Man In The Woods: Jack and Stacey Green Thrillers

1

Ham looked up from the map that was spread across the table. A cloud of dust was rising in the distance, suddenly obscuring his view of the mountains. He picked up the short glass that had been holding down the map and brought it to his lips. The liquid slid down the back of his throat like lava, and he stifled a cough. The moonshine that his neighbor Bud had delivered as a way to pay off the debt he owed was top shelf around here for sure. Ham used to guess at the old fool’s formula until he figured it was probably best not to know. Didn’t the Good Book say something about not asking your host if what they were serving had first been offered to idols? Wasn’t this the same sort of thing? He figured it was. He drained what was left and thought, Amen.

He stood, and the chair slid back across the wooden floor. He hobbled over to the sun-bleached curtains and pushed them aside with a large but steady hand.

Yup. They were back, no doubt about it. He sighed. Picked the smoldering cigarette butt off the windowsill where he’d left it before the phone call and the moonshine and the map, and took a long drag. When he exhaled, a cloud of smoke filled the air. Sons of bitches, he mumbled. The words set the smoke around his head into a dance, and he squinted over the tops of his black-framed glasses, at the clock in the other room. Noon. He hadn’t been expecting them back for another three hours.

He made his way to the door. Picked up the revolver he kept loaded and resting on the table beside it. Then he returned the cigarette to his mouth so he could use both hands to get the gun into the side pocket of his overalls. He swore, angry that he needed two hands to do such a simple thing. His late wife, Lilly, had been right. He was getting too damn fat. That was why she had started calling him Ham. And that was why she was buried in the backyard. Still, the name had stuck, as names did around here, and he didn’t have the energy to go around killing everyone who used it.

With the pistol finally in place, he reached down with a groan and wrapped his hand around the grip of his trademark axe, Joanna. That was what he’d named it, after the girl who’d split his heart in half when he was twelve years old. She hadn’t been able to help herself, and neither could this fine tool he’d crafted in her memory. Though, truth be told, he really had no business falling in love with a high school senior who had plans for a life beyond the mountains in the first place.

He swung her up onto his shoulder. As he stared out the little window in the door, he tapped the cigarette and sent ash fluttering to the floor. He tried to imagine what might have gone wrong. Though with this crew, he knew there was one reason more likely than all others.

Taking one last breath of smoke, he ran his fingers through his graying beard, opened the door, and flicked the butt into the grass with the rest. He grabbed the railing, took the short steps to the ground, and waited.

The old pickup came down the dirt path like a dog with its tail between its legs—knowing it had to come, but knowing what the coming meant and not wanting any part of it.

The driver—John Tyler, he was certain—was not in a hurry. There was no one bleeding out in the bed of the truck, that was for sure. Yet there was a sense of urgency in the way he was navigating the uneven terrain. Like the news he didn’t want to deliver would just make things worse the longer it was delayed.

Ham turned his head and spit as the truck rolled to a stop in front of him. He twirled Joanna, her blade catching the sun.

The doors swung open, and three of his gang hopped out. Three more jumped out of the bed.

James and Michael, the two brothers, walked side by side, leading the others while John Tyler and Theodore hung out in the back. This let Ham know all he needed to know about what had happened. But he asked anyway.

What happened? He perched his left hand inside a suspender strap.

James stopped a few feet in front of him. Things got a little outta hand, is all. He stated it matter-of-fact, like that was all there was to say about it.

Ham looked at Michael, and Michael averted his gaze, staring at the ground instead.

What does that mean? Ham asked, meeting James’s eyes again.

Everyone knew that James would soon be the leader of the pack (once Ham finally suffered the impending heart attack), and most seemed okay with that. James could probably take over right now if he wanted. Just a flick of his wrist would be all it would take. Spill Ham’s guts all down the front of his trousers. But James wasn’t one to mutiny. Still, he wouldn’t let anything happen to his younger brother, as wild and crazy as Michael might be at times.

It ain’t nothin’, James said.

Ham looked past them, past Lawrence and Colt, and found what he was looking for in the body language of Theodore. The guy developed a nervous twitch when he was stressed. And high. Ham could tell that he was both right now. He pushed past the brothers and went to the truck.

Theodore stepped away from the truck bed, fidgeting. He went all crazy, Ham. Started sayin’ about goin’ to the police. Michael just done did what was needed is all.

Ham leaned over the back of the truck to get a glimpse of whatever it was they were all too afraid to just come out and say. He let the axe fall off his shoulder, and the big head thudded on the ground beside his square-toed boot. You know he was never going to any authorities. Just wanted more time.

He don’t have what he owes, Lawrence said, twirling his mustache.

Ham turned to looked at him and had to squint through the sun reflecting off his bald head. Well, I can certainly believe that. But he could’ve gotten it. And more.

Colt stepped forward. He was covered in tattoos, but it was the US Marines tattoo on his arm that got most people’s attention. That and the crossed M16s on his back that referenced the name he’d been given while on a sandy tour half a world away. Need to send them a message, Ham.

Ham shook his head. Ran a hand through his overgrown crew cut. It was no secret that he and Colt didn’t like each other. Colt, if I wanted people to be scared to death of doin’ business with me, then I’d have gone and cut up most of the region by now. He sighed. Be that as it may…

Theodore, John Tyler, and Michael all looked uncomfortable, not sure of what the boss was going to do. Of what punishment he would measure out. James, Laurence, and Colt, on the other hand, knew that this crew was the best one Ham had and that it wouldn’t be worth his time fighting over something as stupid as this.

Ham looked into the truck again. At the guy all tied up in twine and with a bloody burlap sack over his head. How bad is he?

A grin stretched Michael’s lips, appearing beneath the shadow cast by the brim of his cowboy hat. Won’t ever walk again.

Theodore started to giggle. Won’t ever hump again.

Ham saw that the guy’s arms were bent the wrong way at the elbows. Won’t be pitching for the Yankees neither.

They all laughed at that. Except James. He just watched, chewing on a toothpick and studying things as he always did.

All right, Ham said. Use the chainsaw. Spread him around. Then he walked over to Colt. Got so close that his boulder of a belly was touching him. You and I gonna have a problem?

Ham was six feet three and had to look down at Colt, but they both knew that with his military training and his combat experience in the Middle East, it would only take a moment for Colt to kill Ham. But they both knew Colt would never dare try. James might, if he’d had it in him, because he had support. He was a natural born leader. Not Colt. He was a loner. There would be no one in his corner. If he tried anything, he would be the one in the truck and cut into pieces. If not by the rest of this crew, then by one of Ham’s others. That or he’d either have to kill everyone or flee. He didn’t feel like doing much of either.

No, Ham. We ain’t got no problem.

Next time, do what the hell I tell you to do.

Colt nodded, but his eyes were balls of ice.

Ham shot a warning glance at Michael, which was all he was willing to do. He didn’t need to give James a reason for wanting more than he had, which meant putting up with his little brother’s episodes. Good, he said to Colt. Now c’mon. We got a job to prep for.

Lawrence came up beside him. A job?

Yup.

For who?

Ham put Joanna back up onto his shoulder. Didn’t ask. It came through a middleman.

Not the Jennings gang?

No. Not them for sure. They don’t get into this sort of stuff.

What sort of stuff you talkin’ about, then? John Tyler asked. They were getting more comfortable now that it seemed they’d made it out of this with only a verbal rebuke.

Stuff we don’t talk about. Stuff we don’t even like to think about. Abomination stuff.

They all fell silent.

When you’re done with him—Ham nodded to the truck—meet me back here. We got a lot of plannin’ to do. He turned and started for the front door of the cabin. Then stopped as if he’d thought of something else. Oh, two more things.

They waited.

You’re gonna be working with the Baker boys—

Lawrence interrupted him with a curse, turning away and throwing a punch into the side of the rusted truck.

But John Tyler started laughing, a look of insanity coming over his bearded face as spittle flew from his mouth and caught the sunlight.

Ham, James said evenly, why you gotta bring them into it?

Those guys are insane, Colt added.

Ham looked at Theodore. Watched as he began twitching, no doubt replaying in his half-baked brain the last time they’d had a run-in with the Baker boys.

It ain’t my call. Was a condition of the job. It’ll be fine, Ham assured them. Then he looked at Michael. As long as people keep their cool and get along.

James stepped forward and talked softly. They’re right, you know. Those guys are—

Tougher than you?

James shook his head. Looked down at his feet. When he raised his eyes, they were filled with conviction. They ain’t got souls, Ham.

Ham laughed himself into a coughing fit. Ain’t got souls? And you all are saints, aren’t ya? Then he lowered his voice and leaned close. Keep ’em together, James. I’m puttin’ you in charge of this one. It’s probably not somethin’ we believe in, but the money’s too good to pass up.

Thirty pieces of silver, then?

Ham frowned. Don’t get all self-righteous on me. As I recall, we both got things buried in our backyards, and that makes us at least parallel, don’t it? Then he looked up and shouted out the second thing he’d thought of. You ever go against my orders again, and you won’t just be sawin’ up whoever you brought back. You’ll also be drawing straws. One person for the cuttin’ and the other for the fallin’ apart. You understand me?

They nodded and went to take care of business.

Ten minutes later, Ham was back to studying the map with a refill of moonshine as the sound of a chainsaw and a man’s screams rode the mountain breeze outside.

2

Jack Green stood in the driveway behind the black RAV4 and stared at the backup plan he’d packed into the trunk. Two coolers filled with food and drink, two duffel bags of clothes, and another bag of random items he thought they might want in the event things went sideways (and if he was honest with himself, he was sort of hoping they would). He went down his mental checklist one last time. Most of the stuff he wouldn’t need. Maybe none of it. But it was always better to be looking at it than for it.

Satisfied, he closed the trunk and turned. Leaned against the bumper. As he watched the mid-June sun dip beneath the horizon, he checked his new watch. 8:34 on Sunday. He worked the buttons on the side and set an alarm for 7p.m. He’d want to keep in mind what time the sun set while they were out there, and he thought an hour and a half reminder should be enough to wrap up whatever it was they might find themselves in the middle of.

The urge to smoke struck him like a freight train, and he frowned. He’d taken up the habit about a year after the cruise ship incident when a guy at a bar had offered him one of his cigarettes. He then spent the next three years wishing he’d turned it down. But he eventually overcame the habit and could only hope he’d stopped in time to avoid any long-term damage. He wanted to be around for any grandchildren. Plus, the fact that secondhand smoke racked up more victims per year than gun violence sort of made him feel like a dick. So wanting one now, seemingly out of nowhere, was interesting.

He went inside.

He walked into the kitchen and stood at the table. Stacey was in front of the stove, her back to him. He stared at her, studying her figure as she sipped from a wineglass, her mind somewhere else. She still looked great, and though there were times he missed her blond hair, he liked her as a brunette even more. He loved the way she was wearing it now. Long, down her back, the blond highlights like feathered flames. She knew he loved her hair like that, and after being married for more than a decade, he was pretty certain what it meant. He looked at his watch again and decided that he’d better finish up. He sure didn’t want to run out of time.

She turned, leaned against the stove, and tilted her head. Almost done? she asked, taking another sip.

He nodded. Think so. Yup, there was no doubt about where this was going. Hair + wine + questions about bedtime + trip tomorrow morning = some mommy and daddy alone time.

She pushed off the oven and walked to the table. She looked down at the equipment that covered it and smiled.

What? he asked.

She picked up the survival guide he’d ordered a few months ago and flipped through the pages. Nothing.

He snatched the book out of her hands.

That’s a lot of underlining, she said.

"I’m like Anthony Hopkins in The Edge. He tapped the side of his head. It’s all up here now."

Mmm…book smarts in the wilderness. What could go wrong? Another sip. Why are you taking it if it’s all— she tapped her head in mock fashion —up here?

Because I might forget which berries nourish you and which ones kill you.

You definitely don’t want to mix up your berries.

I sure don’t.

Could ruin the week.

Could ruin my colon. He sighed. I hate the woods.

Stacey looked toward the steps in the other room. Shhh…

I know. I know. Boy would be searching the classifieds for a new father before breakfast if he heard me say that.

Think you can fake it?

Her question, as innocent as it was, touched an old nerve, and he had to bite his tongue to keep from responding with some smart-ass comment.

She seemed to notice but didn’t say anything, and the moment passed just as they always had over the last eight years. So much subtext. So much innuendo. So many elephants in the house. But it was their unspoken agreement not to drudge up the past that had allowed them to keep moving forward.

She walked around the table and kissed him. Don’t stay up too late. There’s something I want to give you before you go.

Should only be a few more minutes.

She walked out of the room.

He scratched his unshaven face as he swept his eyes over the stuff scattered across the table. Then he turned and looked into the living room, at the stuff he had piled on the floor in there too. He checked his watch again. He figured he had a half-hour window before Stacey fell asleep and he missed out on whatever it was she had for him. He got to work.

First, he picked up the knife. Held it up to the light.

Everything he’d read said that the belt knife was the most vital tool because it could be used to recreate most other things. It was recommended that it be kept on your person at all times, preferably in a leather sheath with a flap that snapped shut over the handle. Leather because whatever lubricant was used to protect the knife from rusting would end up in the leather and be applied to the blade whenever it was inserted. The downside was that leather held water when it got wet. Which was why he’d followed someone’s suggestion and waterproofed it by soaking the sheath in olive oil, letting it drip dry over the last twenty-four hours. Stacy had smiled at that too.

He’d gone with a six-inch full-tang blade made of high carbon steel and a Scandinavian grind. It took him the better part of three months to settle on it—to find one that could send off a shower of sparks when struck against the right material. That meant finding one with a sharp ninety-degree edge that wasn’t factory coated. He’d coated the blade with olive oil himself. They said it was preferable to the petroleum-based lubricants if you were going to use the knife to process food. He didn’t have any such plans, but he couldn’t rule it out. Anything could happen in the wilderness.

The full-tang design meant that the knife was one solid piece of steel, the handle screwed to either side of it so that there was no danger of the blade falling apart. If the handle broke, he could fashion another one easily enough.

But the toughest decision was on which grind to choose. He’d narrowed it down to either convex or Scandinavian, ultimately deciding on the latter. A convex blade was more resilient but harder to maintain in the wild and more difficult to use for finer tasks. So they said. What did he know? Scandinavian seemed to him a good compromise between the resilience of the convex and the brittleness of the sharper but thin hollow grind.

The knife felt good in his hand. Seemed a natural fit, like it was made for his grip alone. Maybe he and Joseph would come up with a name for it this week. He slid it into the sheath and snapped it shut. Put it aside.

Next he picked up the axe. He had been as meticulous in choosing the eighteen-inch hunter’s axe as he had been the knife. It had a Scandinavian head and a hickory handle with a straight grain all the way through. It was considered one of the best compromises for all-around use; and since he had no idea what he was getting into, he figured all around was his best option. Joseph had helped him burn lines into the handle every half inch so that it could also double as a measuring stick. Not that he planned on doing a lot of measuring, but who knew. Maybe he’d try to build one of those shelters that were in the book.

He folded the leather axe mask over the head and set the tool beside the knife.

He shook his head. The last time he’d been to the woods (not counting the nearby lake that he and Joseph occasionally fished) was eight years ago when Agent Johnson had stuck him in that cabin in the mountains. That had been enough wilderness to last him the rest of his life. But he reminded himself that this was for Joseph. And a week of camping wasn’t such a big price to pay for some quality father and son bonding. Not when taking into consideration what the boy had been through. What they’d both been through.

It took him five minutes to arrange all the equipment into categories—pockets, belt pouch, haversack, and pack. The stuff that he would carry in his pockets and the things that would go on his belt he put into a backpack. He’d put them on his person when they reached the campsite.

He went to the living room and folded the eight-by-eight-foot oilcloth tarp that was spread across the floor into thirds. Then he folded a queen-sized wool blanket in half and placed it on top of the tarp. Folded a twin-sized wool blanket in half and laid it over the queen. Then he began to place items on the blanket that wouldn’t be immediately needed and could be rolled up inside the pack. Stuff like rope and stakes and spare socks.

He rolled it up and set it aside.

Next he packed the belt pouch with things like a waterproof flashlight and matches. Then the haversack. He set them beside the blanket roll and stole another glance at the time.

Fifteen minutes before Stacey was asleep.

The rucksack was made of canvas and had a small number of pockets. The books had warned against getting a backpack with too many zippers and compartments, because it could take too long to remember what you put in each pouch. Keep it simple, stupid.

He’d gotten the pack (most of the stuff, actually) at a military surplus store. With cash, of course. He didn’t know if they were still on anyone’s watchlist, but he didn’t need any red flags going off by putting knives and axes on his credit card.

The waterproof bag went in first to keep the equipment from getting wet. Then it was one item at a time, each one getting crossed off his list as it went in. Folding saw, bush pot, skillet, notebook and pencils, hemp rope, repair kit, whetstone, parachute cord, first aid kit…

When he was all done, he tied the blanket roll to the top of the pack. Then he stood and looked over his work. Jerry packed all this crap, he thought.

Jerry.

No one had called him that in a long time. But it was that part of him that was always imagining some post-apocalyptic scenario where he’d have to live off the land (or some other, more realistic reason that would cause him to go off the grid) that wanted to see if he could do it. So he decided to pack for more than just setting up a tent and roasting marshmallows. Maybe an EMP would go off next week, and he and Joseph would have to survive on their own for the next ten years. Not a pleasant thought.

And neither was how fast Stacey’s window was closing.

He started taking the equipment out to the car, beginning with two exercise mats and Joseph’s little backpack the two of them had packed before dinner.

It took four trips, and on his last one, he saw Stacey’s face appear in the bedroom window above the driveway. And then the upstairs lights went out.

He quickly finished arranging everything, making sure that Joseph would have plenty of room in the back seat, and shut the door. He ran inside.

In his haste, he hadn’t noticed what he knocked off the passenger seat and out of the car while shifting the gear around.

Jack went up the stairs, hitting light switches off as he went. When he reached the top, he found a melodic whisper traveling down the hall and followed it to Joseph’s room.

Joseph had started listening to movie scores at night a few years ago. Said it helped him sleep. Right now it was the late James Horner who was composing the soundtrack to his dreams. The Jackie Chan Karate Kid remake.

Jack bent over to turn off the bedside lamp and paused. The light was washing over Joseph’s face in such a way that he seemed to be glowing. Jack straightened. Studied his boy. The way his hair was coming down over his eye (against Stacey’s wishes, they were having a hair-growing competition). The slow, methodical way his chest rose with each breath. He wondered what he was dreaming about, if it was as climactic as the music.

I love you, Joe, he whispered. He pulled the blankets up a little higher so that they reached his small shoulders and then kissed his head. We’re gonna have a great week.

Then his eyes drifted, as they often did, to the scar.

And every time it took him back to that moment, to Vadim holding Joseph in front of him and dragging the knife across his neck. He wondered if Joseph remembered anything about that day. He hoped not, which was why he never asked. Best not to stir the pools of memory if the memory wasn’t already floating there on the surface.

He turned the bedside lamp off, and Luke Skywalker’s blue lightsaber glowed from the wall clock across the room. According to Luke’s saber, he only had two minutes left.

He was about to turn the soundtrack off, but then thought better of it. As he walked out of the room, he instead turned it up a couple of notches.

A smile spread across his face as he walked down the hallway. The music following after him was from a training scene, and in the present context it made him feel like he was in a parody. He felt like loosening up, taking a couple of jabs, doing some neck rolls.

When he entered the bedroom, he thought he could see Stacey under the covers, lying on her side, asleep. His heart sank. But then a voice sounded from behind him.

About time, she said.

He turned and could just make her out in the light coming from the hallway. She was in a new black lace teddy, complete with garter and stockings.

For some reason the lace made him think of the lingerie he’d found while looking for something to wear in Donny’s drawer.

The engagement ring…

It had taken years, and maybe a few cigarettes, to get over Donny’s death, but every once in a while, the sting of it still surfaced, as it was starting to now.

Until Stacey stepped forward and started to unbutton his shirt.

You think you’ll make it the whole week?" Stacey asked.

They were lying on their backs and staring up at the ceiling in the dark.

I’m planning on it. But the shelter is just a little over a half mile from the campsite. If things get uncomfortable, we’ll just pack up and hike there. He turned his head toward her. Are you gonna be okay?

Yeah, I think I can manage here on my own.

You know what I mean.

She turned onto her side. No, I don’t know what you mean.

He returned his gaze to the ceiling.

What? she pressed.

Nothing.

She propped herself up onto an elbow as the elephants came parading into the bedroom. Are you talking about—

Forget it. I’m sure you’ll be fine. He reached his hand over and placed it on her thigh. She still had the lace on.

But she wouldn’t let it go. Not now that the subject was broached. What are you thinking?

He sighed. I’m thinking this is the first time that I’m leaving you. That you’ll be alone.

Is this Jerry I’m hearing? she asked, amused and a little surprised.

Maybe.

She put her hand on his chest. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard anything from him.

I’ve been keeping him in the basement.

He looked over and saw the white of her teeth and knew she was smiling. It made him smile too. And he thought that maybe that was why the urge for a cigarette had come back—a subconscious reflex meant to keep his conspiracy theorist alter ego at bay. Because he knew what getting back into that mindset would mean, what it would do to his peace of mind. If people had named him after Mel Gibson’s character in the Conspiracy Theory movie before, what would he be like after everything that had gone down eight years ago—when he’d found himself at the center of a CIA false-flag operation? No, ignorance now wasn’t just bliss, it was essential. His wife was the daughter of KGB agents, ex-wife to a rogue SVR operative, and herself part of a CIA black op. Convincing Big Brother that they were happy to live normal, ignorant American lives was crucial to their being left alone. Hitting up the independent websites at 1a.m., checking out books on other American-made false-flag events, signing petitions to limit the scope of the NSA’s surveillance system, and sharing WikiLeaks posts might just nudge them into the liability column. So he’d put Jerry in the basement and out of sight.

If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, she said, lightly raking her fingernails over his skin, I don’t think you need to worry about it. I haven’t spotted any activity in years.

Would you tell me if you had?

Silence drifted over them; her hand paused. Depends, she finally said.

He nodded, able to appreciate her honesty.

She moved closer, putting one leg over top of his and an arm across his chest. I can’t believe you’re going camping for a week. She nibbled his earlobe. In the mountains.

I know.

What if there are bears?

As long as they aren’t carrying AK-47s, we should be okay.

What?

Kidding. But then he wondered if he was.

Snakes, mountain lions, poison berries… She giggled. I’m sorry. I so can’t see you out there. I give you three days max before you’re going to the shelter or coming home.

Think Joseph would be disappointed.

No doubt.

Okay, it’s a bet.

What is?

That I make it the whole time.

And the stakes?

He thought about it. Then lifted up the covers and pretended to look beneath them. I can think of a few things.

Okay. And if you don’t make it, you need to start on the deck.

What deck?

Exactly.

He groaned. Fine.

Her teeth appeared again. We’ll have to change your name from Jerry to Jeremiah.

As in Jeremiah Johnson?

She ran her hand over his coming beard. You’re practically halfway there.

He laughed. Yeah, right. Then he asked, How do you know about that movie?

My mom had a thing for Robert Redford.

Really? He wondered if the Kremlin would been okay with one of their spies having the hots for an American actor, but didn’t want to dampen the mood by bringing up the Motherland. He’d been very delicate when speaking about Viktoriya, mostly for Stacey’s sake but also out of respect for the Russian countess. The last twenty minutes of her life had completely reshaped his view of her, and he thought the two of them could have gotten along just fine after clearing the air and taming all their elephants. Though he wasn’t sure how things would have played out between her and Stacey…

He fell asleep and, for the first time in years, dreamed of bears.

3

Monday morning started out with the coffee not being right. Either the ratio was off, or the machine needed cleaning or the beans weren’t fresh, or the water filter needed replacing. It wasn’t a huge difference, not enough to make you spit it out, but Jack could tell. Maybe he’d woken up with a brain tumor that was suddenly affecting the way things tasted. Wouldn’t that be fun?

He brought the mug to his lips and sipped some more, each taste moving him further along the road to adaptation. By his second cup, he’d be used to it. By his third, he wouldn’t even remember what it was supposed to taste like.

He was in the kitchen, leaning against the door frame that led out back. The morning was cool, so he’d opened the sliding glass door and watched the sun rise above the big oaks at the edge of the neighbor’s property. Listened to the birds sing their songs, not a note out of key. The verse about God’s eye being on the sparrow came to him, as it always did when he took the time to notice them, and as always it brought back a certain context with it. A context comprised of dilemmas.

After the events of eight years ago, he’d felt that he owed it to his grandmother and to God to finally pursue some kind of resolution to his spiritual conflict, a conflict that had felt like a pair of concrete shoes while he was treading water in the middle of the ocean. They say there are no atheists in foxholes, and he hadn’t even been an atheist. So he’d started checking out some of the nearby churches and re-familiarizing himself with the Bible. But all he got out of the services was a sore back and an intimate knowledge of the guy’s cowlick sitting in front of him. The message all seemed to be the same. Try hard to be a good person, and in so doing you will earn God’s blessing. But they never said how, and he was pretty sure he remembered Grandmom saying something about not being able to earn God’s favor anyway. Something to do with faith and righteousness and atonement and an indwelling Lord. But he couldn’t remember and only got more frustrated the more he went. So he’d accepted a cigarette at a bar instead.

An oriole flew across the yard and landed on the swing set. Its black and orange colors were vibrant in the rising sun, and Jack marveled at its beauty.

Beauty. It was the metaphysical note that kept getting stuck in his head and drawing him back into the magic. He remembered quoting the Song of Solomon to Stacey on the cruise ship. Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies… He smiled, took another sip, and looked at his watch.

He’d gotten the watch for about four hundred bucks. It had all the features: pedometer, heart rate monitor, elevation tracker, compass, military-grade durability, synchronization to his smart phone, compatibility with satellite networks and global emergency response, and so forth and so on. To access the latter features, he’d needed a satellite communicator and a subscription, but that was a bit more than he was willing to get into for just a week-long camping trip a couple of hours away. What he did do, however, was get a satellite Wi-Fi hotspot that would pair with his phone and enable him to call, text, and access the internet. He’d already been using the watch via the phone for the last few days. With the solar phone charger he’d packed, he didn’t anticipate a time that he wouldn’t be connected to the outside world. Not that he’d need to be, but… Bears.

It was a couple of minutes after six, and a second cup of coffee was calling him. He closed the sliding door and got another mug out of the cabinet. It was a Temple University mug—his alma mater. He topped off his cup and filled the Temple one, then walked them both through the living room and up the stairs. Stacey had said she wanted him to wake her before 6:30.

When he got to the top of the stairs, he stopped. The hallway stretched away from him in both directions, each ending at a door. The door to his left, perpendicular to Joseph’s bedroom, was closed. He turned, faced it, and stood entranced as the two porcelain mugs quietly ejected clouds of steam into the stillness.

The door was always closed.

Most of the time it was a subliminal detail that never stood out as they went on with their lives. But it had a subtext