Pierce: Shipment Received

I have the package. Thank you for doing the right thing. I never believed that you had any intention of actually creating the virus using the formula, but it was simply far too dangerous to go another moment with it out in the open as it could have fallen into the wrong hands.

I realize that we didn't have the most pleasant of introductions, so let's begin again. For the purposes of this archive you can call me Agent Pierce. Three years ago I became aware of Doctor Shigekazu Yoshida's "studies" in Atlanta, where he had insinuated himself into the workings of the Centers For Disease Control. I suspected that together with his assistant Mr. Tanaka, Yoshida was merely using the Centers' data for his own purposes, that of creating a new virus for use as a weapon. The information I possessed had been gained through means that were unsuitable for use in court, and my superiors were uninterested in pursuing the case as strongly as I was, mainly because they couldn't comprehend the science and because frankly if the alleged perpetrator isn't of Middle Eastern decent they tend to be indifferent these days.

Nevertheless I continued steadily attempting to build a case, and just when I thought I had him locked in he was killed in the hit and run crash. I did what I could to find whatever work he may have left behind, and after reading these archives I see that his son Kisho knew there was a hidden repository, though he obviously was in no hurry to recover them, not knowing what they were and having little interest in what he believed was his father's work. I believe it was simply Kisho's natural contrariness that led him to keep this information to himself, not a desire to do harm to others.

Since then the case remained dormant as there were no further leads. Still, I made sure that I kept my ears out should I have misjudged Kisho's involvement. Though he had only just turned eighteen, I made arrangements to be made aware should he say key words over the phone. That's when I was alerted to the call from Miss Stroud and from there your activities have been quite pronounced.

Mr. Howland, based on everything I've seen and read, I tend to believe in your innocence. That in mind, I'm not sure a judge and jury would see it the same way, especially down in Georgia. I'm officially recommending that you turn yourself in. Officially and for the record, I believe you should do that, and when I finish sending this post I will be notifying the authorities down in Texas as to your whereabouts (you did mention these time-stamps aren't working, didn't you?). With the new, falsified I.D.'s in your possession and your significant resources you might be able to escape. My only hope is that the two of you don't charter a small plane from an independent airfield and fly to another state as that would make the manhunt far more difficult. From there you could press on to one of the coasts and rent a Learjet, making your way to the Pacific where you could, with luck, locate the murder weapon. Officially, this would be tragic. Worst of luck to you.

As to all the absolute insanity that I've read in these pages, I can't imagine what's true and what isn't. It's abundantly clear that you believe it, and it ties together loosely with the facts I've gathered on my own, but I'm reserving judgment.

That being said, for the sake of finding this "Magician" and the man calling himself Hollis, I believe we should proceed as if it were true. While Josh and Mary focus on recovering the knife, I think we should be proactive. Leonard/Leopold mentioned a number of names (which I've run through databases and come up with nothing) but he also mentioned a place. He spoke of a man named "Taras" in Kiev. Kiev isn't that large a city, so I believe we should send someone in to see if we can find him. I have a man in mind, though he should only be given a code that will allow him to post, not read what has already been written here. This "Taras" was mentioned in the same breath as Hollis, so I'm going to assume that he is staggeringly dangerous. Regardless, this Magician and Hollis have always picked the time and place of our encounters, so I believe it's about time we turned the tables.

Opinions? Ideas?

Mary: Bingo

October 29th, 2008: Josh and I pulled up to the Hollis Nursing Home later than I had hoped after stopping off to buy him his new suits. It was past nine in the evening, and a bright moon loomed large in the Georgia sky. We drove into the parking lot and I pulled into a spot far away from the front door. Josh looked at me quizzically, but I told him that I wanted to find a side or rear entrance to have a look around first to get a sense of what the place was like without a tour guide. He was apprehensive, but I told him to trust me- if we were caught we could simply say that we made an innocent mistake. What we needed to remember was that we were there scouting the home and considering putting my dear, old, infirm, imaginary mother there, which meant we were the customers, and customers are at least theoretically always right, no matter how dumb they are for going in the wrong door.

Remembering our cover as husband and wife, I switched my favorite ring from my right hand to my left and held out my arm for him to take, but Josh just stared at it like I was an alien that had landed next to him on the asphalt. I reminded him that we were supposed to be married, and he said that with his newly-blond hair we looked more like brother and sister. I wish he had told me beforehand that he would find it so impossible to even pretend that we were a couple- I would have come up with something else. Finally, after I insisted, he took my arm and we walked as quietly as we could around the side of the structure in search of an alternate entrance.

On the right of the nursing home, the drooping branches of a line of weeping willow trees hovered over a simple concrete path. Brushing leaves out of our faces as we walked single-file, it was only a few feet until we came to a glass side-door. To my surprise, it opened. Every door but the main one in a nursing home should be locked to the outside at all times, and I joked to Josh that I was already considering dumping my imaginary mother somewhere else that was a little more secure. After waiting a second for a chuckle that never came, I once again held out my arm for him to take, and he again just stared at it like it was a dead fish. Finally I just decided to give up on the cover and walked inside alone into a musty-smelling hallway with muzak piping softly from a loudspeaker in the ceiling.

The hallway stretched out straight ahead for quite a ways, with numbered doors on either side covered in various macramé, knitted and dried-macaroni-covered decorations. I stepped up to a door adorned with a "#1 GRANDMA!!!" plaque and let myself in. Josh hissed behind me to stay in the hall, but I flicked on the lights and took a quick look at the accommodations. The apartment was clean and surprisingly roomy, even sporting a brand-new high-definition television. Of course, it still had the trademark mysterious mustiness that seemingly every old person's domicile possessed, but overall it was probably the most comfortable living arrangements in the entire town. I poked through the nightstand and dresser drawers while telling Josh to keep watch in the hall, and after I was satisfied I crossed the corridor to the apartment opposite and repeated the search. Finally, I had Josh do the same in a third room just in case there was something I wasn't seeing. "Let me know if you find anything in the nightstand or dresser besides clothes, bibles or medication. So far it's all the same story."

He reported back within less than a minute that there was nothing out of the ordinary, with the exception of what he referred to with a shudder as, "A lady's personal pleasure device. With high, high mileage." I rolled my eyes, made my way down the corridor toward the central commons area and froze when I got there.

The nursing home's main room was two stories high with plush leather couches, love seats and recliners scattered about. In the center of the room were three enormous plasma TV's placed in a triangular configuration facing in all directions, the one I could see displaying a silent episode of "Murder She Wrote". One other long hallway connected to the room at a ninety degree angle, the complex built in the shape of an "L". The lights were dimmed and it took a moment for it to sink in that all the many large lumps scattered about the carpeted floor were bodies. Everywhere we looked corpses of elderly people were lying on the ground or on the furniture, their eyes wide with shock and terror. Not three feet away from me an old woman lay prone, her dead body contorted and the area around her mouth scratched and torn by her own bloody hand. There was something else around her lips as well- some brownish goo I couldn't identify.

As I bent down to check the old woman for life signs just in case, I heard someone coming down the other hallway, whistling a tune I didn't recognize. I motioned for Josh to get down behind one of the recliners and hide, and I did the same. The whistling echod off the walls of the main room, then ceased. Slowly and as quietly as I could manage, I eased my gun from its holster, the first time I'd ever drawn my weapon with the thought of having to actually fire it. It was a Glock 26 subcompact slimline model, quite common and easy enough to conceal but still with decent stopping power and ten rounds of ammunition in each magazine. I never carried extra magazines as I had never so much as fired a single bullet in combat much less ten. Besides, until now I had always been of the thought that if it takes more than ten rounds to stop someone then I should probably just put down the gun and concentrate more on prayer anyway. Now, though, hiding behind a love seat and surrounded by wrinkled, bloated corpses, I would not have turned down an offer of extra bullets.

Towards the middle of the room I heard a voice begin to speak and watched Josh's eyes widen in recognition. Silently he mouthed the words, "The Old Man." I thumbed the safety off my pistol, but otherwise stayed stock-still, listening.

I heard The Old Man make a "tsk"-ing sound and say, "Harrison, my good man, this room is a disaster, and there can be no question of it. Do be a fine fellow and open the gas main, we simply cannot leave the old home in such a state. Much as I-"

Rising from behind the love seat and pointing my gun, I yelled, "Freeze!" I had no intention of allowing anyone to destroy more evidence, and knew that I could not permit The Old Man to escape, leaving Josh to take the fall for the murder he had committed. The Old Man was just as Josh had described, even wearing the same clothes, complete with dried blood on his shirt cuff and down his leg where Josh had shot him. He carried a cane, though while it was touching the ground he didn't seem to be leaning on it. Behind him stood an enormous black man dressed entirely in dirty denim, his frizzy, wild hair covered in dust. His smile was wide and never wavered, and it did remind me of the smile on Mrs. Walentowicz's face when we discovered her body. He carried an ancient-looking wood and iron chest-about the size of a microwave oven-seemingly without effort.

Josh hesitantly rose from behind the chair and shuffled over, standing just next to and behind me. The Old Man's expression was one of wonderment, then delight. "Why, Mr. Howland, you are a marvel, sir. A great pleasure to make your acquaintance once more. And what have we here? You must be Miss Stroud. Lovely, lovely girl. If circumstances permitted I would kiss the back of your pale hand and pay you every compliment, but the developments of the day do not permit, I well understand." All the same, he gave a little bow, his pale blue eyes never leaving mine. A shiver went up my spine, and I fought the urge to retch.

I took a deep breath and said, "You are coming with us. You are going to confess to the police that it was you, not Josh, who-"

The Old Man put up a hand to stop me. "I think we both know that will never happen, Miss Stroud. Let us not labor under delusions neither of us share. Now unless you care to shoot me in the back or make conversation that is either more pertinent or agreeable, I will bid you both good night. Come, Harrison." The two men turned, and my finger tightened on the trigger. Foremost in my mind was the fact that if I killed this man, he would never be able to confess to framing Josh for his bodyguard's murder.

I decided to stall him, whispering to Josh, "Call 911, but don't draw attention to it." Then louder, I said, "Then let's make conversation. You know our names- what's yours? How did you kill all these people? Poison? Some kind of gas? Why are you doing this... whatever you're doing? What's your relationship to the driver that crashed into the Howlands and Doctor Yoshida?" My hope was that by bombarding him with questions I might find something he would want to talk about long enough for the police to arrive.

The Old Man turned back to us, as did Harrison, both smiling. The Old Man put out a hand and casually swatted the corpse of an elderly man off a recliner and sat down in the newly vacated seat. He reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out an unfiltered cigarette, lighting it with a match he had hidden in his palm. I was relieved to see the flame as up until then I hadn't been certain that the room wasn't already filled with gas. Harrison remained standing motionless behind him. The Old Man exhaled, cleared his throat and said amiably, "The name is Hollis, of course. As to my relationship... I am an assistant." He seemed to think better of it immediately, shook his head and amended, "No... not even that. I am a mere stagehand, that is all. Or even simply a favored slave who has been given some small access to a few rooms of the master's house." He chuckled a little at this, and turned back to look behind him at Harrison, whose grinning expression never changed.

He leaned back in the chair, getting comfortable and growing expansive, pausing only for the occasional pull on his cigarette. My pistol was beginning to grow heavy, so I lowered it to my side, still aiming it at him as best I could. Hollis continued, "The trouble with slavery was, they decided who should be slaves based on criteria that was far too broad-based, in my own, humble opinion. Why be beholden to the history of the industry when history could not have less meaning? Every Negro a slave? Every one? Preposterous. Have we not all met the rare Negro who was the match and even the better of some white men?" He leaned forward, warming to his subject. "In the perfect world, slavery should be individually decided. Why, have we not all known at one time or another some shiftless, useless layabout that gives nothing to society and only takes? A man who never once considers any civic responsibility but instead grifts and swindles everything they can hold? Would life not be far better if it were these bottom-feeding leeches who were pressed into slavery, all the decisions they had made wrong all their lives suddenly being rightly made for them instead? Do not tell me you have never met individuals who would not fit this criteria, for I would find such a claim impossible to recognize."

Josh and I exchanged looks, both of us for the first time utterly unable to think of a thing to say. Sensing this, Hollis crushed out his cigarette on the upholstered arm of the recliner and stood. I jerked my gun up and aimed it at him carefully. "I can't let you leave." Ignoring me, he turned toward the front door, as did Harrison. My mind scrambled for something, anything that could be used to delay him. Finally, desperately I blurted, "I have a wager for you."

He turned back to us, his eyebrow cocked. For the first time, I believe he was genuinely surprised. "What? What is this? A wager." His smile split his face, exposing a mouthful of dark, yellow teeth. "This is unexpected. Continue."

Taking a deep breath, I said as evenly as I could, "I bet I can tell you the contents of that chest."

Hollis spared a glance back at Harrison then turned back to me, his blue eyes gleaming. "Doubtful. Highly. But it is your wager, my dear. The stakes?"

"The murder weapon. The blade used to kill Mrs. Walentowicz. I want to know where it is. The Driver's name, I want that too." I tried to think of something else and failed.

Frowning, Hollis said, "The first I would provide, but not the second. However, having found the former it would give a clue to the latter. His initials were carved into the knife's hilt long ago." His expression turning more severe, he added, "Do not refer to him as 'The Driver'. You walk, yet that does not make you 'The Walker'. It is insulting and demeaning to his true profession." Before I could ask what I should call him instead he continued, "And for my prize I ask only that I receive a lock of your pretty, pretty blond hair. That is all." The eagerness in his voice made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

Josh spoke for the first time. "F*ck that, old man." Turning to me he said, "Don't do it, Mary. Just shoot the bastard. I don't know why he would want your hair, but whatever he wants that badly would be-"

"I agree to the stakes."

Josh swore again. "Are you entirely insane?! Don't bet with this-"

Hollis raised his voice, saying, "Mr. Howland, the wager is agreed upon." He turned to me confidently. "You may make your guess, my dear. What is inside the chest?"

My heart pounding, I raised my head and said, "Bingo charms."

Giving me his best what the Hell?? expression, Josh put a hand on my arm and began trying to gently pull me back into the hallway. Hollis stared into my eyes for a long moment, then smiled again in that way that made my skin crawl and began softly applauding while still holding his cane. "Bravo, my dear. It seems we may have underestimated you. You are certainly not obligated to answer, but how did you know?"

"It was what I didn't see. There were no charms on any of the bodies, nor in their rooms. Since everyone here was recruited because they were the best Bingo players, it stood to reason that at least some of them would have those charms. I should have thought of it back at Mrs. Walentowicz's house in Milwaukee, but I didn't see her Bingo necklace at the murder scene, either. He took her charm, didn't he? The killer."

Hollis nodded. "He has it in his possession this very moment." He once again sat down in the chair, making himself comfortable and putting a foot up on a nearby corpse. "The game of Bingo began right here in Georgia, did you know that? Back in the twenties. Not the game itself, that had its roots in Europe in the fifteen-hundreds, a game that later was called 'Beano' here in the states until someone was so excited with a win they mistakenly called out 'Bingo' instead and the name stuck." He lit another smoke and continued genially, "The game is played around the nation and the world... it has infiltrated virtually every single city and town in this nation, primarily played by those too old to contribute anything else of worth to the world. It is played in halls and even in churches everywhere, and no one thinks about it for a second." He laughed, a grating sound conveying more cruelty than actual mirth.

He gestured at all the bodies at our feet, saying, "These were the best of the best of them. The world considered them 'lucky' of all things. Ridiculous. Their friends and family were under the mistaken impression that they played Bingo all the time. They thought about playing all the time, but the fact is that the very best played rarely. Played rarely, but won often, and big. We would ask them if they wished to go to one large Bingo contest or another, and you would think that they would all want to go, but it was only one or two every time. Why didn't they all go? Because only one or two knew they would win. They did not win at Bingo because they were lucky or because they played constantly, they won because they only played when they felt that they would win."

Josh stared at him incredulously, "So... all these people were, what... little Bingo Nostradamuses? They could see into the future and tell when they were going to win? Gimme a brea-"

"They didn't know, necessarily, but they felt something. Not with one hundred percent accuracy, mind you, but enough. More than enough." Hollis took another drag and leaned forward in his chair, animated. "Do you have any idea how many people play this game around the globe? With what frequency they sit and stare at that piece of paper, desperate to blot out a single line, their will bent entirely toward that purpose? It is in every community everywhere and no one asks any questions about it because it gives the elderly something to do besides rot, take up space and complain of their own obsolescence."

I considered it. "It's like an experiment. For generations you have people crowd in and take part- actually, they pay to take part- in a system where it's essentially determining, what... how to tell when you are going to win? Seeing the future in a way, is that right?"

Hollis grinned. "Think of the size of the sample... the sheer number of those taking part. Eventually, if someone was paying attention, they could find those impossibly happy few that posssessed... special gifts."

"What about the charms, then?" Josh pointed to the chest. "Those necklaces and bracelets of worthless plastic... are they, what, 'special'? They squirt out of the machine at the factory and give someone the ability to see the future?" I kept my gaze-and my gun-on Hollis, but I could practically hear Josh's eye-roll from behind me.

I took a shot, answering for Hollis, all the while thinking, where are the damn police? "They aren't special when they buy them... but after years and years of being looked at and touched and concentrated on by the best players... they become special?" Hollis winked and gave a single nod.

A thought occurred to me then about something Yoshida had said earlier. Seeing as my guesses had been hitting the mark, I ventured, "The money they won... if these people were the very best of the best- if they somehow knew when they were going to win- they must have made millions. This is a nice facility, but it's nowhere near what they must have been pulling in. The town... all of Hollis Crossroads... this is how you kept it going, isn't it? Subsidizing the entire dying town with money won from the nursing home."

The old man rose from his chair once more and said, "My dear, we have absolutely undervalued you. It is too bad for us that the young gentleman there did not get his way early on as concerns your employment." Hollis brushed a stray cigarette ash off his sleeve and gave an unconvincing stretch. "Well, I believe it is time that I be on my way. While I fully comprehend that the two of you were merely stalling until the authorities could arrive, I found our conversation to be genuinely agreeable." Josh and I shot each other a look, then he continued, "Just so you do not think ill of our local gendarmes here in Hollis Crossroads, I thought it best to kill the town's police force and disable their communications system before the night's foray, so the delay in response time could hardly be considered a mark against them. They are- or were- quite a competent brigade, and I would hate to think their reputation would be slandered based on this evening's events. The call will eventually be re-routed to the sheriff's department, but their travel time is more significant."

I took a deep breath, raised the gun and pointed it at Hollis's head. "I can't let you leave. I want you alive so we can clear Josh's name, but I'll shoot you if I have to. Sit down."

Hollis nodded but didn't move. "I was granted a boon this time around... my special trick. At first I found them unpleasant, but you get used to them. In time. And to answer your earlier inquiry, it was not poison." Another pause, then, "Oh, and to pay up on our little wager, the knife is currently aboard the Liberator, a small cargo ship in the North Pacific bound for Nagasaki, Japan. Farewell, I doubt we shall meet again until the next world."

Tightening my grip and preparing to fire if he took one step toward the door, I began to hear a muted rumbling sound coming from all around me. Keeping my eye on Hollis, I felt Josh tug at my sleeve and whisper my name. Refusing to be distracted, I ignored him, but then he pulled harder. "Mary," he hissed. "Look down." Finally lowering my gaze, I saw the corpse of the elderly woman at my feet shift ever so slightly. A quick scan of all the bodies showed subtle movement. Just then I gave a sharp yelp as the woman's mouth opened and an enormous, black, blood-covered centipede crawled out. This followed by another and another, until centipedes of all shapes and sizes gushed from her open maw, spilling out onto the carpeted floor.

Josh and I staggered back, and we could see that every corpse in the room had centipedes pouring out of their mouths and in the case of the smaller insects, their nostrils. I was petrified that they would begin scuttling over in our direction, but they did the opposite, charging toward Hollis and Harrison. There were thousands of centipedes swarming around his feet, and after a minute we could see that they were moving in a sort of pattern, a figure-eight between his legs. After a few long moments of this, Hollis looked up at Josh and I, smiled that vile, yellow grin and pointed right at us.

Suddenly, all the thousands and thousands of bloody, glistening, writhing centipedes began skittering straight at us. I let out a scream, and this time when Josh pulled at me, I went with him. The two of us ran back down the hallway, the centipedes advancing with astonishing, terrifying speed. The glass door we used to enter had a push-bar on the inside, and we hurtled into it, bashing it open. Josh turned around and began pushing the door closed again, but at the top of it was a hydraulic device that hissed and protested, forcing it to be shut slowly. "Come on, come on," Josh muttered through gritted teeth as the wave of centipedes flowed like an obscene river down the hallway toward us. "Close, goddamn it, close!" he yelled, but it was still open almost a foot wide and the centipedes were almost on us. He turned to me and yelled, "Sh*t, not going to make it. Run!" He abandoned the door just as the insects slammed into it en masse and spewed outside like water through a broken dam. I started to run down the narrow path next to the nursing home heading toward the front of the building, but even as I sprinted I could feel multiple tiny legs begin to crawl up my pantyhose past my ankles and up my calves. I heard Josh scream behind me, "In my pants, biting! F*ck! Don't stop, head for the car!"

We broke from the willows and into the parking lot, the majority of the swarm of centipedes still behind us. I could feel the ones that were on me reach my knee and continue up, their long antennae scraping my thighs underneath my skirt. I screamed again and swatted at them ineffectually as I ran, pulling the car keys out of my purse and praying I wouldn't drop them in my haste. As I unlocked the car with the remote, the centipedes crawled all the way up to my belt and began squeezing through underneath my blouse to my bare belly and back, biting as they went. Finally I reached the car, ramming into the side of it at full speed and nearly losing my balance, narrowly avoiding falling to the ground. Recovering quickly I tore at the handle, flung open the door and dove inside. Once there I pawed at the car door and slammed it shut, then reached over and opened the passenger door for Josh- all while the centipedes under my shirt continued their inexorable, frantic crawl upward, their many wriggling legs grasping for purchase against my flesh.

A moment later Josh threw himself into the car, slamming the door behind him, and the two of us began essentially beating ourselves up, pummeling our own bodies in an attempt to crush the centipedes underneath our clothes. Before we could kill them, though, Josh pointed to the car's dashboard vent, and I saw a pair of long antennae jutting out, waving around tentatively. "They're getting in! Drive, drive, drive, Mary!" I fumbled with the keys, and this time in my panic I actually did drop them on the floor with a clatter. Desperately, I bent over, running my hands over the plastic floormat in search of them. The centipede that had crawled through the vent dropped down right on the back of my exposed neck, and I jerked up with a scream, banging my head on the underside of the dashboard. Before I could completely lose it, Josh quickly swiped at the centipede trying to wriggle up into my hair, pulled it off of me and smashed it against the dashboard, turning it to pulp. A moment later the keys were in my hand, the car was revving and we were peeling out of the Hollis Nursing Home parking lot.

As we hit the street there was a large explosion behind us, and in the rearview mirror I could see flames pouring from the nursing home's many windows. Another few moments and we could see flashes and hear the muffled thumps of other explosions throughout the entire town. "The fire must have traveled down the gas main somehow," I said, my voice sounding distant to me. "The whole town, every building... it's all going, all burning..." I floored it, and Josh and I fled north, bypassing what we could of the ruined inferno that was Hollis Crossroads, the flames reaching up ever higher into the night.

The car swerved all over the road as Josh and I tore open our clothes and crushed the centipedes underneath, their smashed innards mixing with the blood that seeped from our many bites. Modesty was forgotten as we stripped down to our underwear to be certain of killing every last bug, and I never took my foot off the gas. Finally, after driving for a solid half-hour I pulled the car over to the side of the two-lane highway and put it in park.

My voice came out in a husky whisper. "He said not to call him The Driver. Hollis said that he was an assistant... a stage hand, and that he had been granted a 'trick'. Those are show-business terms, and there is only one type of performer that fits the description. I know what to call our enemy now- I know what to call Hollis' master. He was right, he isn't The Driver.

"He is The Magician."

We sat there in silence, our breath ragged, and then I put my head on Josh's shoulder and sobbed, crying and crying until the thought of the swarm of centipedes somewhere behind us spurred me to put the car back in gear and continue the drive back to the city.

Josh: The Old Man

This post has my name in the title, but Mary is playing secretary and taking dictation for me as my injuries tend to make typing difficult. We made it to Atlanta and have checked in to a different hotel (The Ritz-Carlton) under Mary's name, as mine might draw the wrong kind of attention. It's almost midnight and I'm beyond exhausted, but I have to get this down before the details escape me.

It's been the longest twenty-four hours of my life, so strap in, this is going to take a while to tell. If you don't believe it, I absolutely understand, because I was there, I saw it happen and even I'm skeptical.

A note on format: there's quite a bit of "dialog" in here, and both Mary and I have been struggling with how to write that out in these posts. We've sort of been putting it in "book form", where we just write down what people said as if you were reading it in a story. It's certainly weird to do when it's your own life, but I think both of us feel that it puts you (the reader) more in our position, and lets you know what events were actually like. Obviously, these are our impressions and recollections of what was said- it's not like we're remembering conversations verbatim, so don't take every word as Gospel. It's a work in progress, so if anyone has a suggestion for a better way to do it, let me know. I might mess around with a screenplay format and see if that works, I don't know-

(How long will you be stalling before you get to what happened, Josh?- Mary)

Mary wrote that. Cruel woman, taking advantage of the non-typing infirm. Fine, here we go.

Last night after I finished posting I drove my rental car over to the offices of Executive V.I.P. Security in downtown Atlanta, filled out seemingly a dozen forms and underwent a credit check. They were (rightfully) concerned about the fact that I needed a bodyguard on such short notice, and that my description of my situation was both menacing and vague. Finally, upon receiving a sizable "hazard pay" bonus but still with obvious reservations they assigned me a bodyguard and sent us on our way.

My bodyguard was black, bald, squat and without anything resembling a neck. He was only about six feet in height, but seemed equally wide, and I was thankful I'd decided to rent a luxury sedan instead of a compact. His name was Adalius, and any thoughts I had about him being all brawn and no brain were dispelled on the walk to the car.


ADALIUS: So, what... you a rich white boy like to dress down in flannel and jeans and all that sh*t so you don't look rich and seem like just another dude, huh? Probably got all that liberal white guilt about black folk, am I right? Sh*t, I know I'm right, baby.

ME: That's not bad.

ADALIUS: You need me to drive?

ME: I guess not.

ADALIUS: Fire it up, then. See, I knew if I said, "You need me to drive", you'd be all like, "Uh... I better say I don't because otherwise it'll seem like a racial thing", even though you really did want me to drive, probably 'cause I know Atlanta and you don't.

Me: Actually, why don't you drive-

ADALIUS: It's too late for that sh*t, motherf*cker, you driving. (Laughs) I'll work the radio, you don't know these stations, know what I mean? You probably want to smoke some reefer, too, all that flannel. You got any weed?

Me: (Starting the car) Uh, no... not on me-

ADALIUS: I know where we can hook you up. Drive, baby, I got your back. You with Adalius now, you ain't got sh*it to worry about.


We drove for a good hour and a half in the darkness, rolling out of Atlanta and southwest toward Alabama. The expressway gave way to a two-lane highway, which then became a simple asphalt road, the streetlights becoming more and more sparse. Adalius spent his time punching buttons on the radio, trying to find the R&B stations that had the furthest range and regaling me with stories of the time he did security for rapper Jay-Z and witnessed first hand the greatest sight he had ever been blessed to see.


ADALIUS: Beyonce's booty is more than just a physical manifestation of perfection, baby- that sh*t is supernatural! That ass got its own aura, know what I mean? Goddamn, did this road just turn into dirt? It's a good thing I'm packing, know what I mean? These rednecks ain't particularly fond of black folks, especially not one as pretty as me. Tell me again how this ain't a drug deal.

ME: This is not a drug deal.

ADALIUS: F*ck you, it ain't. If this is a drug deal, I'm joining their side, you know what I mean? Don't f*ck me on this, Josh.

ME: I swear to God this is not a drug deal. Honestly, I don't really know what it is. I'm just here to get some answers, that's all.

ADALIUS: This shit is dangerous, I can feel it.

ME: Maybe. If I didn't think it could get weird, I wouldn't have hired you, right?


He nodded uneasily, leaning forward in his seat to squint out into the darkness. One bend in the road later, we drove up to the address, a once-majestic three-story home with peeling paint and moss creeping up past the first floor windows. All the shades were drawn, though we could see faint light from inside around the edges. We got out of the car silently, keeping the headlights on and pointed toward the front door. The only sound was the muffled chittering of bugs and our own, nervous breathing. I started walking slowly toward the house, Adalius falling in behind me.

The porch was slanted and half-rotted, a rusty hatchet inexplicably stuck into the hand-rail. I put a hesitant foot down on the first step, listened as it creaked ominously and stepped back quickly. Then I cupped my hands to my mouth and shouted, "Hello? Is anyone there? Hello?"

There was a pause, then from inside the house came a frantic, terrified yell. "Help! Help me, I beg you! Help! Help!" The words came with a thick Japanese accent and just kept coming, the cries for help continuing on and becoming more frightened.

I looked back at Adalius to see him shaking his head. "F*ck that. Cop time." he said, and pulled out his cellphone. He grit his teeth, muttering, "No signal. You?" I checked the Blackberry and couldn't dredge up a hint of a connection.


ADALIUS: I ain't no S.W.A.T. team. This ain't my thing.

ME: You can hear him. That guy's not faking. Come on, we'll go in together. I don't like it either, but... (motions toward the direction of the voice)

ADALIUS: (Pauses as we listen to the cries for help) F*ck it, then. Alright. Take that hatchet.

ME: What?

ADALIUS: Take the blade. I can't watch your back and do this at the same time. Back me up or I'm sitting my ass in the car.


He pulled his gun, a small, black automatic pistol while I wrenched the hatchet out of the porch's soft wood. The hatchet may have been rusty and old, but a quick, painful run of my thumb across its edge told me it was razor sharp. Out of the corner of my eye I saw either a small rodent or a large insect scurry off the edge of the porch as Adalius gingerly walked up the steps. I yelled, "We're coming! Hold on!"

Immediately we heard, "Thank you! Thank you! I am here! Be careful, he's-" the voice stopped, muffled, and Adalius and I exchanged looks. He grit his teeth, took the safety off his pistol and warily proceeded over the threshold, pushing the front door aside with his free hand. The foyer was dark and smelled of mold, funneling down into a long, straight hallway lined with darkened doorways. The layout of the house was unusual, the three-story quasi-mansion at some point long ago seemingly having been converted into a now mostly-vacant boardinghouse. At the end of the corridor we saw light coming from under doors on the left and right. All was quiet except for the groaning of the floorboards underneath our feet. We glanced on either side of us through the open doorways into the first rooms, but both were pitch dark.

As Adalius passed the first set of darkened doors, I saw a figure dart out of the room on the right, and before I could react he grabbed me from behind, one arm crossed over my chest, the other locked down onto my right hand, clenching over my fingers and keeping my grip tight on the hatchet. I let out a stunned gasp and Adalius turned around, his look annoyed. "What-" I was tossed around like a doll-like one of those stuffed dance partners used to teach the tango. Whoever was behind me pulled back my hand and with sudden, startling ferocity swung the hatchet into Adalius' skull, the blade smashing down and burying itself up to the hilt in his brain.

He fell with heavy thud and clatter, and whoever held me released me suddenly, pushing me into the doorway on the left with surprising gentleness. I stood in the darkness, stunned, reeling and cradling my right wrist. It was either sprained or broken, but before I could determine which I saw my attacker bend down and drag Adalius' body effortlessly out of the front door and down the porch steps. Staggering back into the hallway shell shocked and petrified with fear, I felt my foot kick something heavy and small, and knew immediately what it was. I reached down with my left hand, picked up Adalius' pistol and weaved my way back outside.

Adalius' killer had pulled his body down to the ground, where it lay in an awkward heap, illuminated by the rental car's headlights. The killer stood over him, silhouetted by the beams, but even by his shadow I could tell that his hand was darting into his jacket. "Don't!" I yelled, the gun firing mostly by accident. I shot wide-right, a puff of dirt jetting up from the ground behind him. Gunsmoke hung in the air between us, and I could see him slowly pull out a cigarette and put it in his mouth. When I shot at him he hadn't flinched at all.

His voice came out in a thick Southern drawl, all deep honey and molasses. "I see you found the hatchet." He lit a match and took a long drag off the cigarette, the flame illuminating his face in the darkness. I was astonished to see that he was old, at least sixty, his face deeply lined and his hair pure white. He wore a rumpled suit and tie, the fresh blood spattering his cuff seeming to glow in the glare of the headlights. "I thought you might. I do want you to know that it was never my intention to injure your wrist. My apologies, son. We are not perfect, much as we wish we were." His smile was somehow mocking and sincere at the same time, and as I tend to relate every real-life experience back to movies and TV, it felt for all intents and purposes like I was being f*cked with by Matlock.

"Why..." I stammered, my voice thick. "Who are you, and why-"

"Mr. Tanaka is waiting for you, Mr. Howland. He has waited quite a while. Would you care to adjourn inside?" He waved toward the house with his cigarette, the gesture both languid and theatrical.

I thought a moment, then nodded, motioning for him to go first. He did, sauntering across the dirt in front of the porch and up the stairs past me. I kept the gun pointed at his back the entire time, careful to keep my finger off the trigger to avoid a repeat of my accidental firing earlier. We walked down the hallway and he turned to the last door on the left, opening it. The light from the room hit him, and I was astounded to see that he was only about five and a half feet tall with a slight build. He strode inside with me right behind him, and I openly gaped when what I saw reminded me of home.

A Japanese man I assumed was Tanaka laid in a bed covered by a brown, stained, thick, paisley-patterned comforter. The walls were covered in ancient, striped wallpaper and there was a cheap, country-craft fair-quality painting of whales spewing water through blow holes opposite the bed. Sitting next to the bed in a wooden chair was a young black woman with wild, frizzy hair wearing a worn, frayed, dark blue dress. On a chair at the foot of the bed sat a young black man wearing a dark blue shirt and jeans. Even at a glance it was obvious they were siblings. Both wore the same smile: equal parts amused, amazed and batsh*t crazy. The Japanese man was as terrified as anyone I had ever seen, the black woman's hand clamped over his mouth. As I entered the room, she removed it and he began sobbing and babbling, so terrified he forgot himself and spoke nothing but Japanese. I kept the gun on the old man who stepped next to the black woman, but my eyes were drawn to the beeping machines that surrounded the bed and were attached by various tubes and wires to Mr. Tanaka: they were the same medical equipment required to keep my mother alive.

The old man spoke, raising his voice to be heard. "English, Mr. Tanaka. Remember, sir? English, if you please. That's a good man." Tanaka's eyes locked on to the old man, his crazed yells dying in his throat. The old man motioned for the black woman to rise from her chair, which she did. "Do be a lamb and sit in the corner with your brother, away from Mr. Howland and Mr. Tanaka so they may be allowed to concentrate on their conversation, if you would." The woman and her brother both did as they were told, walking to the far, dusty corner of the bedroom and sitting patiently on the floor, their smiles never wavering. Their eyes stayed on the old man. He sat in the chair at the foot of the bed and leaned back, puffing on his cigarette and inviting me with a cheery wave to sit down next to Tanaka.

Warily, I made my way across the room and sat down at Tanaka's bedside, keeping my gun on the old man. "Make a move and I shoot. Understand?"

He nodded, grinning slyly. "Having experienced your marksmanship once tonight, I live in fear for the plaster on the wall behind me." Giving a wink, he added, "But your meaning is heard and understood. You have nothing to fear from me, I assure you. I have not spent all this time providing instruction to Mr. Tanaka in the English language merely to deny him the opportunity to speak it."

I turned to Tanaka, dumbfounded. "He taught you English? Here?" Tanaka nodded.


TANAKA: I have been held prisoner here for... I do not know how long. A year? Two? Please to keep pointing gun at him.

ME: Last I heard you quit working for Doctor Yoshida. What happened?

TANAKA: Crash. Yoshida-san and I drove, and big truck hit car. Doctor died right away, I have some cuts, blemishes?

OLD MAN: Bruises.

TANAKA: I am pulled from car by... them. They were not the truck driver, he drive away. They bring me back to this place, feed me, bandages. He says, "Need surgery". They bring me to kitchen, put me on table, face down. I tell them no, I am fine, but they take off clothes, hold me down. He... he takes knife, knife but flat on end...

OLD MAN: Chisel.

TANAKA: He puts it on my back, I feel how sharp. I beg him, whatever he is going to do, please no, please do not. Those two in corner and a third hold me down, I struggle, but cannot get loose. He does not use hammer. He pushes only with hand, I scream and scream and he pushes it into my flesh, into my back, deeper and deeper. I feel blood pouring down my sides, blood flowing over my neck and up my chin and he pushes. Then I feel nothing. Nothing ever again below neck. Oh, God, nothing, nothing.

ME: It's alright, I'm going to get you out of here. I'm going to get you to a hospital.

OLD MAN: Tell him about your work.

ME: Shut the f*ck up.

OLD MAN: Tell him, Mr. Tanaka.

TANAKA: I... I work for Doctor Yoshida, help on Wardang Island with rabbits. Infected. Doctor Yoshida knows, I only assistant.

OLD MAN: You are too modest, sir. Tell him about your work.

TANAKA: It is... is work with rabbits. With the virus.

ME: What was it? You can tell me.

TANAKA: The rabbits were... they were test, dry run. He let rabbits loose on mainland.

ME: Yoshida let the rabbits loose on purpose? He did it? Infected all of Australia with the Calicivirus?

TANAKA: Hai. Yes. He and I. Then to America, to Atlanta for further research at CDC, the headquarters. Mutation of virus, strengthening and... what is word, clothes...

OLD MAN: Tailoring. Heh, clothes, tailoring. Pray, continue.

ME: CDC, that's, what-the Center for Disease Control? That's in Atlanta?

TANAKA: Yes. We worked... we were almost finished. We were to leave back for Japan when there was the crash.

ME: Finished with what? Tailoring what?

TANAKA: You said you would take me. To hospital. To help.

ME: I will. What were you doing?

TANAKA: Adapting Calicivirus for humans. Please do not leave me here. Please, I beg of you-

ME: People? On people? Do you know what that virus does? Are you f*cking crazy? That damn thing has a ninety-five percent death rate in rabbits!

OLD MAN: Ninety-nine plus in people, with the modifications the gentlemen made. A remarkable improvement. Pardon the interruption.

ME: What the hell? What in the hell? You and Yoshida were going to kill almost everyone on the planet? Why in God's name... what were you thinking?


Just then, an absolutely enormous, glistening centipede skittered over the other side of Tanaka's pillow and right over his face. It was as long as a flashlight. He and I screamed at the same time. Before I could even react, it ran down Tanaka's neck and under the covers. Tanaka screeched for me to kill it, his head shaking and gyrating in a useless, panicked attempt to somehow move his paralysed body. Still trying to keep the gun on the old man, I reached down with my sprained right hand and slowly lifted up the blanket in the middle of the bed. He was naked, his flesh pale where he still had skin. The bed underneath the thick comforter was writhing with centipedes, at least fifty of them scuttling over each other. Seeing my face, he asked me if I saw the centipede-begged me to please find it and kill it as he couldn't bear to think of such a thing crawling over him in the night.

At this point the old man rose and moved so swiftly that he was out of the room almost before I knew he was gone. I yelled and ran after him, charging down the hallway a few footsteps behind as Tanaka's bellows echoed off the walls. In moments I was leaping off the front porch, aiming my gun at the old man and screaming for him to stop before noticing that he already had. He stood where he had before, casting his shadow over Adalius's corpse.

I was almost out of breath from sprinting from the house, but his voice was as smooth and easy as ever. "Once I had a dream. There were these old slave women down by an old, mammoth, dead tree. As I approached, one of the women held up a little baby, not more than three months old. It slept as she lifted it gently up, and I noticed that hanging down from the branch above was a noose. She placed the baby's head into the noose, tightened it and let it go. The baby's face grew red, then purple-"

"Shut up! Shut up, I am going to shoot you!"

He continued, ignoring me, "-And when I asked her what she was doing, she turned to me and said as matter-of-factly as you please, 'We're hanging the babies'. I looked around and hanging from every branch was a tiny dead body." He lit another cigarette as my pistol shook in his face. "Mr. Tanaka's kind will come around, Mr. Howland. Have no fear. Their kind will be far easier to tolerate in the next world."

I laughed. "An Evangalist and a racist. The old magical combination. Get back inside the house-I'm taking Tanaka to a hospital and I'm not letting you out of my sight, you sick bastard." The old man looked at me and shook his head slowly, smiling. He started humming a tune-some children's song-and from his right sleeve a smaller centipede about two inches in length poked its head out, waved its antennae around testing the air and darted back in. I stared for a long moment, then refocused. "I said march." Again, he shook his head. I pointed the gun at his kneecap and gave him a questioning look. He kept smiling. I fired.

Saying that I shot out his kneecap and he went down would be wrong-it was more that I shot out his kneecap and he just decided to sit down, with all due grace. I started to turn to go back inside, but stopped and asked, "Why tell me that story about the babies and the tree?"

Shrugging, he said, "Only to delay you." From inside, Tanaka's yells had turned to full-on shrieks. I cursed and sprinted up the stairs back inside, tearing down the long hallway and left into Tanaka's room. The room stunk of something, and the black woman was now laying next to a red-faced Tanaka in the bed. Her brother was gone. It took a moment to realize that Tanaka and the girl were soaking wet, and the second she struck the match I recognized the smell: gasoline.

In a split second the bed was engulfed in flames, the whoosh of the fire drowning out Tanaka's agonized wails. Driven from the room by the heat and smoke, I blundered back down the hall and fell down the front steps. Jumping up as fast as I could to keep from being overpowered by the old man in case he had crawled back toward the direction of the house, I was disappointed to find no sign of him at all.

Coughing, my wrist hurting and my mind reeling, I shuffled over to the car, sparing only a quick glance at Adelius, his eyes frozen open in the headlights. Fumbling for the car keys, I had my hand on the door handle before I realized there was someone sitting in the driver's seat with the window rolled up. It was the black girl's brother, his hands on the wheel at ten and two, staring up at me with the same smile as before; the same smile-I realize now-that was on Mrs. Walentowicz's cold, dead face when we found her. As I stared at him, dumbstruck, I jumped when the car's cigarette lighter popped from it's holder in the ashtray next to him. I remember thinking, they still make cars with those? when he pulled it out and held the glowing, red, concentric circles up to his face. "No..." I mumbled. "No, I can't take any more. Don't..." Slowly, deliberately, he pushed the car's molten-hot cigarette lighter into his open left eye, the cornea sizzling with a sound I could hear even through the glass. I felt the bile rise in my throat and began to gag when I noticed that he also was soaking wet, a large, round, red, metal can set on the passenger seat beside him.

Turning to run, my ears were deafened by a thunderous sound and I was blasted away from the car and into the woods, careening off a tree and coming to a charred, smoky rest in the brush. I crawled mindlessly, tearing my clothes and shredding my hands on the thorny undergrowth in my desperate, relentless drive to get away, anywhere, as far as possible and as fast as I could. Finally, after I don't know how long, I finally passed out, curled up into the fetal position and shivering, my teeth chattering. I was almost positive I had suffered a concussion in the explosion, and I remember reading that the one thing you couldn't do with a concussion is fall unconscious, but at that point I really could not have cared less.

I must have been out of it for almost the entire day, because when I woke up I thought it was dawn but when I checked my watch I saw it was already dusk. I scrambled through the undergrowth of the forest until I finally saw an old house with a pickup truck parked in the dirt driveway. I got in, found the keys were in the ignition and took off, heading back to Hollis Crossroads.


I can't expect any of you to believe what I've told you. Now, sitting here in this plush hotel room it all seems nightmarish, hazy and unreal, but I know what happened. I know what I saw. You might believe me, but the police never will. The security company was already suspicious of me when they assigned Adalius to the job, and my fingerprints are all over that hatchet-the old man never touched it. That's why I stole the pickup truck and ran. When they figure out that I wasn't the corpse in the rental car I'm going to be hunted down by every cop in the state.

I wish I had some conclusions or insight... some final thought to tie it all up. I don't. The only things I know is that Mary has way more of a temper and potty mouth than I thought, Yoshida won't be asked to give my eulogy when I actually do croak someday, and the second I finish this sentence I'm going to lay back on the bed, close my eyes and sleep for a month.

Mary: The Long Journey

I wondered once whether I should be writing these in past or present tense, and found myself leaning toward the past. I have to write this post in the past tense. There needs to be the illusionary distance of time between what is now, and what was then. If I don't feel that distance, I'll never be able to finish writing this.

After a flight in which I forced myself to sleep, or at least doze off for an hour or so, I touched down at Stubbins Airport, which was really just a strip of tarmac next to the "terminal", a squat, rust-colored, brick building that was surprisingly clean and fresh-smelling. I was prepared to fight my way through loose livestock being herded between the bench seating when I arrived, and I found the fact that someone cared enough about this little strip in the middle of nowhere to take good care of it to be a bit humbling. I vowed to myself that I would do my best not to pre-judge anything else down here if I could help it.

I complimented the plump, overly made-up, middle-aged woman behind the rental counter on the condition of the airport and she gave a proud nod. "My husband, Arthur," she said in a thick drawl. "He likes it to sparkle. When, on rare occasion we get someone flying in from up North ways, they always look around like they can't believe there aren't pigs lying in the middle of the concourse."

I'm sure I blushed, feeling guilty and exposed for having been called out so expertly. To change the subject I asked, "I'm going to Hollis Crossroads-"

"Tsk. Yes, Ma'am. Darn shame." She shook her head sadly.

Staring at her confused, I asked, "Shame about what?"

She gaped at me, stunned that I didn't know what was happening in Hollis Crossroads despite the fact that I had just touched down literally right in front of her. "Why, about the fire. And the bodies."

My breath caught in my throat, my voice coming out as a whisper. "What bodies?"

"That old house-the old Hollis house burned right to the ground, and half the gosh-darned-pardon my French-forest right with it. It was all dried-up and rotted, and we hadn't had rain in so long... if I had to say, it has not rained in these parts for upwards of one entire month." She paused for a quick breath, then, "The last time it had gone that long without a rain-and I am not talking about a quick sprinkle or a drizzle, but an honest to goodness decent rain had to have been, oh, I want to say nineteen eighty-nine or so, and I told Billy-Ray at the fire station when he came by for the last inspection that if it didn't rain hard soon that there'd be-"

"Where?" I interrupted, my voice coming out as a hollow croak.

Once in my rental car- which was, again, surprisingly clean and fresh-smelling- I raced to the address she had given me despite her hurt feelings at being cut off from her story so abruptly. The town of Hollis Crossroads looked old but somehow stately, the paint peeling from rotting facades that I imagined once had a certain charm. I couldn't tell much more about the place as I shot through it at about seventy miles per hour, blowing right through the one and only stop sign without so much as a glance in either direction.

Heading south out of town the smell of smoke began to filter in through the heating vents. It was surprisingly cold, only 45 degrees, and I was glad that I hadn't changed out of my winter clothes, the remnants of Wisconsin that I didn't think I was going to need. As I drove around the winding, country roads, the smell of smoke began to be overpowering, permeating the car. It had a sweet, nostalgic scent that at first was quite pleasant but after a while became cloying and oppressive. At least, I thought, as long as the smell keeps getting stronger I know I'm going in the right direction.

The road turned from asphalt to gravel, and from gravel to dirt, the trees and brush on either side growing more and more wild as I drove, seeming to crowd the car. I imagined Josh driving down this same road at night, his headlights dancing wildly over the dark branches and brown leaves as his tires fell into one pothole after another.

As I was trying to shake these troubling images, I rounded a corner and found the old Hollis house, or what was left of it. It was still smoldering, with only a few charred timbers and the chimney left standing. Behind the house was a wood that was still partially on fire, and firemen sprayed down the edges of it to keep it from spreading. There were four fire trucks, an ambulance, two police cars, three Sheriffs cars, a hearse and a burned-out sedan that looked like it had exploded.

I pulled up and off to the side, and a Sheriff's Deputy strolled up with his hand raised, a gesture meaning both "hello" and "go no further". I parked and got out of the car, my Private Investigator badge in hand. I had no illusions about it carrying any weight here, but one never knew.

"Howdy," the Deputy said, attempting a little smile that only came off as glum. He was young, perhaps in his late 20's, blond and thin. His cheek was smudged with charcoal. I showed him my badge and he had the good manners to pretend to look impressed. He ushered me over to the Sheriff, a chubby, worried man with kind eyes in his late 40's, his mustache in need of a trim.

"Sheriff, I work for Mrs. Cynthia Howland of Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Her son Josh was down here looking into some family business. Have you seen him? Josh Howland?" I tried to keep my hands at my sides and look as professional as possible, but my voice quavered at the last minute, betraying me.

The Sheriff nodded to me politely. "Ma'am." He scratched his neck absently and-as if he hadn't heard a word I just spoke- said, "Problem is, we ain't had no rain in a spell. That's the dang problem. But we just about got the fire controlled now, I'd say." Only pausing a moment, he continued, "Four bodies, three burned beyond recognition. Bad... bad." He shook his head and spat. "One murder for sure, the others... it's just damn hard to say exactly what. The two in the house, they were together, lying on a bed, husband and wife, though we didn't find no rings. They must have slept through the fire.

"Then there was the third one... he got himself killed inside the house and got... dragged out into the front yard. Body and murder weapon escaped the fire. The weapon was... in the body, so we should get plenty off it." He cleared his throat and spat again. "Damn, damn dirty business. We know who that fella is at least, by his I.D. Antrelle Harris, licensed bodyguard- we already called his company. They got some folks driving out now. You know, they take care of that Jay-Z fella when he comes to Atlanta? He dates that girl Beyonce." The Sheriff attempted a little smile, gave up quickly and spat again.

I put my hand on his forearm, my professional veneer finally cracking. "Sheriff, please. Josh. Please."

He looked at the ground solemnly, then nodded and said, "The car. The plates came back as rental, his car." He pointed to the scorched husk of shattered metal in the driveway. "He was... we'll need to run an autopsy, there wasn't much left. Body was inside, driver's seat." Seeing the tear that made its way down my face, he put his arm around me and murmured, "I'm sorry, darlin'. I am so, so sorry. He was special to you." It didn't come out as a question.

From far away I heard my voice say, "I guess he was. More than I thought." The Sheriff handed me a tissue and guided me over to his car, sitting me in the backseat with the door open. I had always made it a point to never cry while I worked, especially not around law enforcement, but right then I just didn't care. "This doesn't even feel like a job anymore." I hadn't meant to say it out loud.

I don't know how long I sat there, my eyes unfocused and watery. I heard the sounds of the firemen finishing up with the house and rolling up their hoses. I listened as the police wrestled with the corpses, loading them up for transport to the Medical Examiner. I sat and sat as one by one the fire trucks and police cars lumbered back up the dirt road heading for Hollis Crossroads.

A voice spoke, and after a while I listened to it. It was the blond Deputy. "Ma'am? Ma'am, you want to ride back with me? We could come back for your car later, if you like. Perhaps it would be best."

"I'll drive," I muttered. "I'm going to drive. I have to send a message. I have to tell his-" I started tearing up again, my voice catching, so I simply turned away, got in my car and drove. Somehow I found a motel in town (Don's Motel, Carlton Street) and staggered into my room.


Mrs. Howland, I am so, so very sorry. I will never forgive myself for not coming down here instead of him. Oh, God, I am just so sorry.