front of her, turning it several times before dropping her hands into her lap.
“I’m glad you like it.”
“Do you have a family, Paul?” Kati said.
“I have a daughter your age. She can be a little shy too.”
“Oh, I’m not shy.”
“No?”
Kati shook her head, sampling the hot chocolate again. He couldn’t tell if she was really drinking or only raising the mug to her lips in an attempt to appear like she was drinking.
“Kati can be very talkative once she gets to know you,” Wesley chimed in.
“Where is your daughter? Is she home?” Kati’s eyes darted over the small kitchen.
“She’s resting, upstairs. She hasn’t been feeling well lately.”
“Is there a Mrs. Paul?”
The man in the black knit cap lowered his gaze. “I’m afraid we lost her when my daughter was born. There were . . . complications.”
“God works—”
He waved a hand at her. “I’m very familiar with his mysterious ways.”
“These are trials. He’s testing you. Testing your faith,” Wesley said.
“That may very well be true, but it makes such things no less painful. Have either of you ever lost someone you care about? Someone who means the world to you?”
Wesley and Kati exchanged a glance, then shook their heads.
“You’re both so young. Let’s hope you don’t have to experience such things for a very long time. Let’s hope God has no reason to zero in on either of you. If he does, hopefully you’ll catch him on a good day.”
“Every day is a good day with the Lord in it,” Wesley said.
“Yes . . . I suppose it is.”
“Will you bring your daughter to the Kingdom Hall?” Kati asked.
He smiled at her. “I’m sure she would like nothing more than to attend.”
Wesley finished off his hot chocolate and made a bit of a show of setting the empty mug back on the table. “Well, Paul. I think it’s time we get going. We have many others we would like to touch today.” He slid one of the pamphlets across the table. “The address of our hall is on the back. Like I said, not very far from here at all. We’d love to see you. You and your daughter.”
The man in the black knit cap finished his hot chocolate and scratched at the wound on the side of his head. A slight throbbing began behind it again. “Tell me, Wesley, what do Jehovah’s Witnesses believe happens to the soul after death?”
Wesley had begun to rise from his chair. He glanced over at Kati, then sat back down. “Well, we believe the soul dies with the body as punishment for sins committed by Adam and Eve.”
“So, no heaven? No hell?”
“Oh, there is a heaven, but God only permitted the souls of 144,000 to join him there, to rule under Christ, to help create a heaven upon earth.”
“What becomes of the rest of us, then?”
Kati crossed her arms. “According to Genesis 3:19, God said, ‘You will return to the ground, for out of it you were taken. For dust you are and dust you will return.’ ”
“So, no hope then.” He gestured around the room. “All this, and we are nothing more than dirt. All those we love, nothing but food for worms and trees.” He heard an anger brewing in his voice and stomped it back down. “I suppose we should strive to be one of the righteous so we can hope to become one of the 144,000, then.”
Wesley edged the pamphlet closer to him. “Joining us, spreading the word, that offers the best hope. It is never too late.”
The man in the black knit cap wrapped his fingers around his e
mpty mug. “Oh, I don’t know. For some of us, it just may be.”
With a wide swing, he brought the mug up and bashed it into the side of Wesley’s head. The ceramic cracked with the impact, and the little loop handle dangled from his index finger for a second before falling to table. Wesley toppled sideways and crashed to the floor, his chair dropping with him.
Kati took a moment to process what had just happened, her eyes wide and fixed on the boy on the floor at her side. She watched like someone engrossed in a television program, her brain unwilling to accept what she had just seen.
The man in the black knit cap took this moment of hesitancy to leap up, his fingers seizing the collar of her coat.
Kati swatted at his arm, breaking his hold, and threw the remains of her hot chocolate in his face before spinning away and running back down the hallway toward the front door.
The liquid burned his eyes, the soft flesh beneath them. He didn’t care. He didn’t feel it. He scrambled over the chair and chased after her. “Kati! Sweetie? Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s rude to leave the table before you’re excused?”
She reached the front door and tugged at the knob, fumbled with the deadbolt.
He had the key in his pocket.
She banged on the door with both fists. She screamed. He could barely hear her. Her cries were muffled, underwater cries. Kati turned, her back against the door. “Please . . .”
He reached for his wound. His fingers came away wet with fresh blood. He imagined the blood seeping down through newly turned dirt in some forgotten graveyard.
“Please don’t . . .”
Her head made a satisfying clunk as he slammed it against the hardwood door, his fingertips leaving bloody streaks on her forehead.
65
Porter