Uncle Peck’s death two years ago, Aunt Peck began renting her land to neighbors, who planted soybeans, corn, and other crops. She made enough to pay her rather modest bills.
Aunt Peck had always been an avid correspondent, and she still kept in touch with all branches of her extended family through frequent letters. Her speculations about the nightly disturbances being caused by “angels” had alarmed Smith enough to send a couple of his men out to visit her.
Their first night on the farm, moaning sounds awakened them just after midnight. They ran outside, fired a couple of warning shots into the air, and heard someone—or something—run off through a corn field. They gave chase, but whoever or whatever it was got away.
Then things got quiet. After another week, they left.
A few days later, Aunt Peck proudly wrote that the “angels” had returned. Hence Pit’s summons.
* * * *
“She may just be a crazy old lady,” Smith said thoughtfully, “but she’s my aunt, and I have to look out for her. Family duty, you understand.”
Actually, I didn’t. My parents were long dead, and I had never been close to any of my other relatives. Uncle Mark’s response to my taxi accident had been to send a “get well soon” card. And he forgot to sign it.
“I’m not sure,” I said, “whether to be flattered or insulted.”
“Flattered. You’re my big gun, Pit.”
I snorted. “Now you’re being silly. But I can’t go—I didn’t pack my toothbrush, let alone a change of clothes. You’ll have to take me home first.”
“Nonsense. I know you don’t take instructions well, so I took the liberty of having bags packed for you. Here.”
Reaching into his pocket, he produced a set of miniature steel keys, the kind that fit suitcase locks. The tag dangling from the ring said, “My Other Car Is a BMW.”
“I didn’t notice anything missing from my apartment,” I said.
Mentally, I ran through the contents of my closet and sock drawer as I had seen them this morning. Everything had been exactly where it belonged.
“I purchased a new wardrobe for you, one better suited for farm life.”
My eyebrows raised. “Oh?”
“Seven flannel shirts of assorted colors; seven black and one white undershirts; seven pairs of blue jeans, waist 28, inseam 30; one Sunday go-to-church suit, from your usual tailor—”
“I don’t have a tailor, usual or otherwise,” I said.
He tsk-tsked. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten your account at Paolo Versacci’s, on Vine Street.” That was where I had bought an Armani suit before visiting his illegal gambling club. “You made quite an impression on Paolo. He still has your measurements on file.”
It seemed Smith’s research on me had been even more complete than I’d thought.
“One purchase does not make him my tailor,” I grumbled. “Besides, I don’t wear flannel. Or jeans. I find them too heavy and binding. And I don’t believe in churches, so I won’t need a Sunday suit.”
“Show some flexibility.”
“I don’t have to. I’m a cripple, remember.”
“That doesn’t cut it. We run an equal-opportunity underworld these days, Pit. View your clothes as part of the job—a disguise, if you will. You’ll need to blend in on the farm.” Smith took a deep breath, then continued his inventory: “Heavy wool socks, underwear, light boots, windbreaker, baseball cap, pajamas, and of course a shaving kit, complete with—you guessed it—a toothbrush.”
“You seem to have thought of everything.”
“Of course.”
“Then how are you going to explain me to your aunt?”
I glimpsed a predator’s teeth when he smiled. “We have a charity program at work, helping needy handicapped individuals rehabilitate themselves through clean air and sunshine. She’s looking forward to your visit. And, of course, to the $25 per diem my company is paying for your room and board.”
“You’re too generous,” I said sarcastically. “But I suppose anything more than that would have aroused her suspicions.”
“Precisely. If she thought I sent you merely to give her some extra money, she never would have agreed.”
Our car took the King of Prussia exit. I leaned forward, eying the landmarks. Lots of new buildings had appeared since the last time I had been here, some ten years before, back when I was a healthy college student.
Smith said, “You haven’t asked what the job pays.”
“It pays something?” Money had been the last thing on my mind.
“A hundred dollars a day, plus reimbursement for any expenses. That’s yours just for showing up and keeping my aunt company for a week or two, no matter what happens.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“But you’ll take it.”
“Do I have a choice?”
He smiled thinly and did not reply.
A few minutes later, we took an exit ramp, then turned into a gas station. Leaning forward slightly, I studied the limo’s dashboard. The gas gauge showed nearly full. We weren’t here to fuel up.
“This is my stop.” Smith swung open his door. “I have businesses to run. And you have another two-and-a-half hours’ drive ahead. Enjoy Hellersville…or, as my brothers and I used to call it, Hell!”
He slid out, and without preamble my chauffeur pulled into traffic and accelerated again. When I glanced over my shoulder, Smith raised two fingers to his forehead in salute. Then a new Burger King hid him from view.
* * * *
Ten minutes later, we were on the Pennsylvania Turnpike heading west, surrounded by pleasantly monotonous trees and the occasional sprawling farm, complete with picture-perfect horses and cows. Traffic remained light. Little here could stimulate my over-active mind; I found it soothing.
With nothing better to do, I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. Flannel shirts…blue jeans…fresh air and sunshine…Hell indeed for a city boy like me.
What had I gotten myself into?
* * * *
When the rhythm of the car abruptly changed, I jolted awake. We had taken an exit ramp.
According to the clock in the dashboard up front, almost three hours had passed since we left King of Prussia. The afternoon sunlight seemed too crisp, the rumble of wheels on pavement too sharp. My stomach growled faintly. Rubbing crusty-feeling eyes, I longed for a stiff drink. I had to press my hands against my thighs to keep them from shaking uncontrollably. God, I wanted to go home.
At the toll booth, the driver paid cash. Then we sped down a rural highway. Two turns later, we were on a narrow country road. Fields to either side had just been harvested, leaving a rough stubble of cut-down cornstalks. A pair of huge red harvesting machines sat idle.
As we drove, farm complexes broke the fields every half mile or so: old houses, ancient barns, silos, sheds, dogs and horses and the occasional cow or sheep. At least they had garbage pickup; at the end of each driveway sat identical green plastic bins stenciled “Waste Management.” A few driveways had bonus items out: a threadbare sectional sofa, a rusted old bicycle, piles of broken-down cardboard boxes neatly tied into bundles.
Then we turned onto a gravel driveway. In crooked letters, the battered metal mailbox said PECK – 2040.
We had arrived. I sat up straighter, studying a large old barn with peeling red paint, three ancient silver silos,