                                                     THE CAVES

                                                      BOOK ONE










                               (C) COPYRIGHT 1995  by Carol J. Sweet all rights reserved.


This material may not be altered, edited, or in any way changed. You may print or distribute this material freely so long as the accompanying copyright notice is included and the file is not altered. This is an excerpt (chapter two) from THE CAVES BOOK ONE. Subsequent chapters will be uploaded to this forum bimonthly.
                                                     











                                                     TWO
                                                    ~ 1 ~
  
  Frank Weil flipped the map back onto the passenger seat of the small red Chevett, and glanced at his watch. 
  He had figured the trip from Syracuse to Glenn Pines would take about an hour and a quarter. He hadn't, however, counted on the traffic. The whole day can't be great, he thought. The trip into Syracuse International had gone well. One short connection in route, and other than that the whole trip had been uneventful. Now this. Something up ahead was slowing the traffic down, and he was pretty sure he knew what the problem was. Still, if he lost much more time, it would probably be close to dark when he arrived in Glenn Pines. And the possibility of arriving after dark, and trying to find the house didn't appeal to him.
  Frank eased the small Chevy out into the passing lane, and slowly coaxed the little car up to speed again. He had been right, the problem was the same as it had been coming off the thruway from the airport to get on route 81. Army convoys. And, if you didn't get around them quickly, you could spend forever in the left hand lane. He had learned that lesson the hard way coming off the thruway. Not only couldn't he get around them, at first, but when he did he couldn't get back in for the exit to route 81 north. He had ended up heading south instead, and had wasted twenty minutes getting turned around and back to the northern exit.  
  What the hell kind of military base needs that many trucks, he had wondered. It was a question that really didn't need to be answered, but he answered it anyway. The base doesn't, the caves do. They may unload at the base, but I bet they just drop the load and ship it into the city at night, he told himself. 
  He stared out the window of the small car, and looked over the traffic as he passed it. Jeeps, dump trucks, Hummers, and tractor-trailer combos carrying who knows what. All of them heading to northern New York, he knew. He also knew that the airfield, at the base outside of Glennville, had been quite busy as well, the convoys of trucks weren't their only supply source.
  Frank reached towards the dashboard and fished a cigarette out of the pack that rested there, lighting it just as he passed the last olive-green truck on his right. He tossed the lighter into the plastic console that surrounded the floor shifter, and it landed with a hollow plastic bong. At the same time he pulled back into the right hand lane, and leaned back into the seat as he took a long pull on the cigarette.
  From what he had been able to determine from the map, and what he already knew from his investigation, the military base was about twenty miles north from Glenn Pines. Don was right, it didn't seem as though any of the trucks would be passing through Glenn Pines on their way to the base. Glennville was only about nine miles away from the base though, and that was where the loads would end up. Not in the city actually, he reminded himself, but under the city. And he hadn't found that little piece of information on the map. The map said absolutely nothing about the caves. 
  When he had first started to seriously investigate the base, he had gotten the first hint of the caves from one of his informers. The informer was an ex-private turned junky, who had been stationed at the base when the project had started. The rest he had gotten from the articles he carefully culled from the Glennville Daily Press, and Jimmy, an old friend who worked at a Syracuse paper. Some things could be hidden, but there was always a clue if you knew where to look. 
  The first article he had read, had seemed harmless enough, but coupled with the information he'd already had, it had been intriguing. The United States Army had purchased some abandoned property from the city to use as a storage depot. The story had went on to say, that the land was close to the train depot, and the base would benefit from the purchase as they would no longer need to truck shipments from the base to the depot every time they used the rail yards. The ex-private had tipped him off about the caves, that also happened to be located on the same piece of property.
  Even then, it still hadn't made a whole lot of sense to Frank. What would they save? They would still have to ship whatever came in there, to the base. Wouldn't they? 
  In other articles, most of which had been written years before in the Glennville paper, he had learned what the property really consisted of, and at first it had seemed like an unlikely purchase. It hadn't been all that hard to dig up the old articles, especially with the help of his friend in Syracuse. Although Glennville had its own local paper, the Times Reporter in Syracuse, which was only seventy miles away, often reported on the events that took place there. 
  It had been a simple matter of looking through the files, pulling the stories that pertained, and with the help of a modem link-up, the reporter friend sent the stories to Frank in Washington. He had learned most of what he knew about the actual property from those stories, some of which dated from the early thirties.
  The property was located on the river bank in the heart of the down-town section of Glennville. It consisted of a stretch of road that began in the center of the city, and then extended out of the city along an old set of rail road tracks. An old defunct coal company, and some run down out buildings were also included. And, perhaps most important of all, an abandoned series of caves that ran under the city. The city had bricked up the caves better than sixty years before, in response to the community. 
  In June of 1935, a large group of school children, along with two adults  who supposedly were well acquainted with the caves, and their various twists and turns  had set out on a field trip to explore them. They had never returned. A subsequent search had turned up no trace of them at all. Three weeks later the city had sent a Public Works crew to brick up the entrance, and it had been closed ever since. 
  When the Army had bought the property, it was considered unsafe, and had pretty much been allowed to go to seed. The road leading out of it, had likewise been closed off some years before, and the area had become a hangout for young kids and vagrants. On any given night the police ended up being called to the area several times. And the city had debated for years, about what they should do with the property.
  When the Army had offered to purchase the property, the City Council had considered it a Godsend, and had been more than happy to sign over the deed and accept the check they offered. It had seemed to be the end of it. Frank had read later articles, however, that seemed to indirectly touch on the property. Mostly the increase in traffic after the sale, and the air of security that surrounded the site. 
  The local paper had down-played it to normal, or as close to normal as they could. Glennville had always been a military town and so most of the complaints of increased traffic, were actually seen in a good light. Increased activity at the property, might eventually mean more jobs. And in a depressed economy, that depended heavily on the nearby base, anything the Army did was always reported in a positive light. As far as the local paper was concerned, there was nothing negative to report.
  So the real clues had come from the Syracuse paper. Franks' friend, Jimmy Patrick, kept in touch, and had contacted Frank whenever he came across anything that was related to the smaller northern city. Syracuse itself had had big problems, initially, with the traffic. 
  When Frank had called Jimmy, he had only wanted to know what he knew about the place. But after Jimmy had told him about the traffic problem, he had asked him to keep in touch, and he had. He had also filled him in on everything else he knew about Glennville. As he drove along, Frank mentally ticked off what he knew about the northern New York city.
  The Black river split the city in two, and there were four bridges that spanned it. Three of the four, also spanned the property that the military had purchased, and those three bridges were new. When they had been replaced, the road that ran to the old abandoned coal mine had been blocked off, and abandoned. Ironically, or maybe not, Frank thought, the Army Corps of Engineers had done all of the work. 
  The result was a small discarded piece of property, with Its own road leading in and out, in the heart of the city. It was  bound on the south side by the Black river, and the north by a sixty foot rock ledge that rose just behind the old historic downtown district. That was, besides the caves, what Frank knew about the city itself. Jimmy had seemed to have caught Franks enthusiasm for the mystery, and had also sent him other articles he found as well. 
  Some of them, although at first glance seemingly innocent, were quite revealing about what was really going on in Glennville.
  The first one Jimmy had dug up and sent him, was from the Public Notices section of the Syracuse paper. 
  "I thought it was kind of strange," Jimmy had said, "that they didn't print the notice in the Glennville paper." 
  Frank had read the long notice carefully. It boiled down to a statement of facts concerning the property in Glennville, and the Governments intended use of it.
  The whole notice hadn't made a lot of sense. It seemed to be saying that they intended to invoke the privilege to the mineral rights that had been deeded to them along with the property. It also stated that the Army Corps of Engineers had decided that the closed caves would need to be reopened for a feasibility study, to determine whether or not they could be used as a storage facility. It had been the first direct mention of the caves at all. 
  The notice went on to say, that since this would involve transportation of, as well as disposition of, excess material from within the caves, the Corps had asked for, and via the printing of the notice, been given permission to begin the process without the necessary permits. They were also granted permission to transport radioactive materials to and from the site, the notice stated, and had like-wise been granted a waver of the Clean Water Discharge Act, to allow undisclosed drainage into the Black river.   
  Subsequent notices, and articles, had detailed contract awards for "unspecified" electrical and plumbing work, along with contracts for per-piece orders of drywall and lumber. Another notice Frank had read, contained contract awards for concrete and asphalt, to a Texas corporation. The amounts were unspecified, and were listed as needed for road repair, and sub-wall replacement. Jimmy had thought some of it was unusual, and probably even illegal, and although Frank had agreed, there was not much that either of them could do without further proof. 
  Jimmy had also told Frank that the Army had been building up the area for some time, and that from what he'd been able to determine, they had begun work on the caves even before they had completed the purchase of the land.
  They both suspected that the notices were only a cover for some larger project the Army was carrying out, and the radioactive permits bothered him a great deal. Jimmy had promised to stay in touch, and he had, up until last week.  
  Frank had tried to contact him at work several times but to no avail, and the messages he left were not returned. He had tried calling Jimmy at home as well, and had only been rewarded with his answering machine. That had seemed strange to Frank also. Jimmy was a damn good reporter, who knew the value of answering his phone whenever it rang. At work, at home, in the middle of the night, it made no difference. Jimmy always answered the phone. He hadn't though, and the message beep on the machine had gotten longer and longer, which told Frank, that he was also not retrieving his messages. 
  He had even tried contacting Jimmy's editor, but he had refused to talk to him. He hadn't given up though, and had tried to call just this morning before he left Washington. His call was put through, but all he had gotten was a steady busy signal at his home. And when he had called his work number, a business like secretary at the paper informed Frank, in a matter-of-fact tone of voice, that Jimmy had left just the day before on an assignment. When he had asked her where he had gone to, her voice had gone even more business-like, and she had told him the paper did not give out that sort of information. And then, just when Frank had been about to try another tact to find out what was going on, she had hung up on him. The whole thing, the caves, and Jimmy's disappearance, weighed heavily upon him.
  Frank inhaled deeply from the cigarette, and then tossed it out the open window. 
  That was why he was here. None of it figured. The base itself had hundreds of acres of land, so why did they need more? Why the caves? And, what the hell had happened to Jimmy? 
  The Glennville paper had come out, just last week, with a long article that had been picked up by the wire service. Frank had read it, and wondered why they were suddenly going public about the caves. The Army was now saying they intended to convert the old caves into a large underground storage area. Frank already knew that from the Syracuse paper though, and he didn't believe it was that simple. The rest of the story was bullshit, as far as Frank was concerned, and really didn't say a whole lot of anything. Certainly nothing he hadn't already known, or suspected. The article really seemed to serve only one purpose, and that was to mention that they were doing something with the caves. 
  Why would they feel the need to do that? Frank wondered. Had the Army maybe found out that he and Jimmy had been digging into the base? Is that why Jimmy was no where to be found? Had they scared him off somehow? 
  Frank didn't believe it was possible to scare Jimmy off of anything he was determined to find out about, so if they hadn't scared him off, what the hell had happened? It all raised a lot more questions than it answered, and once he had lost track of Jimmy it had made it personal to him. He needed to know what had happened to him, so here he was cruising down the interstate to find out. 
  He didn't have the slightest idea what he would find when he got there. What do you expect? he asked himself, missile silos? . . . little green men? . . . Some sort of horror monsters living in the caves?  
  The last was pretty far fetched, he thought, but the truth was that he didn't know any of the answers. But, he suspected, he would soon, and he also suspected it was much worse than little green men, or missile silos, or even monsters. And he felt drawn to it, almost led in fact. 
  His hand reached automatically for the cigarette pack on the dash, and just as abruptly stopped. 
  I've got to cut back, he thought, that's the second pack today. He wrestled with the urge for a full thirty seconds, and then gave in. To hell with it, he told himself, I'll have plenty of time to quit once I get settled in at Glenn Pines. In fact I'll probably be so busy that I won't have time to smoke at all, he lied to himself. Once again the lighter hit the tray, and Frank settled back into the seat, and began to once again mull over what he knew, or suspected, about the caves. 
  The other clues that something was not quite right with the upstate New York project, had come from keeping track of the Senate committee hearings on the UNRDC fiasco. UNRDC, stood for United Nations of Russia for Democratic Change. 
  The Senate investigations had hinted at CIA involvement in setting up the organization that had swept to power in the fall of 1995. UNRDC, was comprised of several ex-military leaders who had between them, ended up controlling the entire eastern block. They also had strong ties to the now unified Middle East.
  The CIA, had of course, denied the allegations, and pointed to the unrest that still dominated the organization as proof that it had not been planned or manipulated. The supposition being that if it had been, there would not be so much unrest. Government organizations could be so stupid sometimes, Frank thought.
  They had disclosed reports of their own which had seemed to back up their theory though, and insisted that the area was unstable and controlled by no one. And their theory, seemed to be born out by the President Elect of the new UNRDC, who had issued a statement condemning the "Godless country of America" and scoffed at the suggestion that he or any of his cabinet members had been planted by the CIA, or that they had any ties whatsoever to them.
  The Senate hearings had continued anyway, and rumors had been circling the press for weeks that the Senate was about to drop a bombshell on the CIA director, Martin Peebles. They had supposedly turned up a mouth piece within the organization, and the mouth piece had confirmed that the CIA had indeed backed the present cabinet, and the current president. 
  It was further rumored that the CIA had been suckered into believing, that after they had helped to sweep the party to power, they would still be able to exercise some type of control over them, and had only found out after, that they had no control at all. Of course all of this was rumor, but just two days ago, the Senate had released a statement addressing the issue. The statement had seemed to hint that, a source within the CIA was indeed being questioned behind closed doors, and had indeed confirmed many of the rumors circulating concerning CIA involvement, in the UNRDC, as well as in the Middle East. 
  The next day, the United Soviet Democratic Republic had refused a meeting with the President of the United States, and had at the same time declared that all nuclear weapons in the newly held territories had been "Secured," and were to be, "Considered the property of the USDR," and further more "All agreements entered into, with any and all nations of the world, concerning Strategic Arms Limitations with the former USSR, are declared by this government to be null and void." 
  Press Secretary Jeffrey Macmillan had released a statement from the President promising a, "Quick solution, to this obviously disturbing development." He had also officially denied any involvement in, or any knowledge of any involvement, by the CIA, or any other government organization, in the takeover of the former Soviet Union. Nor had he found any evidence that the newly formed USDR, or its ruling organization, UNRDC, Had had any ties to the Middle East, or the newly formed country of New Iran. 
  He had also promised to investigate the matter himself, and promised full disclosure to the public in an address to the nation in July. He had urged the public not to speculate on nuclear war, or to concern itself with it, as the age of peace in the world would continue as it had, unimpeded by the recent events. 
  Frank hoped that the CIA had been involved, and was still able to exercise control. If not, the possibility of nuclear war could be very real, and he really didn't want to think about that possibility.
  As Frank neared the exit for Glenn Pines, he mulled the possibilities over in his clouded mind. It could be a missile base, he thought, or it could just be a build up of conventional weapons. 
  He really didn't know, but he intended to find out. One thing was for sure, it wasn't just a storage facility, and he couldn't quite believe it was a new missile site. They're all out in the Midwest, aren't they?  he questioned himself. He could think of no valid use for the property at all, and that bothered him. That, and a basic distrust of a government that had been caught lying so many times before. 
  He had just flipped the turn signal on to exit the interstate, when he felt a shimmy begin at the rear of the car. It quickly turned to a deep pounding vibration, as he slowed the small car and pulled to the side of the road.
  Frank climbed out of the small cramped car, and, walking to the rear, stared down at the flat tire that he knew was there. Muttering under his breath, "Damn rental car," he returned to the front; retrieved the keys, and unlocked the small hatchback to search for the spare he hoped was there. It wasn't. 
  Frank locked the small car, and taking his briefcase with him, set off in the direction of the exit to find a service station.

                                                         ~ 2 ~

  Two miles away Joe Miller tossed a steel clipboard onto the passenger seat of his Camaro, as he pulled into the long driveway at 6620 Main street, Glenn Pines. 
  Joe hadn't seen the old brick house since three weeks before, when he had been sent out as part of the clean-up crew from Bud Farling's real estate agency. The house had looked horrible then. The windows and doors had been boarded up, and the now graceful grounds had been choked with weeds. 
  The old house looks damn good, he thought. He hadn't been there himself for most of the work, as Bud had kept him busy with his other properties. Joe tended to get most of Bud's work, probably due to the fact that he was dependable, and showed up every day ready to work. To Bud, Joe knew, that meant a great deal. A low whistle escaped his lips as he stared at the imposing estate, that had always seemed so forbidding before.
  The van that he usually drove was in the shop for the third time in as many weeks, so he had come in his own car. This time it was the transmission, and Bud had been really pissed about it. Not pissed at Joe though, the van was old. And, Bud had told him, he supposed he'd have to buy a new one soon. 
  When Bud had asked if Joe minded driving his own car out to the house to put in the locks, Joe had told him he didn't mind at all, and that considering the way the van was constantly breaking down lately, he felt better taking his own car. At least that way he wouldn't end up walking like he had last week when the van had broken down in the middle of nowhere, Joe had reasoned. 
  Joe Miller actually had a great deal of expertise in home repair, and it had always seemed to him that all the different aspects of it had been simple to learn. He had made Bud a lot of money, and he worked as a sub-contractor so Bud could work him as many hours as he wanted with out having to pay the overtime. 
  The arrangement worked out well for both of them. It meant Bud could count on Joe, and because of that he paid him well. 
  Joe had no family, so even if Bud called in the middle of the night with some emergency at one of his properties, it wasn't a big deal for Joe to get dressed and go take care of it.
  Joe retrieved the new locks from the seat, and headed towards the front door. The keys had already been mailed to the man who was renting the property, Bud had explained. 
  "Just remove our master locks, and swap 'em out for these," Bud had said, "And oh, don't forget to bring the keys and the master locks back with you tomorrow." 
  Joe had lost a set of the master locks a year ago, and Bud had never let him forget it. 
  Whenever Bud had a crew working on a property, the master locks were used. That allowed everyone to come and go whenever they needed to. And all the tradesmen that worked for Bud had a master key. It had come in handy on several occasions. 
  The keys fit all the rental properties Bud owned, or managed, as well. And Joe couldn't count the times that had come in handy to him. Half the time, when there was a problem with an apartment, it was usually reported by one of the other tenants, and nine times out of ten, the tenant who lived in the apartment, wasn't home. The master locks solved that problem nicely.
  Joe reached the door; slipped the master key into the lock, and entered the house. He squinted in the gloom trying to see into the entrance way, peering cautiously inside at the shadowy hallway. 
  The old house had long had a reputation of being haunted. Joe didn't necessarily believe it, but he had always found the old house to be unnerving. 
  It still seems spooky in here, Joe thought, as he stepped into the entranceway. Stupid though, letting this old house get to me, a few minutes ago I felt fine. He couldn't explain why he suddenly felt nervous about entering the house, and he glanced nervously back out the doorway at the driveway, where the Camaro sat gleaming brightly in the late afternoon sun. 
  The light stupid, he reminded himself, turn on the freaking lights. 
  He turned his attention back to the hall, and let his searching fingers locate the switch, and with a small push of the old button-style switch the lights came on.
  Soft shards of light flickered across the walls of the entrance way, from the large chandelier, suspended from the old tin ceiling in the middle of the entranceway. Joe carefully edged the door shut with the heel of one scuffed work boot, and stared child-like around the room as the splashing patterns of light  danced on the dark mahogany of the walls. 
  The wood panels reached more than twelve feet to the old tin ceilings, and intricate flowing lines covered the tin panels in an ornate flower design. 
  The dark walls were divided with carefully scrolled moldings, that broke the walls into squared sections. And a matching mahogany stairway curved away from the dark gray marble flooring, towards the upper reaches of the house. 
  He could make out the darkened upper floor where the staircase ended, and a small balcony that looked down over the entrance way. 
  To the left of the staircase, at the end of the long entrance way, massive double doors were set into the wall. A smaller single door led off to the right, directly across from those doors, which was the kitchen area, he knew. 
  To his immediate right, was another set of double doors, and directly across from that a graceful arch led into the living area. He knew that the doors set into the wall at the end of the hall led into a formal dinning area, that also had a small door that opened into the kitchen area. The doors to his right opened into a large den, with book shelves from floor to ceiling, and a massive stone fireplace. 
  Joe had seen it before, when it had been stuffed full of the dusty old furniture that had been left in the house, when the owner had died. The house had been tied up in probate court for years, Bud had explained, and so everything had been left pretty much untouched. 
  He hadn't been here when the final cleaning had been done however; he hadn't seen just how imposing, and elegant, the house really was, without the dust and dirt that had covered it. And to him the transformation was astounding.
  Joe carefully set the cardboard box containing the new locks on the floor by the front door. He decided that he wanted to take one more look at the house before he put in the locks. He walked down to the far end of the dimly lit entrance way, pushed open the double doors at the end of the hall that led into the dinning area, and sent his left hand skittering across the wall for the switch. Sparse light from the hallway fell through the doorway and beyond. 
  Suddenly, a silver flash swept from the darkness towards him. His hand was still looking for the light switch, and his mind did not immediately register what it was. 
  . . . WHAT? . .  his mind cried out in alarm as his eyes watched the shining flat arc sweep towards him.
  . . . A knife? . . . at me? . . . Why?
  "Not real," he muttered aloud backing away. 
  But his hands came away from his chest with bloody drops clinging to them. 
  His eyes watched as a disembodied hand plunged the knife deeply into his chest again. 
  Hand? he thought. . .  Is that my Blood! . . . What?  
  The hand with the knife flickered quickly out of sight into the darkness, only to reappear a split second later and plunge deeply into his chest once more. 
  KNIFE. . . KNIFE. . . KNIFE! His mind screamed. 
  Two men stepped from the shadows. The larger one still held the knife threateningly in his hand as Joe slumped to the floor. 
  NO. . . he tried to say, but found he could not.
  Strong hands closed around his wrists, and were joined by others, as his bleeding body was lifted from the floor. He tried to scream but could make no sounds. His chest felt as though a large boulder rested on it. 
  It doesn't really hurt, he thought, but they could have killed me and I can't breath well, and, WHY?
  His chest hitched once, and stopped. 
  Can't breath, he thought, and next. . . They did kill me! They did! . . . they did. . . 
  He seemed to be falling into a dark void, and he could not see, but he could hear, he realized.    
  They're scared, he thought, they're Scared. Oh, isn't that funny. They killed me and they're scared. 
  He could hear them talking in hushed tones.
  "Do you think he's dead?" one asked.
  "Maybe," the other replied.   
  I'm not! Joe tried to scream but could not. 
  "Well, he sure as heck ain't breathing. . ." 
  "That don't make him dead, stupid," the other one, with the deeper voice replied, "I read where it takes four minutes for the brain to die. He could start breathing again or somthin'."
  "Well. . ." the one with the whiny voice began.  
  "Shut the HELL up and let's get going," the one with the deeper voice shouted, cutting him off. 
  Who said that, Joe wondered, as if it made a difference. Are they picking me up? . . . For what?  He couldn't tell if they were picking him up or not. In fact he couldn't feel anything, he realized, and it was beginning not to matter to him. Is this what it feels like to be dead? He wondered.
  "Are you sure he's dead?" 
  "I told you I don't know."  
  "Well he's looking right at me is all and it bugs me," the smaller man whined. 
  Joe knew that they had to be lying because he couldn't see them. I can't be dead 'cause I can hear, and I can't be staring at them 'cause I can't see nothin', Joe thought as he tried to open his eyes.
  "He ain't dead! He ain't! He ain't. . ." 
  The panicked scream was bought about by the flicker of his eyelids as Joe had tried to open his already open eyes. The scream was suddenly cut short by a sharp slap delivered across the face of the terrified smaller man, that Joe heard perfectly well. 
  "Shut the hell up,Eddie. Just shut up ya baby." Eddie shut up.  
  "I stabbed him nine times." Bobby Lawton, the bigger man insisted. "He's dead already. . . Okay?"
  Nine Times? . . . Nine Times. You're dead already, Joe's mind informed him.
  Joe felt nothing during the trip through the kitchen to the car.
  "Open the damn trunk," Bobby said. 
  They had carried the body out the back door to where they had parked the big Thunderbird earlier. 
  "Open the damn thing. . . It's not locked. Just lift up the stupid lid,"  the voice continued as Joe listened.
  I gotta tell them, Joe thought. I ain't dead, and they can't put me in no friggin' trunk.
  HEY!  Joe tried to scream, I ain't dead and you can't put me in the trunk! . . . I'm claustrophobic, I can't stand tight places! 
  But his lips would not move and his throat would make no sound. His lungs could pull no air into his body to make his throat work, he realized. 
  I've got to replace the locks, he reasoned, please. . . Please? He pleaded as the trunk lid slammed home.
  Screw you, he thought, just screw you. I ain't dead. He was tired though. Very tired it seemed. 
  Joe Miller did not feel the bumpy ride to the old Jefferies farm, and he did not feel the dirt and stone striking his face as he lay at the bottom of the shallow grave. Joe was dead. Oh yes, he was very dead indeed.
                                                                            
  Eddie pushed dirt quickly into the grave they had hastily dug when they had reached the farm. Bobby had gone back inside the house to clean up the mess, while Eddie had gone out front to bring the light green Camaro the guy had been driving around. The guy had looked awful young to Eddie. He hadn't looked old enough to be a reporter. 
  Prolly went to college, his mind told him. College kids get all them easy jobs anyhow. Prolly how he got the job.
  It had never occurred to either of them to check Joe's pockets. After all it was the right house and there sure as hell hadn't been anyone else there, Eddie had reasoned. 
  They had ditched the car off one of the dirt roads that honeycombed the woods surrounding Glenn Pines. It would take some time for someone to find it. That would give them some time to dispose of the body, and for things to cool off a bit.
  Eddie bent harder into the shovel, spraying dirt down into the hole. Whoever said it was easy to kill someone with a knife was sure wrong, Eddie thought. The guy's eyes were still open when we pulled him from the trunk!
  Bobbies voice broke into his thoughts. 
  "Hey Ed, I'm gonna go call Alan," he told him. "let him know, you know, so's we can pick up the money later on. . .  Finish that and hang tight. I'll be back."
  Eddie watched Bobby back the big car down the narrow dirt road towards the main highway. After a few minutes he bent back to the task of filling in the grave. 
  When he was done he spread a couple of handfuls of leaves over the ground; sat down nearby, and smoked while he waited for Bobby to come back.
                                
                                                                      ~ 3 ~    
  
  Frank Weil had found a run-down-looking gas station at the end of the exit, two miles outside of Glenn Pines. An old rusty Chevy truck, with a newer-looking Holmes 220 wrecking unit mated to the back, was pulled part way into one of the bays with its hood sticking up into the air. 
  Not good, his mind told him. Not good at all. 
  It turned out to not be bad though. At least not with the wrecker. 
  "Just lookin' her over, friend," the old gray-haired attendant, and as it turned out, owner, said. 
  " 'Placed the plugs is all. Just checkin' the timing to boot." 
  The old man had disconnected the timing light and slammed the hood back down with a rusty protest. 
  "Yuh, she's jess fine," he said, "what can I do ya for?"    
  He had taken Frank back to the car, hooked it from the rear, and towed it back to the station. His young son had watched the station while they were gone.
  Getting the car back had been no problem. Getting the tire replaced had been. He'd had to send the kid into the city to pick up a replacement, and the kid had seemed to take forever. 
  Frank supposed he was lucky though, as the old man had just gotten the tire place on the phone before they closed. He had persuaded them to stay open until the kid could get there. The old man had said he could call a cab if Frank wanted him to. "Course the only cab comp'nys in the city," the old man had added with a shrug. Frank decided to wait for the car. After all, he thought, I probably won't get there any quicker. 
  It was full dark by the time the kid got back with the new tire, and after 9:00 p.m. before the car was off the lift and ready to go.
  The old man had gave him directions to the house after Frank had paid the $142.36 bill. No wonder the tire place stayed open late, Frank thought. 
  He pulled the small car out on the road. Two blocks down he made a left on Main, and began looking for the house. When he reached 6620 he pulled the small car into the driveway and parked in an old garage at the rear of the house. He once again picked up the briefcase, along with the one battered suitcase he had brought with him, and headed for the rear door. 
  The key would not fit in the lock. 
  Frank tried the knob and breathed a sigh of relief when the door swung open into the shadowy kitchen area. He set down the suitcase, feeling along the wall with his hand until he located the old-style push button. He thumbed the switch on. 
  He noticed the kitchen floor was wet and a sharp pine odor lingered in the house, mingled with something else he couldn't quite place. Must have just finished cleaning, he thought, maybe they didn't have time to change the locks yet.
  He picked up the suitcase once again and nudged the door shut with the toe of one shoe as he walked off into the house. 
  Much nicer than I thought it would be, he marveled, as he entered the front hallway from the kitchen area. He climbed the staircase to the second floor and tried the first door he came to. 
  It opened on a large bathroom and an old claw foot tub stood gleaming in one corner of the room. The room was finished in an off-white color. The narrow wooden slats that comprised the lower wall were broken about four feet from the floor with a decorative molding. The wall was  finished to the tin ceiling above him with a contrasting flowered wallpaper. Frank closed the door and moved further down the hallway. 
  The next door opened on a huge bedroom decorated in the same style as the bathroom had been. A large four poster bed dominated the room flanked on either side with dark oak dressers that matched the bed. The linen, as promised, looked fresh. 
  Frank set the suitcase down and placed the briefcase on one of the dressers. He stripped off his jacket (hanging it on one of the corner posts) and then headed down the stairs to see if the phone was working. 
  He wanted to call Cora to talk to the kid's tomorrow. He had called that morning before he had left and Jeff had extracted a promise that he would call as soon as he could. They're in bed by now, he realized, looking at his watch. 
  He wasn't sure if there were two or three hours difference, but he knew it was earlier there, than here. Either way it didn't make much difference, he decided, they would probably either be in, or getting ready for, bed, so there wouldn't be any sense in calling tonight. The phone call could wait until tomorrow morning, he was beat. His body felt it, he realized, as he reached the bottom of the stairs. 
  When he had come through the front entrance-way on his way upstairs, he had turned on the lights as he went, and he could see another set of switches by the front door. Must be a three way switch, he thought. 
  Over the years he had replaced a lot of things in the house back in Richmond Beach, and light switches had been among them. You can't own a house and not learn about maintenance, he thought. After Janey had died he had kept up the house himself, rather than call a repair man every time something wore out or became broken. His eyes slipped down from the switch-plate, and he noticed a small cardboard box sitting on the floor by the front door. He walked over to investigate.
  The box contained a screwdriver and two new-looking lock-sets. He picked up the screw driver. 
  Nice multi-bit job, he thought. Bet whoever left it is wondering what the hell they did with it. 
  Frank tried the keys he had been given to the house, finding they fit in the new locks. 
  He sighed, "Whoever they sent to clean up and put the locks in, forgot the locks," he said aloud. 
  To hell with it, he decided, I'll swap the locks out myself if I can. 
  At first he was a little pissed off that they had forgotten the locks. They did do a good job on the cleaning though, he thought, and I would probably only get the guy in trouble if I called Bud and complained. 
  Frank used the screw driver to remove the old locks, he examined them, switched the cylinders and replaced them. The holes were new and the dead bolts were the same brand. It was an easy job to accomplish. 
  He put the screwdriver back in the box along with the old locks and pushed it back into the corner where it had been below the light switch.  
  Whoever left that screwdriver will probably come back. At least for that, Frank thought. Maybe I'll give Bud a call tomorrow. I don't have to mention the locks. I'll just tell him whoever he sent left some of their tools here. 
  The thought reminded Frank that he had come down to check the phone. He walked into the living room and picked up the old rotary dial phone to check for the tone. A familiar hum told him that it did indeed work. He replaced the receiver on the hook, and (turning the lights out as he went) climbed the stairway to the bedroom. He was beat, and sleep came quickly even in the unfamiliar surroundings. 
  He met old man Peters the next morning.
    
                                                      ~ 4 ~
  
  "Christ, don't say nothin' bad about 'em while they're around," Francis Peters said. 
  "Why's that?" Frank asked, as he chuckled. 
  Frank was sitting on Peters' front porch which overlooked the large house he had rented across the road; leaned back in a cane backed chair with a cold bottle of beer in his hand at 9:15 in the morning. 
  Frank had met Peters' that morning as he had exited the house. The old man had been peering through the dirty windows of the garage at the small red car inside. He'd seemed pretty embarrassed at getting caught, and had told Frank that he was just, "Checkin' on the house,"  as he usually did.
  "Didn't 'spect to see no one 'round here! I wasn't told that the old place had been sold." 
  The old man was of course fishing, and Frank knew it. Frank figured that the old guy probably saw himself as the unofficial caretaker of the place, and he had seemed to be harmless, so Frank had told him he was only renting the place for a couple of weeks.  
  "S'spected somethin' was up," Peters said, "there's been one hell of a lot going on over here the last couple of week's. I been sort'a watching the place for the last couple a years, you know, so the kids don't break into it and ruin it. . ."
  ". . . When'd ya get in?" 
  "Yesterday. . . Well, last night I guess," Frank replied, "drove down from the airport in Syracuse."
  Peters nodded. "Yep, thought I saw some lights on over here last night. Thought maybe it was the same crowd twas here just after dark. . . Raised a hell of a ruckus, and nearly scared the bejesus out'a me. Thought somebody was gittin' killed or something."
  Frank had eyed the old man. 
  "Well I think I can set your mind to ease on that. When I got in last night I noticed that somebody from the agency had been here, cleaning the place up. In fact the kitchen floor was still wet," he said.  
  "Yep." Peters said, "you got that right, seen him my-own-self. Joe, I think his name is. Young kid with blond hair. But, I ain't talking 'bout him. There was a couple other guy's there too. They was there before he was. The kid left with 'em too. Sounded like they had themselves a little fight first though. Say, it's damn hot already, what's say we go kick back on my porch a bit? I got some cold un's in the General?"
  The old man had caught the suspicious reporter in him, so here he sat at 9:15 a.m. with a cold beer in his hand, wondering what the old guy had really seen. 
  The beer wasn't bad, despite the early hour. He'd expected some off brand or something, the Coors was a nice surprise. Social Security, which was what the old man said he lived on, must pay a lot better than it used to, Frank thought.
  "Really," Peters was saying, with a big grin on his face, "they'll get ya fer it. They really will." 
  He continued. "I 'member this one time when I said something to Old Jay." Old Jay was Peters mangy looking orange and white cat. "He's an uppity old cuss, ya know?" 
  Frank couldn't help but laugh. 
  "No lie," Peters bellowed over the top of the laughter. 
  "Son-of-a-bobcat crapped in my shoe." 
  That was it for Frank, and he let the laughter roll out of his belly unchecked.
  "Well to hell with you," Peters said, a stern look on his face.   
  "I'm just trying to tell ya, that animals kin understand, when ya say somethin' bad about 'em. That cat crapped right in my shoe. If I'd a caught 'im he'd a been a sorry little cuss too."
  Frank just laughed and shook his head. What could you say to a man who thinks his cat can understand him? 
  Peters chuckled a little, right along with him. 
  "Course. . . There was this dawg, I once owned. I swear to God that dawg not only knew what I was saying, but worse than that, the little son-of-a-whore knew what I was thinking too. Not always, but most the time mind ya."   
  Peters raved about the dog for a few more minutes, as Frank got the laughter under control, and did his best to look serious.
  He felt Peters was probably a pretty good guy after all, and was still waiting for the old man to get around to the subject that had begun across the road. Whatever the old man had witnessed was probably worth hearing, Frank thought. 
  Peters got to it eventually, but you wouldn't have known that anything had clicked in Franks mind by the look on his face. Frank had been a reporter for to long to let his face betray what his mind suspected.
  The old man had been sitting out on his front porch with a can of Old Milwaukee last evening, when the incident across the street had occurred. 
  Frank was on his second beer, and the Coors had been replaced with Old Milwaukee. Turns out the Coors had been brought over by the kid Peters called Joe, the previous week, when the work on the old house had been going on. 
  Peters had liked the kid, so he said, and the kid had taken to dropping by every night and sitting on the wide front porch with the old man. 
  They, "Watched traffic mostly," Peters said, "that kid didn't have no fambily, and he wasn't raised up here, so I guess he didn't have many friends to hang around with. Told me he come up from Florida lookin' fer work and lucked out. Guess he decided to stay. That's why it struck me kind'a funny that he didn't drop over last night. Course it was full dark when him and the others left, and I didn't have the porch light on, so maybe he figured I twasn't to home."
  "Ain't a whole hell-of-a-lot to look at here ya know,"  Peters continued. He seemed to feel the need to defend himself for watching the old house across the street, and Frank nodded his head in agreement as if to say, "Yes indeed, it looks as though it could be pretty boring, and no, I wouldn't consider that being nosy."  The nod seemed to put the old man at ease, and he continued his narrative. 
  "Well anyhow, I was just kicking back with a beer, when I seen Joe's car come down the street and pull in the driveway over there," he flapped his hand towards the large brick house across the street. "Figured that somethin' must a happened to that old piece a junk van he usually drives. He didn't wave, so I just figured he Parbably didn't see me sittin' over here. Never saw the other car till later, but it must'a already been there, parked around back, kind'a sneaky like, ya know?" 
  Frank nodded his head as if he did. 
  "Well anyway, he gits the door open, and just sort'a stood there lookin' in as if he 'spected somethin' to jump out and bite 'im. Looked fer a second as though he might just jump back in that car a his, and hit the road instead a doing whatever it was he needed to do there. But he didn't, he went on in, but I didn't see him come back out. I went in the house a few minutes later to git me a fresh one, and feed Old Jay, and I know his car was a sittin' there when I looked out about an hour later, but after I got up from my nap about a hour after that, it was gone. I figured he was gone, so I just sat down on the porch and watched the cars go by fer awhile. Just when I got my old butt back inside to get me another beer, is when the hollering started." Peters took a long sip from his beer, before he continued.
  "I figured that someone else had showed up over there. Maybe that cheap turkey Joe works for, but when I got my beer and went back out, twasn't nobody there. I sat there for another ten minutes or so, when all the sudden Joe's car came flying out the driveway, along with a big ford a some kind. That was strange too, as I ain't never saw Joe drive that car that-a-way. He liked it too much, and it wasn't set up the way some a these kids set their cars up, it was just sort'a regular, ya know?" he eyed Frank speculatively, and Frank nodded for him to go on.
  "Anyway, that's it. They went a tearin' off up the road, then about a half hour later you showed up and pulled around the back. I was thinking 'bout headin' over there but I ain't one to stick my nose in too far, ya know?  I did call up Alan, down the town hall though. Course, that fat piece a garbage never did come by. Told me to stop being so damn nosy, and he'd call Bud up the city tomorrow to see what was going on."
  "So, I just said to hell with it. That's when I come back out and saw you pull in. Besides," Peters continued, "that fat boot-licker ain't worth the time a day. I asked Old Jay and he feels the same as I do bout it." Peters grinned.
  The whole tale didn't sit well with Frank, and it jogged his memory about his arrival the night before. He had been tired and the other smell he had detected along with the pine odor had slipped by his tired mind. He had been unable to place it and so had ignored it. Peters story though had served to place it for him. 
  He'd had a friend, back in college, that had worked at his fathers meat packing plant on Houston's west side, and Frank had taken the friend up on the offer of part-time work at the plant one summer. He had never been able to stand the smell in the plant though. Strong pine disinfectant, and an under-smell of coppery-blood. That was what the other smell in the house had reminded him of last night, he realized, a slaughter house.
  When he'd awoke this morning the smell had been gone, but he was certain it had been there last night. 
  Frank resolved to check out the house closely later on. 
  ". . . doin'?" he heard peters say. 
  "Huh?" Frank asked. 
  "I said, how's that beer doin'?" Peters asked again, "I'm fixin' to get mysef another. Ya want one?"
  "Tell you what," Frank replied, "I'll take a rain check for later on, if you don't mind. I've got to make a couple of phone calls, and I also have a couple of errands to run. It should be my turn to buy anyway, isn't it?" 
  Peters grinned. "Far be it from me to turn down an offer like that'un, and it maybe just might be. I'll be kickin' around later on. Com'on over when ya git back, and I'll help ya drink a couple fer sure." 
  Frank said he would and headed back across the road towards the imposing old house.

  Once he had reached the door; unlocked it, and stepped inside; he let the breath he hadn't known he was holding escape in a low groan. 
  The old mans story, along with his memory of the odor he had smelled the previous evening, had shaken him. He knew it was possible to stick your nose too deeply into a story. He had seen several young eager kids lose their jobs over stepping on the wrong toes. He had also known a couple of older reporters who had as well, and it also wasn't unheard of for a reporter on the tail of a possibly damaging story to just disappear. Unlikely, but not unheard of. 
  Like Jimmy maybe? His mind asked. 
  He pushed the thought quickly away, and shifted his attention back to the house, and the odor he had detected last night. 
  Had something happened here last night? he wondered. Had someone grown concerned over what they suspected Frank might know, and wanted him removed? Was it strictly something to do with the kid, or did the kid just happen to be there at the wrong time? 
  Frank suddenly realized, that if the tire hadn't blown on the rental car, that he would have been here. He would have been here for sure, he told himself, and probably a lot earlier than the kid had been. Had someone, or a couple of some ones, been waiting for him? The uncertainties bothered him a great deal. He walked back into the kitchen area where he had entered the house the evening before.
  The kitchen still smelled faintly of pine-cleaner, but this time the under odor of blood was not present. He scanned the kitchen area with his eyes, until they fell upon a small white object by the door that led back into the front entranceway. 
  Frank walked over and bent down next to the small white square of cloth, that lay in the corner by the doorway, and picked it up. His eyes were drawn to a small rust colored stain on the cloth. 
  Blood! his mind told him. 
  The cloth appeared to have been torn from a shirt, and one small edge of a broken button was still sewn to the tiny scrap of cloth. He made a mental note to ask Peters what the kid had been wearing the night before when he had saw him, but he knew it probably belonged to the kids shirt. Frank walked back into the entrance way, to retrieve the screwdriver he had replaced in the cardboard box. Looks like no one will be coming back for this after all, he thought, as he carried it back with him to the kitchen.
  Using the screwdriver as a crude pry bar, Frank removed the molding that finished the kitchen wall to the floor. The usual dust and plaster that he had expected to see, was congealed with the dark red blood, that he had also expected to see. Frank replaced the strip of wood using the handle of the screwdriver as a hammer. 
  It was as he thought. Peters had been more correct than he knew, when he had said it had sounded as though some one was being killed. What did it mean? he wondered. And, why hadn't the sheriff of the local community come down when Peters had called him? Did he think Peters was just an old crack pot? Or was it something else?
  Frank tossed the screwdriver back in the box as he passed it on the way to the living area. He decided to call the sheriff himself and find out. Obviously someone had been at least seriously injured . . . killed, Franks mind whispered, and some one should be looking into it. 
  Frank picked up the phone to call information, but set it back down after only a few seconds. It would be of no use to him, It was dead. 
  He walked back through the kitchen, left the house; locked the door behind him; and opening the garage door, he climbed into the small red car and keyed the ignition. . . Nothing happened. 
  Frank, who was starting to feel a little nervous, went around to the front of the car, lifted the hood, and peered down into the engine compartment. 
  The battery cables were both cut, and it looked like whoever had done the job had thought a little overkill was in order, as they had also removed all the wires running into the small greasy distributor cap. Frank looked around the small garage, but the wires were no where in sight. 
  "Why me," he muttered, as he removed the prop rod and let the hood fall back down with a loud clang. He kicked the front tire of the small car viciously as he walked past it on his way towards the house.    
  "Bastards," he said aloud.
  Frank was sure now, that he had gotten himself into something deep this time. He could no longer pretend about that at all. His mind continued to run through the growing list of suspicions he had, as he walked around the side of the house searching for the phone line. 
  As it turned out the phone line came in through the back of the house. It was cut, and as with the car, whoever had done it had thought maybe a little more overkill was in order. They had cut an additional ten feet or so of it, and had apparently taken it with them when they had left. 
  The remainder terminated about three inches above Frank's head. Angry, but also a little shaken, Frank turned to start across the road to see if Peters had a phone. He had just begun to turn, when a horn blared on the highway. 
  Frank turned just in time to see the old man leave the mouth of his dirt driveway, and wave as his old Plymouth farted blue smoke and drove away. 
  Peters waving hand had followed the honk, and Frank, not really thinking all that clearly, had raised his own hand and waved good-by as the car disappeared down the road.
  Frank mentally kicked himself, as he gazed down the now empty stretch of highway.
  "Damn!" he muttered. "Guess I'm going to do a little walking."
  Frank closed up the garage and headed down the road. Two miles down he turned right, and headed towards the service station he had stopped at the previous night. When he arrived hopefully he would be able to get the old guy to come back and fix the car. 
  If he's there, he thought. The way things are going today he probably won't be.

  When Frank arrived at the gas station, the old man walked out to greet him. 
  "Howdy," Bill Freeman queried, "blow out another tire?"  
  "No. . . Looks as though some kids might have had themselves some fun with my car though," he lied, "they ripped out the distributor wiring and cut the battery cables on me."
  "That so?" Bill questioned, "seems as though them city kids is always up to something, and it ain't the first time it's happened." 
  Frank, who knew it hadn't been any "City kids," nodded his head in agreement. He climbed into the wrecker beside Bill, and rode along as bill retrieved the Chevett and towed it back to the garage for the second time in as many days. 
  It only took an hour for Bill to replace the wiring and cables, and after Frank paid him, he had stopped at a small store he had passed on the way to pick up something to eat, and a case of beer he hoped would pry a little more out of Peters.
                                                                                                                                                                 
  When Frank got back to the old house he pulled the car back into the garage, and this time he locked it before he went back into the house. 
  He popped the top on a fresh brew, and drank it as he built two monstrous sandwiches; grabbed another cold beer, and walked into the living area to sit down. 
  The dining area had a long oak table, he had noticed, but Frank had always taken his meals into the living room at home, or out on the rear deck, and old habits were hard to break. 
  He had started this particular habit after Janey had died. The kids were usually in bed, or at Cora's for the night, by the time he ate, and the television took the edge off the loneliness he had felt trying to eat in the kitchen. 
  When he finished he headed back towards the kitchen to get another beer. He had just entered the hallway when his eyes told him that something was wrong. It took a few seconds of looking around the empty hallway, before he realized what it was. The box, that he had put the old locks back into, was gone.
  He remembered tossing the screwdriver back into it earlier, and it had been right by the front door. He had replaced it there himself, last night, after he had installed the locks. And it had still been there just a short while ago, when he had retrieved the screwdriver, to pry the molding loose in the kitchen.
  Frank walked warily to the front door and opened it. It was not locked, and he was sure he had locked it. 
  Someone, he realized, had been in the house while he was gone. 
  Might still be, his mind told him. 
  Frank closed the door and re-locked it. He quietly set the empty beer can down on the floor by the door, and began searching the house. 
  When he had searched all the rooms, with the exception of the bedroom he was now entering, he had begun to wonder if his imagination was working overtime. The house seemed empty. Frank looked around the room silently and cautiously, noticing that the briefcase that he had placed on the dresser was still there. 
  He looked under the bed. 
  Nothing, he saw, and getting up returned to the dresser. He was mentally chiding himself as he opened the briefcase, but stopped as the case popped open, to reveal only an empty satin lining. 
  "Damn," he muttered, "all the notes are gone,"  
  The realization frightened him, as the missing notes confirmed all the suspicions he had. No one would want them, unless they were specifically connected to the investigation he was conducting.  He knew now that the killer, or killers, had been after him all along.
  Frank let the case fall shut, not bothering to fully close or lock it, and went back down to the kitchen with the suitcase he had picked up in the bedroom. 
  He now knew that he was in real danger. If the killer had tried once, it wasn't unreasonable to assume he, or they, would know by now they had gotten the wrong person. When they did figure it out they would be back, he knew, and Frank had no intention of being there when they did. He also had no intention of letting them get away if they did come back, and he could catch them. 
  I wonder if old Peters is as salty as he seems to be? Frank thought. His place would be a good place to sit and wait for them to come back. And on the heels of that thought came another. I wonder if he has a gun, or an old deer rifle? probably, Frank thought. Hadn't he said  earlier that he used to do some hunting, when he was younger?  
  Frank was pretty sure he had, when he had been rambling on about the old dog he had once owned. 
  Either way, it would be a lot safer there, than here, he told himself. 
  With his mind made up, Frank stuffed the beer and the groceries back into the bag, and walked out the back door. He decided to leave the small car in the locked garage, to make it appear as though he was still in the house.
  Frank walked behind the house, peered around cautiously, and entered the woods behind it, walking a long curving route around the old place, until he found the highway once again. 
  As he crossed the road and entered the woods on the other side to cover himself as he moved towards old man Peter's house, he realized how stupid he would look to someone if they had seen him walking through the woods with a grocery bag. He remembered then that he had left the suitcase sitting on the kitchen floor. 
  I guess it'll be staying there for awhile, he thought, as he tramped deeper into the woods. 
  He came out in back of Peters house, and quickly walked the ten yards from the tree line to the house. The car was still gone, he saw, as he entered the unlocked rear door. After putting the sack in the refrigerator, he moved to the living room. 
  He sat in the old mans recliner, drinking a beer, as he stared out the window at the house across the road and opened a fresh pack of cigarettes. He smoked, as he waited for Peters to return. 

                                                    ~ 5 ~

  The two men faced each other across the playing board. The younger man thought for a second, and then moved a nearby red checker towards the other side of the board in a series of jumps; set it down, and said, "King me." 
  The older man obliged, and then with his chin in his hand sat studying the board. 
  He had only two black checkers left, neither of which were crowned. He smiled and moved one forward a space. The young man reciprocated by jumping both of the remaining pieces, and removing them from the board. 
  "Ain't often I kin say I beat the lord," he said smiling at the older man. 
  The older man smiled back at him. "Guess you're just to good for me, he said. "Ira. . . I was wondering if you would like to take a little walk with me. I have a couple of things on my mind I wanted to talk to you about, do you mind?" 
  "Mind? . . . heck no I don't. I was gittin' a bit itchy about thing's myself," Ira replied. 
  They had both been talking during the checkers game, and Ira had been waiting for an opportunity to ask about how things were going. But how did you ask God what he's been up to? he wondered.
  "You just ask," the kindly older man said. 
  Ira was sure that he hadn't spoken the question out loud, but  it wasn't the first time the man had seemed to read his thoughts, and he had actually become accustomed to it.

  Ira blinked his eyes, and when he opened them, he found himself standing in a small stand of woods with a stiff, though cool, wind, blowing long dead leaves across his shoes. 
  He did not feel inclined to question it. It had happened before. One minute they would be in one place discussing something, and the next instant they would be somewhere else. He was used to it. 
  The older man stood beside him staring at a freshly turned rectangular patch of ground before him, that had been swept clean by the wind. 
  "His blood cries out to me," he said. 
  Ira could somehow see through the dirt, and down into the earth where a young man lay encased in the soil. 
  "One of many," the older man said, "Look," his finger pointed at the ground. 

  They were in a small alleyway in what looked to Ira to be a very bad section of a large city. 
  A young girl struggled desperately, as two men ripped at her clothes.   
  Tears leaked from the older mans eyes, and Ira could feel his own tears falling onto his cheeks. He tried to move but couldn't.
  "Don't," the older man cautioned. "Look!" 

  Ira was standing at the base of an old wooden cross, looking up into the eyes of the man who hung there. 
  "It has never changed, Ira," the man on the cross said, "It will never change until I force it to change." 
  The man on the cross was crying as well, Ira saw. 
  "I love them so much, but it has never changed." 
  Ira's eyes were suddenly assaulted with images that seemed to go on forever. Horrible human atrocities of every imaginable kind, and the older man held him as he sobbed.  
  "Do I have to see so much? Do I have to see it?" Ira asked. 

  As quickly as the images had come, they disappeared, and they were back at the table, with the checker board spread out before them. The older man held Ira's hand in his own. 
  "I felt the question in your heart," the older man said. "I did not want to hurt you, but I want you to know that I have no choice." 
  Ira nodded his head. He knew that he never would have been able to look at some of the things the man had shown him. 
  "When?" Ira asked. 
  "Tomorrow," the older man answered. "Will you be able?" 
  Ira thought for a second. Not about the answer, but the things he had seen. 
  "Yes, lord," he answered, "I'll be as ready as I kin be anyway." 
  "I knew you would," the older man said, "and I truly wish it could be different." He seemed to think for a second, and then changed the subject. 
  "Have you picked a place to settle?" he asked. 
  "I saw a right nice place just today," Ira replied, "when we was looking over Oklahoma."
  The older man smiled. "I had hoped so, Ira, I think Cora will like it just fine too. I can not wait to meet her in person." 
  "I 'spect she will," Ira answered, "and I know she's lookin' forward to it. We talked about it the other night." 
  "So you did, so you did," the older man agreed. "Hey?" he questioned, and waited for Ira's eyes to turn to him. "How about another game? And try to go a little easier on me this time, Okay?" 
  Ira grinned as he began to set up the checkers. "Best three out'a five?" he asked. 
  The older man nodded his head. "Wouldn't have it any other way," he agreed, as he began to set up his side of the board.







