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At the sound of an authoritative knock, Branson Elledge jerked awake, clutching his small bag of possessions close to his chest. He could not remember the last time he'd slept laying down, or showered . . . or eaten a decent meal. He jumped at every sound, certain Gustav Winton, his sidekick, Bryant Mitchell, or one of their thug-lackeys, were close-by, and he had only moments to live. 'I had to run,' he told himself over and over. 'Running doesn't mean I'm a coward, it means I'm . . . ,' he remembered closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead, the first time he'd had the thought. 'It means . . . I'm a coward. There's no getting around it.' "Y . . . yes?" he responded, to the second knock, in a wavering voice. 'If it was a goon, out to kill me, they wouldn't knock . . . would they?' He looked toward one of the apartment's windows, then the door leading to the kitchen, abandoning any thoughts of trying to escape. 'I'm too tired to run. If it's not the authorities, I'll give myself up to my fate.' "Mister Elledge?" the voice said. 'That doesn't sound like the voice of a killer," Elledge's tired mind reasoned. "We are here at your request. You called the Agency, asking for assistance. We are here to help you," the disembodied voice concluded. Branson struggled to his feet, steadying himself on the arm of the only chair in the room. 'Need to eat,' he thought. 'Weak.' He did his best to stand straight, determined to meet whatever was about to happen, with squared shoulders. "Co . . . come in. I'm ready." His eyes focused on the door knob. 'I am not ready to die, though,' he thought. 'While working at the Winton Firm, I did wrong; I know that, and I'm prepared to face the consequences. Even though I oversaw bank accounts, I was never responsible for another person's death. That's what I want to prevent, now. If Mrs. Pruitt and Mister Winton have their way, they'll leave a trail of bodies in their wake. Both of them know they can't possibly come out of this situation unscathed, and they intend to take everyone down with them. I can't let that happen.' He bit his lower lip as the door opened slowly, admitting the sound of street noise and the weight of the ever present humidity. "Are you armed, sir?" the voice, beyond the door, asked. "No," Branson's voice squeaked upward. He gulped a breath. "Are . . . are you here to . . . to, kill me?" He heaved a ragged breath, dropped his bag to the floor, and tried to ignore his racing heart, or the drop of perspiration running down the side of his face. "Whatever . . . I'm . . . I'm ready," he mumbled, barely loud enough for the man standing outside the door to hear. "You have nothing to fear from us, sir. We are here to take you someplace safe, where you won't have to run." "Can I sleep, and . . . eat . . . something?" Branson asked, in a small voice. 'Could it be true? Could this person actually be here to help?' "I'm going to come in now." Branson inhaled deeply, nodded, and did his best to stand straight. 'I can't close my eyes,' he thought. 'I have to meet my fate with open eyes.' "Okay. I won't move." The door silently swung open. One man, barely visible, stood at the side of the opening, presumably the person who had been speaking. In the distance, another stood, ready to take appropriate action, should it be necessary. The inevitable crowd of curious neighbors, hoping to see something exciting to talk about at dinner, lined the sidewalk, speaking to one another in hushed tones. The large man, wearing a regular, everyday business suit, slowly entered the apartment. He looked one way, then the other, and seemed to relax. Branson wiped his hands on the sides of his pants. "I . . . I'm alone. I . . . I . . . I don't have a weapon." A slight smile softened the man's face, as he extended a beefy hand in greeting. "Hello, Mister Elledge; I'm Agent Gutierrez," he said, identifying himself, and holding out his badge to be inspected. "I've been told you are tired of hiding." Branson glanced at the badge, nodded, then shook the man's hand, leaning against the arm chair, thankful for its support. "Yes, sir, I am tired . . . of . . . everything," he managed to say, as he sniffed, and swiped at his eyes. "Please forgive me, sir. I'm a mess. I'm not a bad man, Agent Gutierrez," he said, as he accepted the big man's help to remain standing, then hesitated. "I've done some things I'm not proud of, but maybe . . . with your help, I can atone for some of them." Agent Gutierrez patted Branson on the back and nodded his understanding, before stooping to pick up the limp bag laying on the floor. "I hope so, Mister Elledge. Is this all you would like to bring with you?" he asked, as he glanced around the empty apartment. Branson nodded. "Yes, sir. There is one item, of importance, in the bag. Everything else is up here," he concluded, pointing to his head. * * * "Gustav!" Elizabeth breathlessly shouted into the telephone receiver. She nervously glanced over her shoulder, before continuing. "Are you having me followed? Is Franklin? Why?" she demanded, doing her best to sound angry instead of terrified. "No matter where I go, someone's there, watching me, terrorizing me! Why are you doing this? You and Franklin. You've teamed up against me; I know it. Why?" "Followed?" Gustav asked, secretly exultant. "Yes! They broke into my apartment. They've left threatening notes there, and on my car. They tell me they're going to kill me!" Her voice caught. "Me! Elizabeth Pruitt! They obviously don't know with whom they are dealing. I have friends . . . powerful friends." Gustav loudly sighed. "Liz, your delusions are getting old. I've told you, you are no longer entitled to use the Pruitt name. Franklin has divorced you and, from what I've been told, he has done everything possible to erase any trace of your existence from Pruitt House . . . furniture, clothing, china, silver, crystal, paintings . . . make up . . . everything is gone. Imagine . . . your grandfather's antiques . . . in a secondhand store in the poor sections of town. It is as if you never occupied the place . . . or so I'm told. So . . . in conclusion, my dear, you are not a Pruitt. You are a 'no one', with delusions of bygone grandeur. You have no friends, powerful or otherwise, to protect you. So, why would anyone want to play games with a nobody, a has been, a . . . loser?" "What? Why you . . ." Gustav Winton's voice sharpened. "Liz, what is it you want? Is there a purpose to this call, other than to cry on my shoulder about some supposed killers on your tail? Oh, and I guess I should let you know that the FBI has tapped all my telephone lines, should persons, such as yourself, give me a call." "FBI!?" she squawked. "Still? I thought they'd be long gone by now. "What have you done with the money I gave you to hire someone to take care of the boys? What's happening? What are you doing? How are the plans progressing?" Gustav laughed. "Plans? My dear, I have no intention of carrying out your dirty work. Killing your own children . . . really! What sort of mother are you?" Gustav snickered. "No need to answer. Everyone in Atlanta knows what sort you are. And, as to plans . . . my dear, you have no idea how well my plans are progressing. In fact, they are bearing fruit at this very moment. "As for the money you gave me . . . It's being put to good use." He laughed, and hung up the phone, leaving the flustered woman to take out her anger on the telephone. * * * Franklin Pruitt put his feet up on the corner of the desk in his home office, as he held the phone to his ear and spoke with Gene Lawson, Pruitt Builders' Office Manager. Franklin was surrounded by things familiar to him, the wall of leather bound books, the enormous painting of Atlanta at night, the Oriental rug, the view of an expansive lawn, seen out the row of glass French doors leading onto a seldom used patio . . . and Bill Murphy, one of three bodyguards assigned to him by the FBI. He was confident the other two, John Wilson, and Pete Adams, were nearby. It was their job to stay close to him and remain vigilant, and Franklin had to admit, they did their job well. Still, their continual silent presence was . . . grating. At least one of them was always in the same room with him, a sinister presence, reminding him that Elizabeth wished him dead. He wondered if having guards in the house had stymied whomever within the household was spying on him, but there was no way to tell, unless the FBI told him, and, with the only source of communication with the Agency being the guards, that didn't seem likely. 'I feel like a pawn,' he thought, not for the first time. 'There is more going on here than me merely being guarded.' In the distance, he could see one of the people, hired to protect the outside of the house, make his rounds. 'I'm in a prison,' Franklin thought. 'It's a fancy one, but it's still a prison. Someone out there wants me dead, and someone inside is helping them to achieve their goal.' At an unseen signal, the guards changed, John Wilson taking over for Bill Murphy. The continual presence of the three men caused both Rolf, Franklin's Personal Secretary, and Elsie, the downstairs servant, to grumble. 'At least Rolf can go home. Elsie and I live here. 'I tolerate these men's presence because it is a necessary thing. If I can manage, so, too, can my maid and secretary. At least they don't have someone in their bedroom watching them sleep. Hell, these guys check the toilet before allowing me to enter the room!' Franklin grinned, envisioning the Atlanta newspaper headline, should one of the guards fail to thoroughly check the bathroom, only to have missed some sort of . . . bomb. "Franklin Pruitt blown to kingdom come, while taking a . . ." 'Well,' he chuckled, they'd probably phrase it better than that.' He sighed. 'At least we haven't gotten to the point where the Agency has required me to have a food taster.' "I'm glad the men are on my side," Franklin told Gene Lawson, the only man who'd been with him longer than his friend and secretary, Rolf Kaiser. His comment caused the guard currently on duty to casually salute the comment. 'Hmm, they not only watch,' he thought, 'they listen too.' "Y'know, Gene," Franklin said, struck by a thought, as he turned his chair so he was facing away from the guard. "You and Rolf are my only true friends. Everyone else hangs around me hoping to advance themselves at the company's or my expense. Since all this stuff with Elizabeth has been going on, I can't tell you how valuable yours and Rolf's friendship has been to me. "Ah, well," he continued. "Instead of becoming all maudlin on you, I should bring you up to date on some new developments the Agency has decided it was okay for me to know of. I'm sure there is much more going on, but I am only a bit player, and have no need to know," he said, imitating the guards' supervisor. Franklin looked up and smiled, hoping to get some sort of reaction from the bodyguard standing beside the door to the office. When no reaction was forthcoming . . . this time . . . he shook his head, turned his back to the guard and continued speaking, as one of the outside men passed in front of the office window. "Forgive my sarcasm, Gene, but this entire situation is grating on my nerves. It was good news, though, that one of the Winton Firm's top attorneys has shown up on the FBI's doorstep, figuratively speaking. Apparently, when he learned the Agency had become involved with Gustav, Elizabeth, n'all, he ran. Only later did he realize that dear Gustav wouldn't let him live, knowing as much as he does about the inner workings of the firm. Some law firm," Franklin tiredly chuckled. "No one ever leaves. If you know too much, you meet with an unfortunate accident. What a unique form of job security! "Anyhow, this Branson Elledge person . . . he's the attorney I'm talking about, soon sickened of running, and not sleeping, for fear of his life, and called the FBI, who now have him in protective custody. Apparently, he was the man in charge of money laundering, and such, and has become a fountain of information. Of course, everything will have to be verified, but, according to the man who is handling this case, many things have been made much easier because of the information this guy has provided." Franklin listened, as his office manager spoke. "No, I've not heard anything from either of the boys. I have no idea where they might be. I believe, though, that they are not together, and quite possibly, not even in the country. Riley has always been so secretive of where he lives; I'm convinced he would not even have told his brother. The young man trusts no one! I mean, Gene, even I don't know where he went to school. He told me he graduated near the top of his class, but that's it. He's a bright young man. We all have to come through this current mess, in one piece, before I can start hounding him to use all that education to do something constructive. Both Riley and his brother have so much potential. I'm so proud of both of them. They are so unlike their brother or sister." Franklin sighed. "Well, back to the renegade attorney. As part of all the new information, some interesting things have turned up. There are many more bank accounts than anyone has been aware of. Mister Elledge described regular activity taking place in all of them but one. For over twenty years, that particular account has had money deposited into it, on a monthly basis, and never once has anything been withdrawn. Mister Elledge thought that strange, but, says that whenever he asked Gustav about it, he was told to mind his own business. There was no name associated with the account, that he knew of; only a number. I tell you, we're lucky that this Elledge person was so thorough. When he ran, he took with him a disk containing all sorts of information . . . numbers, names . . . everything." Franklin was about to say something more, when there was a faint click on the phone line. "Did you hear that?" Gene asked. "Franklin, I hate to ask this, but how secure is your home office telephone line? Could that click mean that someone was listening to our conversation?" Franklin thought for a moment. "I can't imagine who it would be. The only two people with access to one of the office phones would be Rolf and one of the downstairs maids, Elsie. They've both been with me for so long, I trust them implicitly. "Gene, you're getting to be as bad as me. I have become paranoid, believing that everyone is in cahoots with Elizabeth and Gustav. I've got to realize that my dear ex-wife and her attorney-buddy may have their fingers into many things, but I'm counting on it to not be possible for them to be everywhere." "Good morning, sir," Elsie greeted one of the body guards, whom she thought of as an unwelcome fixture, disturbing the smooth running of the household, and refusing to hold still so she could dust him. The man nodded a greeting, accompanied by a thin smile, as the maid emerged from the room next to Mister Pruitt's office, carrying an armload of towels. "Excuse me, sir. I must tend to my duties." She nodded, as she parted, hurrying across the home's foyer. She greeted Rolf, Mister Pruitt's secretary, who emerged from his office, glanced at the bodyguard with a scowl, then returned to the office and closed the door. * * * "Aren't you guys done yet?" Nathan shouted from the living room. "We're going to be leaving tomorrow. Don't you both need to get some sleep? "Are you finished now?" he asked, a few minutes later. "I'm bored," he added, when there was no response. "There's nothing to do," he whined, in an attempt to get a response from either of the men upstairs. "I can smell the testosterone down here," he loudly announced, still later. "I'm getting all turned on!" "You're welcome to watch," his brother called from upstairs. "Or, you can join us. Let's all masturbate together," Bailey shouted, sounding as if he were in the midst of a wrestling match. There was some more muttering, followed by the sound of a sharp smack of a hand against skin, and Bailey's yelp of surprise. "Are you serious?" Nathan shouted, looking up at the balcony, which housed the bedroom, and spanned the width of the apartment. He wasn't sure why, but the invitation was enticing. "Sure, come on up and get naked." "Riley?" Nathan yelled. "S'okay with you?" "You bet! No reason you shouldn't have some fun, too." "No touching or anything like that, okay? We'll just shoot a load?" Nathan asked, wondering what it'd be like to watch his brother. 'I've seen Riley hard, hundreds of times,' he thought, as he pushed himself out of the large armchair, 'just like he has me. It's no big deal, since we look almost the same. But, we've never watched one another shoot.' The thought sent a surprisingly erotic thrill through Nathan's body. 'I don't want to have sex with him,' he quickly told himself. 'That'd be too-weird-for-words. Watching him n' Bailey though, and having them watch me . . . that'd be awesome.' Halfway up the stairs, Nathan paused, questioning what he was about to do. 'Why am I so excited? I mean, these are guys I'm going to be masturbating in front of . . . GUYS, and one of 'em's my freakin' brother! I don't know anyone who does this sort'a thing.' He adjusted his erection, which threatened to escape through his highly . . . distressed . . . shorts, and finished climbing the last few steps. The bedroom, basically the entire second floor of the apartment, overlooked the living room, and the city lights beyond. The room, the enormous bed, and its occupants, were lit by the city lights. Riley and Bailey were leaning against the headboard, pillows at their back, their erections clearly visible between their spread legs. "C'mon, Nathan, strip-off. There's no reason to be shy. You've got a great body." "Shy?" Nathan laughed. "You talkin' 'bout me?" "Yeah, I forgot about those shorts you're wearing. I've never seen a piece of clothing with so many holes. I didn't know you don't wear underwear, or that you clip your pubes so short. Y'can see 'em through one of the holes, y'know." Nathan leaned forward to look at himself. "When you're wearing something that's about to fall apart 'cause'a the holes, and you don't wear any underwear, you've gotta expect a guy to look," Riley laughed. "I think they're sexy," Bailey added, as he slowly stroked his erection. "I especially like seeing the dark hair between your butt cheeks." "Y'like what you see, do you?" Nathan stepped closer to the bed, going into full-exhibitionist mode. He skinned out of his tight T-shirt, and tossed it aside, then ran his hands over his chest, and beneath the loose waistband of the shorts. "So . . . y'guys wanna beat off?" He cupped his nuts and thickening erection. "I've always thought it'd be hot to have people watch me as they masturbate." "Yeah," Bailey responded, totally caught up in Nathan's performance. "Bailey thinks my butt's sexy," he said, in a low voice, as he turned around and pulled the waistband of his shorts down far enough to display the top of the cleft between his ass cheeks. He looked over his shoulder, and rubbed a hand over one of the firm mounds of muscle. He grinned over his shoulder, and slapped an ass cheek, then responded to Bailey's whistle by shaking his hips. "If you guys want to see how I like to masturbate, you'll have to make room for me on the bed. I like to fuck the bed, then get the sheets all sticky. After I've squirmed around in my juice, I like to rub my nose in it and lick the bed clothes clean, slurping up my own stuff." "You're not getting my sheets all sticky," Bailey protested. "You can do that in the spare bedroom. Instead, why don't you shoot on your brother and me." "Then lick it off," Riley added, with an evil laugh. "Okay," he quickly added, "no touching, though I wouldn't mind having you lick your own stuff off me." When Nathan frowned, Riley conceded. "What about if we shoot our loads on you?" "I like the idea of shooting on you better," Nathan said, as he slipped out of his shorts and climbed onto the high bed. "Then, you guys can wipe off what I shoot, and lick your fingers clean." He looked from one man to the other. "Y'like the idea of tasting your little brother's sperm, Riley?" he asked, as he knelt between his brother and Bailey. "I shoot big loads," he murmured, putting on a show for the two men in front of him, as he ran both hands over his own chest and belly, before cupping his scrotum with one hand and holding the base of his erection with the other. "Y'like the thought of tasting my dick-juice?" 'Geez, I'm really getting into this,' Nathan thought, as he knelt between the two men and rested on his heels. 'Dick juice? Where'd I come up with that?' "Y'never thought you'd get to taste my stuff, did you?" he murmured, as he rubbed a finger over the end of his erection, wiping off the pre-cum. He looked at the glistening finger, then offered it to his brother to lick. Without hesitating, Riley sucked on the finger. "You're next," Nathan grinned at Bailey. He pulled his finger free of his brother's mouth, and squeezed his erection along its length, producing another thick dollop of clear liquid, which he offered to Bailey, just as he had his brother. Bailey leaned forward and eagerly sucked on the finger, while Riley studied his brother. Nathan was a slender man with short, dark, spiky hair, pale skin, and perpetually rosy cheeks. His dark pubes were trimmed short, as was the narrow trail of hair leading to his navel. His smile was beautiful. 'An orthodontist's poster boy,' Riley thought, then remembered that his brother had never been subjected to the tortures of an orthodontist. "Aw geez," he sighed, as his brother began to slowly stimulate himself. "This is friggin' hot." Nathan's eyes were closed, as he alternated between masturbating, and fondling his hairless scrotum. As Bailey watched, a thick strand of pre-cum dangled from the head of his cock, which Nathan gathered and spread over his penis, as he worked it. Riley groaned with pleasure, teasing himself, and never taking his eyes off his brother. 'They're so much the same,' Bailey thought, glancing from one man to the other. 'Riley is a little bigger guy than Nathan, and slightly more hairy. Nathan doesn't have Riley's captivating eyes, or the same sensuous lips, but, otherwise, there's no doubt they are brothers. Their dicks are twins of one another's, and they even play with themselves in the same way, slowly masturbating, while they work their nuts or tease a nipple. I wonder if Nathan would like to have his asshole licked, as much as his brother.' Bailey grinned, imagining mashing his face between the butt cheeks of both brothers, as they lay on their backs, side-by-side. As he and Riley watched, Nathan began making low groaning sounds. His eyes were closed, so he didn't see his brother catch a swinging strand of pre-cum and suck his own finger. 'I wonder what Riley's thoughts are, watching his brother. Is this the start of a relationship similar to that of Owen and Jonah's?' Bailey smiled, intrigued by the possibilities of seeing Riley and his brother make love. 'Ever since he arrived, Nathan has been adamant that he's not gay, but I can't imagine a straight guy getting off so much, having two guys watch while he masturbates. Still, not all brothers get off having sex with each other.' "Oh yeah," Nathan murmured, as the slow hand motions up and down his own erection had taken on a squishy sound. He glanced toward his brother, then moved closer, straddling one of Riley's outstretched legs. "C'mon, Nathan," Riley murmured. "Shoot for us. I wanna taste your stuff." Nathan's groans grew louder. He thrust his hips forward, just as his cock erupted, splashing a trail of jiz over his brother's lower stomach, pubes, cock, and balls. Riley scooped up some of his brother's sperm and spread it over his lips, then used some more as lube. "Aw fuck," he groaned, as he coated his cock with the warm liquid and, after only a few strokes, added his own juice to his brother's. "C'mon, Bailey," Nathan murmured, with a mischievous glance. He scooped up some of his and Riley's sperm and, breaking his own rule about not touching one another, grasped Bailey's erection, spreading the thick liquid along its length. "Shoot a load for Riley n'me." Aw fuck," Nathan groaned, aloud, as he watched Riley twist onto his stomach and mash his open mouth against Bailey's, as he humped the bed, no doubt leaving a sticky mess on the bed sheets. After only a few strokes of his hand, Bailey's cock erupted with two strong blasts of sperm, one of which splashed against Nathan's thigh. At a slight nudge from Riley, Bailey opened his eyes, and saw Nathan rubbing his fingers through the liquid on his thigh. He examined his wet fingers, then tentatively licked one of them. He paused, as if analyzing the taste, then looked at his brother, with a sheepish grin. "Tastes different from mine," he said, a moment before he licked his hand clean. "I told you I'm not shy," he chuckled, as he scraped the remainder of Bailey's load from his thigh and licked his fingers, then playfully slapped his brother's leg. "When are we gonna do this again?" * * * "Damn!" Gustav Winton swore, narrowly missing his associate, Bryant Mitchell, as he tossed his cell phone across the room. "Well . . ." He flopped back into his office chair and heaved a disgusted sigh. "You can stop searching for Branson. I've just been told he's in the hands of the FBI, and has taken complete records of bank accounts, and who knows what else, with him, when he ran. Apparently, he's moaning and groaning about how I took advantage of him and made him do things he didn't want to do. . . . The fuckin' bastard!" Bryant Mitchell slammed his hand onto the arm of the chair. "Damn! I have a crew ready to go to the apartment we traced him to. I don't suppose there's much likelihood he would have left something behind." Gustav Winton snorted. "Fat chance! The FBI have probably gone over every inch of the place." "What about his wife . . . children? Can they be used to apply any leverage?" "The wife left him years ago, and the children are scattered to the four corners of the globe. He doesn't have so much as a fuckin' dog we can terrorize! Damn it!" Gustav bellowed. "I want to kill something. I want to make someone suffer!" Mitchell remained silent, lest his boss hurl something else across the room . . . something more dangerous than a cell phone. * * * "So . . . Mister Elledge . . . " Lance Benham, lead attorney for Pruitt Builders, and head of the law firm Franklin hired to replace the Winton firm, said, as he leaned back in his chair, overwhelmed with the amount of information the man had provided. "It seems to me that Mister Winton and Mrs. Pruitt have their hands into just about every sort of unsavory endeavor there is." He thought a moment, looking toward the office ceiling. "The only things we haven't heard of them being involved with," he said, with some exasperation, "is illegal drug smuggling, or dealing in human slavery. Am I right?" he asked. "They may have been involved in those things, sir. However, I have no knowledge of it." Lance Benham smiled. "I was joking, Mister Elledge." "Sir . . . with all due respect, I was not." Branson Elledge continued. "They could very well have been involved in those things, and much more, of which I'm not aware. If the things they were doing didn't appear in the accounting end of things, I would not have been aware of their doings. However, what is the most important thing to me, gentlemen, is that the Pruitt boys, and their father, be protected. "One of the last things I learned before I left . . . the thing which caused me to leave, actually, was that Mrs. Pruitt paid Mister Winton a great deal of money to hire people to kill all her sons. I was part of that conversation, because Mister Winton wanted my opinion on how she had managed to conceal such a large sum from the FBI, when they froze everyone's accounts. Mrs. Pruitt also wanted Mister Winton to help her secure people who would kill Mister Pruitt. I was not privy to any of the plans for either effort, though I am confident plans were being made. "I would expect that, with my departure, those plans may have altered, but I wouldn't count on them being abandoned. The young men, and their father, are all in grave danger. As I said, concern for the young men and their father, is the primary reason I turned myself in . . . well . . . that, and being exhausted, and tired of running," he sighed. "I wanted to do something to possibly atone for some of my misdeeds." "You mentioned all of her sons, Mister Elledge," one of the agents from the FBI, who was sitting nearby, asked. "Mrs. Pruitt had only three sons, one of whom was involved in that plane crash in Berlin." Attorney Elledge shrugged. "I don't know the significance of the word, sir, only that she and Mister Winton always referred to all of her sons. So, those are the words I am using. I expect they were referring to Kirby, Riley, and Nathan as a group." * * * "Hillsboro," Corey said, turning to Jonah, as they left the small town's main street, walking side-by-side, down a gravel road which sliced through the forest. "When I lived here, I had nothing to compare it with. Now," he snorted an amused laugh, "I have both the city, and Riverton. This place looks pretty dismal by comparison to either." "It's wet," Jonah countered. "Most things don't look their best when they're dripping and soggy." He looked up through a break in the canopy of trees, toward a leaden sky. "Besides, it's sort'a chilly." He shivered. "I should have brought a jacket along." Suddenly, his eyes widened as he studied the clouds more closely. "Hey, d'you think we might see some snow? I've always wanted to see snow." Corey laughed. "No, no snow. That most likely won't happen for a month or so. Then," he emphasized the word, "the place really looks forlorn." The two men lapsed into silence, as the gravel crunched beneath their shoes. Jonah was entranced by the ground fog which hugged the empty fields. Beyond the fields, the tree-covered mountains were not much more than shadows, seen through the heavy mists. The air was quiet, lacking the constant chatter of birds to which Jonah was accustomed. Instead, the only sound was that of his and Corey's footsteps, and the occasional splat of water as it hit the bill of Jonah's ever-present baseball cap. "You can do it," he said, when Corey's already-slow pace slowed even further. He turned to his friend and rubbed a hand over his back. "You've come this far, Cor. Give them a chance to welcome you. Make peace with the past." "But, what if they . . ." Corey looked at Jonah through eyes which remembered the past. "Shhh. We'll cross that bridge if need be. Right now, all you need to think about is being positive. Don't meet them with a chip on your shoulder, expecting them to make amends for their past behavior. Give them a chance. They may surprise you. Give yourself a chance." Jonah took his lover's hand, and lowered his voice. "You need to know, Corey. You need to move on, one way or another. The worst that can happen is what you've already experienced. The best, though, would mean you will now have a family. Corey," he tightened his grasp. "It's worth the chance. You have to know. You have to." "They were awful, Jonah. All my life they were awful." "I know. And, they may still be. I'm thinking, though, that now that a few years have passed, maybe they've had a chance to rethink things. If they haven't, we'll deal with it, but don't shout at 'em, no matter what. You're not here to make 'em feel guilty. If they behave badly, you've given 'em a last chance to know you. If they behave well, you may be able to establish a . . . friendship. I'm not askin' you to forget what they did; just do your best to forgive. Put it all behind you and give both yourself, and them, a chance." Corey nodded, his face assuming a determined expression. "You and Owen are quite a pair, y'know," he muttered. "You both seem so . . . grounded." He turned. "Where'd you get all this knowledge? How do you both know exactly what's the right thing to say?" Jonah shrugged and laughed. "Both he n' I make it up as we go." Corey snorted a laugh, and responded to Jonah's gentle pressure on his back to continue walking. In the distance, the low rumble of thunder echoed between the tree-covered hills. Corey stopped, took a deep breath, and nodded to the left fork in the road. There was a well-maintained gravel drive leading to a pale yellow clapboard house with a white-painted porch, very similar to the one Jonah had grown up in. The smell of wood smoke hung on the damp air, carrying with it the smell of something baking. They slowly approached the house, climbed the three steps, and paused in front of the closed door. Corey heaved a deep breath. "I hope I won't regret what I'm about to do," he murmured, then seemed to steel himself before he knocked on the door. There was the sound of a woman's voice inside . . . the door opened, then there was silence. "Mama?" Corey managed, his voice rough with suppressed emotion, which threatened to overwhelm him. Jonah stepped closer, hoping Corey would recognize his support, even if they weren't touching. The slender woman's hand flew to her mouth, her eyes widening in surprise. "Oh, my lord!" she managed, on an exhaled breath. "Corey?" she asked, in a voice barely above a whisper, raising fingertips to touch the screen of the door in front of her, drinking in the sight of her son. Her voice caught. "My baby boy!" Corey stepped aside, as his mother hurriedly opened the screen door. She reached up and ran fingers over his tanned jaw, leaving behind a faint tracing of flour, from something she'd been doing in the kitchen. "It's really you. I'm not dreaming." "It's me, Mama," Corey husked. "Am I welcome?" "Oh, my baby," she said, bursting into tears, throwing herself at her son and wrapping her arms around his waist, as she buried her face against his neck. "Of course, you're welcome. Your father and I . . . we never thought to see you again, after we'd driven you away." Corey bit his lower lip, unable to blink away the tears, and held his mother close for the very first time in his life. The slender woman turned and shouted over her shoulder. "Ben, come quick; it's Corey; he's come home!" A man, from the look of him, obviously Corey's father, ran into the room, in stocking feet. "What?" he asked, skidding to a stop behind his wife. He drank in his son's appearance, his mouth soundlessly working. Finally, he held out his arms, as he looked at his son through a watery blur. "Son," he croaked. "Be welcome." "Ohhh," Corey moaned, releasing his mother and throwing himself into his father's embrace, then including his mother, as they all cried. "I've missed you all so much," Corey finally managed. "But, . . . oh," he said, recalling Jonah, who was looking on, wiping his own eyes with a crisp white handkerchief. Corey turned and held out a hand, drawing Jonah forward. "Mama, Dad, I want you to meet the person who's responsible for me being here today. This is Jonah. He . . . he . . ." Corey hesitated. "He's wonderful. Jonah, these are my parents, Wilma, and Ben." "Welcome, Jonah," Wilma said, enclosing his hand in both of hers, then apologizing for the flour. "Welcome, and . . . thank you. From the bottom of my heart. Thank you, for giving us a chance to make amends." "And from me, too, son," Ben said, swiping at his eyes, then shaking Jonah's hand. "Come in out of the wet, the both of you." He stepped aside, allowing the two young men to enter the warm house. Both slipped off their shoes, as Wilma Hatfield watched, her hands clasped before her mouth, her eyes shining, as she memorized the image of her youngest child. In the adjacent room, a newspaper lay in a heap where Ben had tossed it in his haste to get to the front door. A crackling fire played in a fireplace, while, sprawled near the hearth, a dog looked up with an expectant expression. It struggled to stand, on arthritic legs, and took a few steps to Corey, who rushed to the dog, dropped to his knees, as he wrapped his arms around the animal's neck, burying his face in the light brown fur. "Oh, Houdini," Corey cried, "what a good boy you are. You remember me, don't you?" he asked, lovingly petting the large animal who whimpered as its tail thrashed to and fro. "Come, Jonah," Corey looked up, "be known to Houdini." Jonah knelt at Corey's side, sitting back against his heels, and scratched the large dog's head, as it momentarily turned its attention from Corey to him. Finally, the dog sank to the floor, rested its head on Corey's lap, and sighed. "Houdini?" Jonah asked, watching Corey fondly pet the dog, whose eyes flicked in his direction at the mention of its name. "Like the old-time magician," Corey explained, not taking his eyes away from the dog. "He always disappeared whenever it was time for a bath," Corey explained. "The dog, not the magician," he grinned. At the word 'bath', Houdini raised his head and gave Corey a wary look. When everyone laughed, he slowly returned his head to Corey's lap, soaking up the affection. "Have you boys eaten breakfast?" Wilma asked. "We don't want to interfere," Corey began. "We just wanted . . ." Corey saw the shifting expression of his mother's face. "No, Mama, we haven't. We wanted to come by before it started raining again." "Then you'll stay for a meal?" she asked, her eyes brightening. "We'd love to have you . . . both . . . stay. There's so much to hear." Her eyes were bright. "Both Ben and I would love to hear everything about your life." "We'd love to, Mrs. Hatfield," Jonah said, when Corey bowed his head, at a loss for words. "May I help with anything? That'll give Corey and his father a chance to visit. It looks as if Houdini's not gonna let Corey move." As Wilma and Jonah left the room, Jonah looked over his shoulder and saw Ben drag a chair close to where his son and the dog sat on the floor. Wilma turned to Jonah, as they entered the kitchen, surrounded by the smell of baking bread. "Is it true, what Corey said . . . that you're responsible for him coming home?" she asked, taking both of Jonah's hands. "Ben and I want to thank you. We . . . neither of us . . . ever expected to see our boy again." She looked aside. "I'm ashamed, Jonah, ashamed of how we treated him. He didn't do anything to deserve the treatment . . . We were terrible parents, and our little boy suffered. No matter what Ben and I were facing, with the death of Jacob, Corey's older brother . . ." Wilma paused, staring back in time. "He deserved better . . . much better. We were too wrapped up in our own grief to realize the pain he was feeling." She took a shuddering breath. "If I were him, I'm not sure I would have ever returned." "Mrs. Hatfield," Jonah interrupted, squeezing her hands, "please . . . there is no reason to torture yourself over the past. The three of you - Corey, you, and Mr. Hatfield, are being given a chance to start over. I've asked Corey not to dwell on what he can't change. Neither should you or your husband. You have a fresh chance to get to know your son. He's a good person, who loves to laugh and tell stories. He has many friends, all of whom love him and think of him as a brother. My mother thinks of him as another son. You'll be proud of him, Mrs. Hatfield. He's just graduated from college, and he's gonna be teaching school in my hometown." "College? Teaching?" Wilma murmured, looking stunned. "None of our children have gone to college." She put her hand to her mouth, a tear escaping, to leave a silvery trail over her cheek. "He has friends?" she asked, in a shaking voice . . . "and . . . your mother? I'm . . . so glad." She blotted at her face with a dishtowel, as another tear ran over her cheek. "He deserves all the happiness he can get. After all, Ben and I have given him nothing but heartache. "A new beginning, you say?" she ventured, after a brief silence, where the only sound was of Corey talking to his father. Jonah nodded. "Yes, ma'am. There isn't any need to apologize for anything. Your welcome has told Corey exactly how you feel. Build a relationship from there. "Corey has always loved it here." Jonah grinned. "His three prized possessions are one of Houdini's dog collars; a painting he did as a child, of the mountains around Hillsboro, complete with mists, . . . and a photograph of you and Mister Hatfield, which sits next to the bed, back home." "Ohhhhh," Wilma could no longer control her emotions. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed. When Jonah took her in his arms, she hugged him close. "Corey means a great deal to you, doesn't he?" she asked, wiping her red-rimmed eyes, appearing embarrassed by her emotional outburst. "Yes, ma'am. I love him. He is a wonderful person." Wilma leaned close and kissed Jonah on the cheek. "I'm glad he has someone such as you and your family to show him some love. His brothers and sisters are all so much older than him . . . Then, with Ben and me so wrapped up in Jacob's death . . . Corey grew up alone." "You and Mister Hatfield will have to come out to visit sometime. Both Corey and I would love to show you around. Riverton . . . that's where we live . . . is not a whole lot larger than Hillsboro. We're not in the mountains, though." He looked around, as if looking at the mountains surrounding the house. "This is all so beautiful. It's so different from what I'm used to. "You have to forgive me," he blushed, "my brother, Owen and I, have always been known for talkin' too much and freely giving our advice whether it's been asked for or not. I hope I haven't offended." "Of course not!" Wilma wiped her eyes, then turned, suddenly business like. "We best get busy. Corey and his father will be expecting breakfast soon. Will you set the table?" She pointed to the cabinet. "The dishes are in there." As Jonah took four plates to the table, he overheard Wilma say to herself, "A new beginning . . . imagine." * * * "Well . . . when are they going to do it?" Elizabeth asked, sarcastically. "I'm not paying you jokers to sit around and play cards, or whatever! I'm paying you to kill the man. When's it gonna happen? I want him dead, and the sooner, the better! So far, I've received nothing for my money." "Madam, I would advise you to let us do our job, and not assume that we are . . . playing cards." There was a pregnant pause. "I would also urge you to not shout at me. Remember, my dear woman. I, and my men, are the ones with the guns, and you are the one . . . without. Do I make myself clear? If we wanted to kill you, you wouldn't even know what happened. Or, if we wanted to make you squirm, we could play with you, much as a cat does with its prey. Then . . . whenever it suited us, you would . . . die." "Are you having someone follow me . . . breaking into my apartment and leaving nasty notes, threatening to do what you just said?" "Not I," the old man cackled, an asthmatic sound coming from parched lips. "You're a no one. Why would anyone want to spend hard earned money to eliminate you? Ignoring you is much easier."
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