batteries already installed. I turned on the phone and checked the list of numbers. Speed-dial had been preprogrammed with several numbers:
Smith 001
Fast help 002
Smith really had thought of everything. I switched it off and put both phone and flashlight in the front of my sock drawer.
Next I opened the garment bag. My new suit turned out to be a Joseph Abboud original, gray with pinstripes, 100% wool: practical and conservative enough not to stand out in a rural farming community. Mr. Smith had good taste, if nothing else. I hung it up, then put my bags on top of the armoire. I made one last pass over the room, straightening the dresser slightly, lowering the shade so it covered the window latch, and picking a few bits of lint from the bed’s white quilt.
Lastly, I opened the window and peered out. Now I could see the whole of Aunt Peck’s garden, and I had to admit it was impressive: a rectangle perhaps thirty feet long and sixty wide, enclosed with chicken wire and planted with peppers, tomatoes, pumpkins, and quite a few other vegetables I couldn’t identify at this distance. Other than the garden and a couple of shade trees, the land around the farmhouse had been cleared for more than two hundred yards in every direction. Nobody could sneak up on the house—or, having gotten here, escape unseen the way the last prowler had.
I made my way back toward the kitchen, straightening pictures along the way, examining rooms with greater attention. The books in the family room seemed to be a mix of espionage novels and religious nonfiction. Family photos showed Aunt Peck and a man I took to be Joshua with five children and in a variety of settings, from Disneyworld to Hershey Park. I committed the position of every item in every room to memory. If these alleged angels moved or made off with anything, I would notice.
The plastic covers on the sofa and chairs had tiny pinprick indentations—probably cat claws, since cat hair in several different colors speckled the throw pillows.
Then, as I made my way toward the kitchen, I heard voices. Visitors? I strained to hear, but couldn’t make out the words.
As quietly as I could, I crept up the hallway and peeked around the corner. Aunt Peck had her back to me as she stirred something on the stove—soup or stew, from the smell. An old man in coveralls sat at the kitchen table nursing a mug of coffee. He looked at least seventy, maybe older: thinning white hair, weather-beaten skin, rough calloused hands.
“—ought to be ripped out and replaced,” he was saying. “Wouldn’t take more’n a day or two, and you wouldn’t have to worry about the termite damage. Can’t have you fallin’ through the floor.”
“I don’t have the money right now,” said Aunt Peck. “It will have to wait.”
As his fingers curled tightly around his white coffee mug, I noticed that the little finger and ring finger of his right hand were both missing their last joints.
“Wouldn’t cost more’n a couple hundred for lumber, Bessie. A wise investment, if you ask me. Happy to throw in the labor for free, just to keep you safe.”
“Maybe next year.”
“Suit yourself. But the damage ain’t goin’ to go away.”
“I know, Joe.” She sighed. “But my heart just isn’t into keeping things up anymore. Joshua used to handle all that.”
Joe frowned. “You do what you can, Bessie. You do what you can.”
He drained his mug and shoved back his chair. “I better get goin’. My boy and I can fix the barn tomorrow afternoon. Just needs a few new shingles, and I have plenty at home.”
“Thanks, Joe.”
Then, to my shock, she gave him a kiss—not a casual peck, but a downright passionate smooch—and he returned it heartily, along with a squeeze that made her squeal. Clearly the old folks had some friskiness left inside.
Joe left through the side door, which led into the yard facing the barn. After it slammed shut, I counted to ten, then limped into the kitchen.
“I heard voices,” I said. Through the door’s window, I watched Joe climb into a battered blue Ford truck and slowly drive away.
“Joe Carver stopped by.” Aunt Peck nodded as she stirred her pot. “He’s worked on the farm since the day we moved in here. The hardest thing I ever had to do was let him go when Joshua passed. He and his boy still do all the little jobs I can’t handle.”
“Ah,” I said. I picked up both coffee mugs and carried them carefully to the sink. Aunt Peck hadn’t stirred hers well enough; a thick white residue of sugar remained on the bottom when I poured out the dregs. “Does he live around here, too?”
“He has a little house in Hellersville. His wife kept it cute as a button till she got sick last spring. This was the first year they didn’t plant new flowers.” She shook her head. “Poor dear. She passed just after Joshua.”
Two old friends who had lost their spouses. No wonder they felt drawn to each other.
* * * *
At dinner, my hands shook so badly I could barely eat. I spilled all the water from my glass twice, soaking myself and the table. I apologized profusely as I wiped at everything with my napkin.
“Land sakes, it’s just water, Pit!” said Aunt Peck with a laugh. She fetched a towel from the kitchen and mopped up. “After five babies and Joshua’s passing, a little spilled water isn’t going to bother me!”
“You’re very kind,” I said miserably. Stop shaking, stop shaking! I pressed both hands together in my lap, but it didn’t help. My body wouldn’t cooperate. What I needed was a drink. Did Joshua keep a supply of booze in the house? Probably not; he had been a minister, after all.
Aunt Peck returned to her seat and began to eat her stew again—a thick one full of beef, carrots, and potatoes, just the way I liked it.
“You must be wondering what happened to me,” I said as I struggled with my fork. With effort, I managed to spear a carrot and get it into my mouth without impaling myself.
“Do you feel like talking about it…?”
“I don’t mind.” I half shrugged and put my fork down. Eating wasn’t worth the effort tonight. “I used to work on Wall Street. I got a plum job right out of college, but I had a nervous breakdown from working twenty-hour days seven days a week. After six months of treatment, when I finally began to pull myself together again, a taxi ran a red light and hit me. I spent an hour pinned under its front wheels, and I almost lost my legs. I spent another six months in rehab…and I just haven’t been the same since.”
“I’m so sorry, Pit.” She touched my hand gently. “I’ll pray for you.”
I didn’t particularly want her sympathy—what’s done is done; no use crying over it or hoping for miracles that would never come—but she said it in such a heartfelt way that I couldn’t help but feel touched.
“Thank you,” I said.
* * * *
After dinner, she invited me to watch game shows with her, and to my surprise I accepted. I used to find game shows annoying and contrived. But now, tonight, it was almost…comforting…to have someone with whom I could sit in silence…someone who made no demands on my intellect or time or will to live.
Jeopardy had three really bad contestants; even the returning champion flubbed answer after answer. The host, struggling to put a positive spin on things, quipped that tonight’s questions must be harder than usual.
“That’s not the problem, Alex,” I couldn’t help but blurt out. “You picked idiots to play.”
“Can you do better?” Aunt Peck asked with a yawn. I think she had been watching me more than the television.
“It’s always easier when you’re at home.” I forced a laugh. But then I proceeded to come up with questions