last week. Remember him?”
“I know who Craig Rogers is. I see him on Facebook.”
“Then you know he has your phone number. Which he gave to me and said I should call you. I didn’t even realize you lived here in Washington.”
I nod and take a look at that $22,000 painting. “Marshall, you know someone was killed in that church, right?”
“So I gathered. Apparently that’s why they arrested me.”
“What were you doing there, anyway?”
“What does anyone do at a church, Beecher? It’s nearing the anniversary of my mother’s death. You know how much prayers meant to her.”
“You were there
praying
?”
“I was there praying.”
“At ten o’clock at night?”
“The sanctuary is open till midnight. Apparently there are some very religious people who work across the street.”
It’s a perfect story. No holes in it. “They said you also had a pack of old playing cards on you. With a missing ace of spades.”
“I always have them on me. I travel a lot. They’re good for solitaire.”
“And the ace of spades?”
Without warning, he hits both his front pockets. From one, he pulls out the pack of playing cards and tosses it at me. From the other, he pulls out his phone. I didn’t hear it ring or vibrate, but as he looks down at it, this is clearly a call he can’t miss.
“Beecher, you’ll have to excuse me a moment. I need to take this.” Heading back toward the bedroom, he adds, “This is Marshall…”
He closes the door quietly, leaving me alone in the kitchen.
I study the playing cards. The box is yellowed and severely worn. On the back of the pack is a classic hand-drawn American eagle with spread wings. But instead of its head raised high, the eagle ducks down, its head lowered, like it’s ready to bite something.
I glance back at his closed bedroom door. Underneath it, Marshall’s shadow paces back and forth. Whoever’s calling him, he’s caught up in it.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I head for the nearest cabinets. When we were kids, I remember Marshall’s dad kept all his medication in the kitchen drawers, since he could reach them from his wheelchair. If I’m lucky, maybe Marshall does the same. But as I hunt through the drawers—silverware in one, spatulas and wooden spoons in another… nothing to speak of.
The overhead cabinets are the same. The first has dishes, bowls, cups, and glassware.
The next has wineglasses… coffee mugs… a few thermoses… but again, nothing revealing. The mugs are all plain, same as the thermoses. No school logos, team logos, work logos—nothing. And for the second time, I start wondering if this sterile place is really a safehouse.
But as I open the biggest cabinet—looks like the pantry—the first thing I spot are large boxes of breakfast cereal.
I scan quickly. Of course, there’s no Lucky Charms. It’s all healthy now: Raisin Bran… Special K… and one of those fancy oat ones you buy at Whole Foods. My brain flips back to the treehouse… and the hiding spot for every nudie pic we could find.
I grab the box of Raisin Bran, ripping it open. Nothing. Same with the Special K. And the fancy oat one. Nothing and more nothing.
Closing the cabinets, I turn back to the bedroom. Marshall’s still pacing. Time for one last attempt.
On my right, where the cabinets run in an L-shape around the corner, there’s a section of the counter that’s built like a desk, but with no drawers. It’s where Marshall threw his keys. There’s also a neat stack of mail and a few boxes from J.Crew.
Tossing his pack of cards on the counter, I flip through the mail. Electric bill… something from a wine-tasting organization… coupon circulars… His name’s on all of them. But the address—it’s not the same as the address here. They’re all addressed to the P.O. box that Immaculate Deception found earlier. It’s the same with the J.Crew packages. But as I lift the rest of the mail off the final box—
The flaps on the box pop
“I know who Craig Rogers is. I see him on Facebook.”
“Then you know he has your phone number. Which he gave to me and said I should call you. I didn’t even realize you lived here in Washington.”
I nod and take a look at that $22,000 painting. “Marshall, you know someone was killed in that church, right?”
“So I gathered. Apparently that’s why they arrested me.”
“What were you doing there, anyway?”
“What does anyone do at a church, Beecher? It’s nearing the anniversary of my mother’s death. You know how much prayers meant to her.”
“You were there
praying
?”
“I was there praying.”
“At ten o’clock at night?”
“The sanctuary is open till midnight. Apparently there are some very religious people who work across the street.”
It’s a perfect story. No holes in it. “They said you also had a pack of old playing cards on you. With a missing ace of spades.”
“I always have them on me. I travel a lot. They’re good for solitaire.”
“And the ace of spades?”
Without warning, he hits both his front pockets. From one, he pulls out the pack of playing cards and tosses it at me. From the other, he pulls out his phone. I didn’t hear it ring or vibrate, but as he looks down at it, this is clearly a call he can’t miss.
“Beecher, you’ll have to excuse me a moment. I need to take this.” Heading back toward the bedroom, he adds, “This is Marshall…”
He closes the door quietly, leaving me alone in the kitchen.
I study the playing cards. The box is yellowed and severely worn. On the back of the pack is a classic hand-drawn American eagle with spread wings. But instead of its head raised high, the eagle ducks down, its head lowered, like it’s ready to bite something.
I glance back at his closed bedroom door. Underneath it, Marshall’s shadow paces back and forth. Whoever’s calling him, he’s caught up in it.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I head for the nearest cabinets. When we were kids, I remember Marshall’s dad kept all his medication in the kitchen drawers, since he could reach them from his wheelchair. If I’m lucky, maybe Marshall does the same. But as I hunt through the drawers—silverware in one, spatulas and wooden spoons in another… nothing to speak of.
The overhead cabinets are the same. The first has dishes, bowls, cups, and glassware.
The next has wineglasses… coffee mugs… a few thermoses… but again, nothing revealing. The mugs are all plain, same as the thermoses. No school logos, team logos, work logos—nothing. And for the second time, I start wondering if this sterile place is really a safehouse.
But as I open the biggest cabinet—looks like the pantry—the first thing I spot are large boxes of breakfast cereal.
I scan quickly. Of course, there’s no Lucky Charms. It’s all healthy now: Raisin Bran… Special K… and one of those fancy oat ones you buy at Whole Foods. My brain flips back to the treehouse… and the hiding spot for every nudie pic we could find.
I grab the box of Raisin Bran, ripping it open. Nothing. Same with the Special K. And the fancy oat one. Nothing and more nothing.
Closing the cabinets, I turn back to the bedroom. Marshall’s still pacing. Time for one last attempt.
On my right, where the cabinets run in an L-shape around the corner, there’s a section of the counter that’s built like a desk, but with no drawers. It’s where Marshall threw his keys. There’s also a neat stack of mail and a few boxes from J.Crew.
Tossing his pack of cards on the counter, I flip through the mail. Electric bill… something from a wine-tasting organization… coupon circulars… His name’s on all of them. But the address—it’s not the same as the address here. They’re all addressed to the P.O. box that Immaculate Deception found earlier. It’s the same with the J.Crew packages. But as I lift the rest of the mail off the final box—
The flaps on the box pop
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