Chapter 38

1

Cole recorded the conversation.

            Trevor Kramer sat at the kitchen table, his boy next to him holding onto an envelope, watching his father with a combination of curiosity and contentment. Cole had offered Kramer senior a cup of coffee and the boy a Coke, but both shook their heads. Trevor looked at the bulletin board against the wall, the yarn trails connecting crimes; he looked at his own photo on the wall next to Andy’s and Hector’s, under Paul’s and Norris’s, and just above a photo of Mary. Above the photos it read E10 Council/Conspirators. And when Cole mentioned that Paul, the head of the organization, had been next door in the home of the man he called the Saudi, the financier, and left just before Trevor had come to the door, the spirit of coincidence was far greater than even both men, both rational men, could realistically believe.

            “Maybe I will take that coffee,” Trevor said, and Cole stood to pour him one. Black. Cole sat down and watched Trevor take small sips, considering what he might say. He looked at the board, studied it for a moment. “It looks like you know enough. At least enough for me to gloss over some parts. But I’d wager a guess you aren’t really a journalist here, because I know Paul and Norris held some peculiar interest in you. I never questioned it, but they seemed to know you, and assuming Paul’s financier for this project lives next door to you predisposes how messed up and convenient this has all been. I would assume as a result that you three share some sort of history. Is that true?”

            “Yes,” Cole said.

            Trevor only nodded. “If there’s an element of forgiveness to be had here, then it has to start with honesty.” Cole had pressed record on his Sony WM-D6C and the tape reels started rolling. It was very similar to the recorder Norris Serkis had left with Ned’s first meal. “We’re dealing with powers that don’t make sense. Not to me. I consider myself a very rational man, Cole. I’m sure you’ve dug up the dirt on me already, so I’ll spare you the retorts, but I believe in a rational world with observable rules and laws. My son received a letter this morning from the postman. What he received would prove what I thought about the world, what I think about anything, might not measure up to the worth of my education…to Enlightenment, secular humanist thought. And maybe that was his grandfather’s point. Maybe that’s why he sent the letter, after he died; maybe that’s why the mailman found it when he did. This morning. Maybe that’s how this is all supposed to work. I’ve done terrible things. My son would be the first to tell you that. But the story I have to tell, Cole, it’s dangerous, caustic, it’s something I will leave up to you to publish should you wish. I’d imagine if you are a journalist at heart, beyond whatever might have brought you here to study us, the council, then you might need to prepare another tape and loosen the restraints on your credulity. Looking at what you’ve done here, it’s impressive, your research. It is pretty spot on in parts. You’re just missing the Why. I’m here to tell you the Why. But I’m also here to tell what the Why has meant.” Trevor took the envelope from Adam and set it on the table. He stared at it, as if it held some talismanic power. And maybe it did. On the front it read: To My Best Friend, Adam Kramer #14. “I am doing this for my son. For my family. I want that point reassured.” He cleared his throat.

            “To be honest, Trevor, I never expected you, or anyone from the council, to show up at my doorstep.”

            “One must confess his sins. I am not religious, but I can borrow aspects from its rituals. Because some of them make sense. And this is something of a confession. I owe this boy a father. And I owe the world an explanation. Whether or not the world, you, believes what comes next I will leave up to public opinion. Because I’m still not quite sure. Adam believes. He’s believed for long enough now that he might just be able to answer anything you ask. Especially when I can’t quite find the words.”

            Adam looked at the journalist and smiled. “Reedy Creek is magic.” It was all he said. For now.

            Cole nodded his head at the boy, not sure what he meant. And he turned to Trevor. “Okay, Mr Kramer. I hope you don’t mind the formality. I think I work better that way. You told me my research has been good thus far, but missing is the Why. Could you expand on that?” He pushed the recorded to the center of the table and Trevor only regarded it from the corner of his eye; he took another drink of coffee and caressed the mug with both hands.

            “Reedy Creek is an experiment, a test meant to explore options to combat overpopulation—”

            Trevor told Cole the Why. Why the council was in Reedy Creek. What all of those threads of yarn tacked to the bulletin board meant. He spoke for fifteen minutes, sometimes yammering, sometimes stuttering, trying to find the best words. He mentioned that morally questionable actions often relied on grand ideas, and he said Paul Holdren had discovered one upon which they could build this monument: Global Warming. The idea was in its infancy, but its merit was in the minds already behind and promulgating it to governing bodies. He said that once the council ran out of sufficiently ill individuals, like Colin Perkins, those who might prolong shortened lives by consuming depleting resources, they took on the role of casuist, of a group who decided whose sins could be forgiven and whose could not.

            “What does that mean?”

            “We monitored people via surveillance and decided based upon their actions if…if they’d earned their right to live.”

            “Earned?” Cole furrowed his brow.

            “That is correct.”

            “And you’ve framed Ned Stevenson, a good man, a good cop, to fulfill this duty?”

            Trevor was silent.

            “Where is he? Do you know?”

            “No. No, I don’t. The council is suffering something of a…conflict of opinions. I’ve already been disavowed.”

            Cole looked at Adam and exhaled. “What you’ve confessed to, Mr Kramer, is premeditated murder. Conspiracy to murder. If it’s true, everything you’ve said, this is evidence for a clear conviction.”

            “What this has amounted to, Mr Moore, Cole,” Trevor cleared his throat and clasped his hands. “Beyond the stunted hubris on our parts that we could find compatibility between taking human lives and democracy, was that we overlooked something none of us would have ever considered.”

            “And that is?”

            “Magic,” Adam said. His fingers were rested on the envelope with his name on the front.

            Trevor only touched his son’s arm. “We, the council…invited an opponent.”

            Cole sat back. “An opponent?”

            “I visited the council this morning. Before coming here. Because I wanted them to have the chance to join me. To repent. I know what is coming, Mr Moore. I know because I spoke to the one planning it. And this power…what my son calls magic, it’s already played its hand within the council. Our opponent has declared war on us.”

            “All of this…it sounds a bit silly, doesn’t it?”

            “I would have thought so. Until this morning. Read the letter.” Trevor pushed the envelope toward Cole.

2

The doorbell rang. Adam heard his mom call to him to get the door. His dad was gone. He said he was going out on a few errands, and that he’d be back to take him to school. It was a ruse. He wasn’t sure if his mom and dad were on speaking terms. What happened yesterday, the blow up, it had been a weird form of course correction, a way of steadying the whirlwind on a pivot. At least that’s what he thought to call it. It was a very Pug-like metaphor, and he could only smirk. His father had told him there were people on the council who deserved an opportunity to make things right. “We were only doing what we thought had to be done,” his father had said. “Sometimes you argue for change because arguing for something is better than doing nothing.” Adam wasn’t sure what he meant, but he could hear the conviction in the man’s tone. “Recognizing you were wrong is what makes the difference.”

            Adam went to the door. He was expecting Danny. Because the Jew didn’t make grampa’s service, and he thought he was owed an explanation. Adam was myopic of late, obsessed with answers, but he did notice Danny missing; he needed Danny there when he spoke, and he partially blamed his break down on that expectation. Danny is kind of your rock, isn’t he? He opened the door.

            It wasn’t Danny.

            The man on the front step wore a blue US Postal jacket and grey slacks with a ball cap perched on his mussed hair. He was trim. Walking around all day, from box to box, had its advantages, but Adam suspected there was another reason as well. Because the man didn’t look particularly fit. His sunken eyes and prominent cheekbones were the result of an almost waifish depletion. He feels like Reedy Creek. He feels stretched, doesn’t he? Adam saw something like bugs in his blonde hair, dark specks that burrowed into his roots and disappeared into his scalp. He has a brain tumor. He doesn’t even know about it, but it’s there, growing and growing like a rotten lemon, and soon he will see things that aren’t there and slur his speech, he will, and he will go to the doctor and the doctor will find that cancerous clump and dread having to tell him he has months to live, that surely he must have noticed the signs, the weight loss, the visions, the throwing up, that if he’d just been a bit quicker on the take he might have had a fighting chance. If if if.

            “Hey kid. You Adam?”

            “Yuh—yeah,” he stammered, trying to close out those awful thoughts, the terrible vision of this man dying, of what was already beginning to eat at his brain.

            “Found this on my front seat this morning. Messed up. I don’t bring mail into my car, ya know. Park at the Post Office and make my rounds from there, usually on foot, till it gets cold. My route goes through Deermont here, and…well, since things have expanded, we had to hire...” He stopped and smiled. “Sorry, ya don’t need my life story. Got in my car and bam, letter addressed to you. Adam Kramer. Thought it was you cause I figured you must be around fourteen years old.” The mailman tapped the envelope on his palm.

            “Fourteen? I’m…I’m twelve.”

            “Oh. It said fourteen on it. You know what they say about assumptions.” He showed Adam the envelope: To My Best Friend, Adam Kramer #14. The letters were bold and Adam recognized them immediately.

             “Jim Rice is number fourteen. From the Red Sox.” Adam said this under his breath. His heart was hammering.

             “Oh. I’m an Athletics guy. Canseco. Like I said, I don’t bring mail into my car. But this was sitting on the front seat. Under a single cigarette. A Winston. Used to be my brand, but I haven’t touched one of these things in, I don’t know, two years.” He pulled a smoke from under his cap. It was sitting squeezed under his ear and was mostly hidden by tufts of blond hair. “Not sure how this got in my car, but it goaded me to stop by. Thought it must have been important if somebody,” he swallowed, probably not sure what he was thinking, but Adam was beginning to understand, wasn’t he? “Look, here, pal,” the man smiled. “Messed up things happen. I thought maybe the letter fell out of my coat, but the smoke.” He stared at it strangely while handing Adam the envelope. It was thin but important. Adam knew that. It was powerful. “It don’t make much sense to me. I hope it does to you.”

            “Th—thanks,” Adam said. He looked at the mailman before closing the door, feeling a sense of responsibility. Because you believe it, don’t you? He did. “Hey, sir, I thought…maybe you should go to the doctor.”

            “The doctor?”

            “For your head.”

            “A shrink? I ain’t crazy, kid.”

            “I know…not a shrink…I just, I get these feelings, ya know. When people are sick. And you should see a doctor.”

            The mailman just smiled. “You’re putting me on. Good one, kid. The Sox don’t have a chance this year.” He turned and left.

            Adam closed the door. He heard his mom speaking to him from the kitchen. But he went up the stairs. He could hear his heart now, that deep thump, so aware now, so in tune with what Reedy Creek was telling him. He opened his drawer and shoved aside his socks and underwear, feeling for it. Feeling for his totem.

            And he found the pack. The pack his grampa purchased to hold, to remind him of his past and of the addiction he’d beat but his grandma didn’t; when he’d last taken it from Patty’s closet the cellophane wrap was still on it. Now the clear plastic was gone. He opened the top flap and looked inside the pack of Winstons.

            There was one cigarette missing.

3

“Andy, Paul is going to hang this whole thing around our necks. We have to get out in front of it.”

            Andy was in his uniform and he was stirring his cream into coffee. “And how do you propose to do that, Trevor?”

            “We go to the press.”

            Andy chuckled. “And you think the press here, the Post, will give a single fuck what we might say? They’ve got their heads wrapped around the murders, and the mayor’s got them pushing the curfew detail to keep this merry capitalist experiment of theirs rolling. Holdren wouldn’t hang us to dry, because it’s his neck too. You know that.” He looked up and his eyes were tired. “If anyone’s trying to sabotage this thing, Trevor, I already suspect who it might be. We were called to Golding’s residence yesterday. Deputy Webster was there first, cause Wendy’s husband was stabbed in the chest. Though it was more of a trench. Part of what they’re calling a botched burglary.” He took a sip of his coffee and his hand was trembling. “Henry’s putting one on us all. He told me he didn’t work for me during the presser. He told me. Point blank. When I gave him the candidate, Wendy, he seemed to know her, and he specifically mentioned the chick’s husband was a low life. And now this. Now this. A guy in critical who needed a hundred and seventy-five stitches. He directly contravened an order. Plus, he left me something in the mail.”

            Andy went down and sat at the kitchen table, nursing his coffee.

            “I think I might kill that little prick.” He tapped his fingers on the table.

            “What did he leave?”

            “That.” He nudged toward a sheaf of papers. On top of it there was a note, written in bolded caps: I KNOW YOU ARE A PLAGIARIST.

            Trevor slid the paper over and looked at the cover page; it was typewritten, with precise margins in the MLA style he’d enforced as a general rule in academic papers. “This is your epic, Andy. Always thought it was a post-modern T.S. Eliot paean. If I’m Alive. Who is Bethany Roberts?”

            “Henry’s been doing some digging, Trevor. I don’t know what Paul’s got on you, I don’t, and maybe it’s best to leave it that way. He’d have to have something on all of us if he believed we might…condone his experiment without blowing any whistles. This is what he had on me.”

            “I don’t understand?”

            “I didn’t write If I’m Alive anymore than you walked away from that debate unscathed.”

            “What?”

            Andy was silent.

            Trevor thought about his dream. Or what he thought was a dream. Maybe it was real. Maybe it was the power of this place, the power of Grimwood, generating itself in the threat of what could happen if he didn’t finally conform to the opposition’s strategy against the council. He thought of Mr Spigget and his mop. He thought of his threat that Paul had never paid off the Low Breed. “Jesus, Andy. How do you know it’s not Paul hanging this over your head? Plagiarism’s one thing, but murder?”

            The Sheriff took his coffee, looked at it, then set it down again. “Because of what we’ve made that fucker do, Trevor. What Henry’s had to do. Once you unleash a rabid dog, it’s bound to turn on you. Think Frankenstein’s Monster.” Andy took a deep drink of coffee and stared at Trevor solemnly. “Maybe you’re right. About all of this. About bringing down the project. But what does that leave us in the end?”

            “What does Mary think?”

            “Who knows? She’s never around. Never. Always going in early, always coming home late. This thing, this project, it’s stretching us apart. She sounds a lot like you. It was letting off the pedophile. That’s what broke her.” Andy smiled. “I think Paul suspected you had cold feet. You’re not an actor. You can’t hide your reluctance. If he’s got something on you, whatever it might be, Trevor, he’ll use it.” The Low Breed. “But go to the press? I’m not sure if you’ve thought it through. Unless Paul’s got some sort of immunity deal with whatever outfit’s financing this operation, if the police don’t fry you, Norris will. And I bet he’d enjoy doing it.”

            “Barb was sick,” Trevor said. “Cancer. And this whole operation here convinced me Paul couldn’t find out, because it’s easier to take lives when you don’t know them. A stranger’s death is a news story you skip over. Your wife’s death…” He exhaled. “Paul didn’t tell you?”

            Andy only shook his head. “Not a word, Trevor. Is Barb okay?”

            “No. I’ve told her. About all of this.” It was a whisper.

            “You’re serious, aren’t you?” Andy asked, taking back the manuscript and thumbing through it. Trevor had read that epic poem and fallen in love with it. He’d written Andrew Napolitano about his appreciation for If I’m Alive, that it had become a mainstay text in his undergrad courses, and the response he’d received was the same sort of congratulatory (masturbatory) acclaim for his own writing; and then the two of them met here, as part of this experiment. But it was fake. Inauthentic. Andy was a thief and Trevor a charlatan. “You’re actually going to the press?”

            “I have to.”

            “Then you’re a dead man. That’s not a threat coming from me either, Trevor. Understand that. We’re friends, but if you’re pulling the plug, if you think you have the power to pull the plug, I hope you know you’re leaving your wife a fucking widow.” Andy set his pistol on the table and looked at it. It made a heavy mechanical click and scrape on the surface. His principles had changed since coming here. Reedy Creek could convince you to disavow your convictions.

            “Then help me, Andy. You had to suspect at some point that what we were doing…it could have consequences. You had to have an exit plan.”

            “You wanna know my plans, bud? I’m going to take this pistol and I’m going to find that scarred motherfucker, and I’m going to press this manuscript against his normal cheek to muffle the gunshot against his face. If I’m going down. If we’re all going down because you’ve been pecked by your conscience, then I’m going down with a smile.”

            Andy stood up and holstered his gun. He stuck the manuscript under his arm. He didn’t say goodbye when he left.

            Trevor would never see him again.

4

He made one last stop before Cole Moore’s. It would prove to be the council’s last day on this green earth.

            Mary Napolitano was at Hector Perez’s house on Deer Run Blvd, and she stood in the kitchen when the burly principal opened the door, grey slacks pulled up over a diaphanous undershirt that showed the extent of the man’s chest hair.

            “I’m worried about Andy,” Trevor said. “Worried he’ll do something stupid.”

            “He’s drunk the Kool-Aid,” Mary said, having her own coffee. Hector stood in the kitchen frying some eggs. He’d poured himself a large glass of orange juice and offered one to Trevor, which he declined. “He doesn’t think I know about the accusations. Or at least the veracity of them. That he plagiarized his published works.”

            “He’s convinced Henry’s terrorizing him.”

            “Then it would serve him right,” Mary said. “He’s only ever understood a skewed idea of control, and if the shoe’s on the other foot, it can only be a teachable moment. Henry’s a goddamn hero if he can prove that to the man. And I married him.” Mary sighed. “Marriage has always been about confinement. The patriarchal structure within which women have been contained and expected to serve. So breaking out of that prison, breaking that institution, it had to have been anticipated. I am not that man’s serf; he can project the illusion that he is some fine writer, that he got a bum rap during the investigation that terminated his tenure, but my guess is that by coming here, Andy’s looking to steal credit for this operation. That he’s so gung-ho to follow orders because he’s good at misdirecting the focus on their source. He can trick you into thinking this was his idea. Paul’s just a ticket for him. He’ll plagiarize Reedy Creek and have some naïve undergrad write the thesis.”

            Trevor looked at them both and thought about what Mary had said about marriage. About what Andy had said, that she was never home, that they were stretching apart. “Does he know about you two?”

            Hector scraped the eggs onto his plate and stood by the toaster. Another offer Trevor had graciously turned down. The clock in the kitchen said it was quarter after seven. Mary had likely spent the night here. Andy might not have noticed because he was fretting about the manuscript.

            “You’re damn right I think he does. But he’s a coward, Trevor.” Hector wiped his hands down the front of his pants and went toward the desk near the front door, where mail had been piled. He grabbed a brown envelope and ambled back to the kitchen table, pushing back his thinning black hair with his free hand. “Don’t mind the pictures. We have nothing to hide. Like Mary said. Marriage is an antiquated norm.”

            Trevor looked at the envelope. Somebody had written WE NEED TO TALK on its front, in block letters. He opened the flap and found some Polaroid photographs. Nothing terribly illicit, but they were of Mary and Hector in compromising positions.

            “You think Andy took these?”

            “I think Andy hired somebody to take those,” Hector said, buttering his toast and licking the residue from the knife. The act seemed rather primitive.

            “He’s a coward. If he had somebody take those, then he’s setting this weird precedent that Hector and I should be worried.”

            “Are you?”

            “He’s got a gun. And lately I feel like he might like to use it.” Hector smiled.

            Trevor looked back down at the photos. Something about them seemed far too convenient. The coincidence of Andy finding the manuscript by Bethany Roberts at nearly the same time as these photos popping up proved somebody, or something, was stirring the pot. It was his first thought. Grimwood told him peace was earned through chaos. Soon what the man at the farmhouse said would make more sense. But now Trevor could only watch the wheels turning. He’s setting them each loose. Like what Andy said. The prankster’s making them rabid dogs so he can watch them attack. “Do you think it might be Holdren, cleaning up his tracks now? If shit is going south in Reedy Creek, if this whole project is getting away from him—I mean, look at how far out of bounds these murders have gotten—maybe he’s trying to de-stabilize us. Maybe he’s trying to shake the ground under us to put us in motion against each other. To unleash the crazy, because with crazy comes culpability.”

            “What has he got on you?” Mary asked. “Because that’s a heavy accusation.”

            “The Addict wasn’t hit yesterday. We all voted yes when we saw the tapes. I’m not even sure why I voted yes. It wasn’t pressure. Social information. I don’t think. Andy said the Addict’s, Wendy’s, husband was stabbed during an attempted burglary. He’s in critical condition. But that was never the plan. And until now, the plan’s gone on pretty unimpeded. If the game’s over, Holdren will clean house before leaving. I guarantee it.”

            Hector sat down with his plate and absently forked eggs into his mouth. “I don’t agree with what Paul’s doing here. Not anymore. It’s getting away from him. But to presume he’d set us on each other with a few surveilled improprieties, for lack of a better term, would demean the genius of everything he’s already built. When you look at Reedy Creek, its implications, the network, you’re looking at a grand idea. An innovation in social engineering. It’s why I even came.”

            “This is Andy, Trevor. I know my husband. His reputation means everything to him. He couldn’t build his own legacy, so he tried to steal one. If he suspects his wife is having an affair, and has gone far enough to investigate what has been going on for four months right under his nose, he’s going to use fear to try and control it.”

            “He’s using this operation against you. Don’t you see how damning that is? How dangerous? First we’re applying pay for play schemes to pedophiles, to real criminals as a result of their affiliations and alliances—Mary, you must see how ludicrous this all is—and now the surveillance is being used to blackmail the people who were supposed to be immune.”

            Mary took Hector’s hand in hers. “If it wasn’t for this experiment, Trevor, I would not have realized my opportunity to escape. We balance the pros. You said so yourself. This whole thing is a balance scale: you put a stone on the side of lives lost and consider the resources saved to even out the field. My freedom to choose is a resource just as tangible as wheat.”

            “And if I go to the press. If I blow the whistle. Would you recant with me?”

            Hector’s eyes were cross and Mary only exhaled. These didn’t seem like the same two he’d spoken to in the Diner, so open then to discussing the possibility this whole thing could be a put on. He wouldn’t go as far as calling it a conspiracy, no, because the word was so loaded, but he could assume his theory about layers was inarguable. Right now he was giving them an out. That’s why he’d come. His errands this morning involved convincing friends to join him, to leave the council because he knew what came next. Because Grimwood told him. But maybe what came next required them. He looked back down at the envelope, at the picture of Hector and Mary in the principal’s office, role-playing some game the two might have fancied thinking about since they were teens. He looked at the note written on the brown envelope and understood. It’s like the note on the manuscript, clipped to the front page. Calling out Andy, just like these are calling out an affair.

            “We can’t just recant,” Mary said. “The world doesn’t work that way. Paul said so himself. The Cause requires blood, but that’s the easy part. Coming to terms with the decision is what has mired us. You know that. You’re not automatically innocent if you’re honest about what we’ve done, Trevor. Repentance doesn’t work like that in the real world.”

            “Paul wouldn’t allow it,” Hector added. “He’ll stop you, and he’s got the perfect alibi now to do so. The mayor’s presser’s got this entire town locking their doors and latching their windows. Ned’s his monster. He will fucking kill you and make you a mascot. You’d only be playing into his hands…”

            “I know,” Trevor said, standing up. “He’s bringing in an outfit from Boston to finally finish the job. The Low Breed. That’s what my father-in-law called them. Before this place killed him. That’s what Paul’s got on me and that’s who he’ll set loose to shut me up. To punish me.” He turned to leave, wanting to tell his story now. Wanting to shed some light on this place before the end.

            “Trevor. Please. We can convince him. The three of us. We can convince Paul the project is too dark now. Isn’t that how democracy is supposed to work?”

            Trevor stopped and looked at Mary. “That’s why Paul brought us here. It was never about overpopulation or Global Warming or a solution…it was about changing how we thought. Convincing us democracy was elastic, convincing us morality was elastic. And we fell for it. Because he told us making the choice was harder than acting on it. Our hands are dirty. But so are our minds. Reedy Creek is going to fall. And maybe it deserves to.”

            “Trevor…” Mary stood up.

            “I wish you would have come with me. But I don’t think you were supposed to.”

5

Adam set the pack of cigarettes next to him on his bed and he sat down. He peeled back the flap on the envelope. His grampa had licked it to seal it closed. It might have been one of his last acts in life.

            There was folded paper inside. He stared at it for a long time before taking it out. Because it was heavy. Because it was suggestive. Because a part of him knew what it might say. He wasn’t sure why, but he knew grampa had secrets. And he could only think about the night of the storm. The night his grandma came to take the man. He believed she did. He would always believe it. And this was just further proof about how strange the world had gotten.

            He pulled out the paper. It was warm. It reminded Adam of the last time grampa held him, hugging his head tight against the man’s chest to hear his heart. And it smelled like the man. As if the paper carried his essence. This is grampa. Right here. This is his soul. For you.

            Adam smiled and unfolded the paper. It was a handwritten note. The man had pressed so hard into the page with his pen that Adam could feel the impressions on his fingers; the paper had begun to curl a little.

Hey Bud,

          I write this as I watch you doing what you were made to do. Playing ball. And I know this will be the last time I watch you hit the ball. It’s strange. I was never much of a writer. But the words are coming to me because I feel like this will be easier than talking to you. Because I’m not sure I could be honest with you. Not about this. I see thunderheads on the horizon. I’ve always loved storms. Seeing this one might be my last. It reminds me of my first. It’s only a memory, but I was a kid and I watched the lightning strike our field on the farm. I understood then that there were powerful forces in the world. It might not have been something I really thought about. As you know, growing up re-directs the mind. You don’t think about how magical the world is when you’ve got bills to pay. But that memory always sort of persisted. I never forgot it. That lightning was like a message from God. It blurred the lines between life and what’s next. I guess that’s one way of putting it. If you’re reading this now, then I’m gone. Sorry about that, kiddo. Just know, I was thinking of you the entire time I even made the choice. And I’m still thinking about you. If what comes next is anything like I think it is, then hope says I’m still there with you. A warmth on your skin maybe. Like a sun kiss.

          If there’s anything I can write here, it is a confession. Maybe even a loophole of the sorts. What you boys did for me here is help me open my mind again to that childhood wonderment. And I think that’s what changed for me. I think that’s what made me see. There is a man in this town. A man just like that lightning. He and I have met before. A few times, I think. Which makes me consider how opportunistic my coming to Reedy Creek actually was. Maybe what we do is already written. Maybe the Maker of Lightning is just a kid playing with toys. I met this man once when I was a child. I didn’t remember it, no, not before. But as I write the memory is so vivid I know it has to be true. My father died. He got really sick with what’s called tuberculosis. He had a terrible cough, and I would find his kerchiefs filled with blood. I was so afraid for him. I might not have understood it then, not really, but my fear was from seeing a man I worshipped so weak. So fragile. We had his funeral service at home. My mom organized it, and she stayed strong. She had to. A man came to me then. I was outside, alone, feeling the wind on my tears. He was quite young and handsome. He wore a black suit and his dark hair was combed rather nicely. Like a banker or lawyer. He knelt down by me. I was nine. He said he was sorry for what happened. He told me to stay strong. That my father would want me to understand I was the man of the house. That I could not let sadness burden me. I thought then that he was just being nice, but I saw the truth in his eyes. I did. I saw the conversation he must have shared with my father. Maybe as he escorted him away. Funny, isn’t it? That I thought this man went with my father to the Great Beyond.

I dreamed about Betty, your grandma, years later. Terrible dreams. I would see insects eating into her chest, and I would wake up screaming. Sometimes I would still see the bugs. When your grandma got sick, a part of me knew why. It was the bugs. I stayed at the hospital with her. I had hope, but I also understood the reality. Life and death are two playing cards, bud, and they’re always on the table. A doctor came to me in the hospital and told me grandma had passed. Like the banker had come to me as a boy. And I remembered the eyes of that handsome banker, and they were like the eyes of the doctor wearing the surgical mask who’d come to me. He had a different shape, a different body, but his eyes were the same. I saw those eyes so many times in my life, Adam. In Korea. In North Africa. That man was a messenger who could be anywhere and anyone. Sometimes he was comforting. Other times he wasn’t. He’s a Ferry, Adam. A courier.

          And that same man is in Reedy Creek. But he is not a man. I promised him I would not tell you what he is. He offered me a trade and I took it. I think I did the right thing. But this letter is my loophole. Because you boys are special. This man knows it and he’s afraid of it because you represent something that can stop what he’s doing here. I fear he will stretch you apart. He’s not in Reedy Creek for me. That door was opened by someone else. Someone taunting the Lightning Maker.

          He is not a bad man, Adam. He just does what he was made to do. He is magic. But so are you. Always remember that. So are you. He promised me Betty would come to me one last time. She would come with the lightning. Is it strange that I believe this could happen? I thank you for opening my eyes. You are so incredibly gifted, Adam. Your talents will make you something special. Family was and will always be the most powerful tool in this life. Reedy Creek gave me back my family. Your mom and dad love you, Adam. Remind them every day why that is and you can fill any void.

          I love you, bud. This last year in Reedy Creek was my best. Because I got to see you and Patty grow up. Not many grampas get the opportunity to be a part of something like that. You are my best friend. I will be rooting for you from the stars.

Love,

Grampa

6

Cole put down the letter and stared at the two across from him. Both watching him. Certain he’d have questions. Certain he’d have doubts.

            He thought of what his mother said before he came here. He thought of what she called Paul Holdren. An agent of death.

            “Who is this man? The man your grampa keeps referring to?” He looked specifically at Adam.

            The boy did not hesitate when he spoke. “His name is Grimwood. And he watches everything from the cameras. He sees everything.”

            “This is the guy Paul hired to watch the feeds?”

            “Maybe Paul hired a specific security detail to watch over his operation. And maybe he paid them a significant sum to keep mum about the candidates’ tapes he asked for. But I don’t think Grimwood was originally the benefactor. I think Grimwood’s taken the guise of this detail. Because Paul opened a door he should not have. We all did.”

            “That sounds far too…supernatural to me,” Cole said, wanting to laugh when he decided on what word to use. But Trevor was earnest. He looked back down at the letter, scanning those few lines about grampa’s childhood, the brief line about what he assumed was his detail in the mid-century war effort, and about the doctor who told him of his wife’s passing. He wanted to hypothesize that perhaps this old man, the one who’d written this note with what seemed like heavy fingers, was battling an episodic recurrence of dementia that combined dreams, memories, and fiction, but he didn’t want to slander the old guy in front of his grandson. “You believe this?” He settled on the question.

            Trevor nodded. “I do. And my son does. He did before me. Like it says in the letter, Adam opened my eyes as well.”

            Cole exhaled. “Then this letter and…and what you’ve said—what you believe—” Cole looked at the recorder. “You’re suggesting just what…what Grimwood might be. Without spelling it out.” He stopped. His throat seemed dry now and the room felt like it was closing in on him. He shuffled the paper and thought about everything that had happened in this town. Everything that was still happening. Paul Holdren is an agent of—

            “Your opponent is Death?”

            “Yes,” Trevor nodded. Cole looked down at the recorder, the reels still revolving. It was recording all of this. And then he looked back at the bulletin board.

            “The Grim Reaper?”

            “Yes.”

             Cole looked from Trevor to Adam. Back and forth. Waiting for them to crack. Waiting for this practical joke to take effect. “You’re serious?”

             “I am.”

            “Then I’d…I’d like to meet him.”

            Trevor nodded. “I think he will have already decided if he’ll see you.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “I think he’s just a spectator now.”

            “For what?”

            “The bottom of the ninth,” Adam said.