much of the floor. An oak dresser and a battered old armoire completed the furnishings.
As she set the bags on the bed, I straightened the pictures on the walls: three faded black-and-white photographs showing children standing in army-like formations before this same farmhouse. Smiling girls wore knee-length dresses with bows in their hair; boys wore short pants and shirts with buttons, their hair buzzed so close they almost looked bald. The men behind them all wore white shirts with dark ties, and the women wore plain dresses. Dates written in the lower corners said July 13, 1961, July 8, 1962, and July 14, 1963. They had to commemorate the family gatherings Mr. Smith had disliked so much.
That would make Smith one of the boys. I studied their faces, but couldn’t pick him out—nearly identical clothes, haircuts, and suntans made him blend in among the others. Smith’s father, though, stood out among the men—shorter and darker than the others, leaner, with a somewhat sinister look in his eyes: a younger, rougher version of Mr. Smith.
“You used to have a lot of guests,” I said to Aunt Peck. “Where did you put them all?”
“Oh, we put the boys in the barn—plenty of room in the hayloft—and the girls slept in the family room. We had six bedrooms upstairs for the adults.”
“I was an only child. It must have been great to have so many family members together.”
“Oh, it was wonderful.” She sighed, eyes distant. “Those were the days.” Then she brightened. “Do you want me to unpack your things?”
“No, thank you. I can manage. I try to be self-reliant.”
“My Joshua was the same way, God rest his soul.” She started back for the kitchen. “I’ll start supper. Give a holler if you need anything.”
“Thanks.”
* * * *
I spent the next half hour unpacking. Everything Mr. Smith had purchased looked like it would fit me. With careful precision, I opened packages of socks and then refolded the contents, placing each garment neatly and precisely in the dresser drawers. Next I meticulously removed all the tags from my new shirts and hung them in the armoire. Jeans didn’t need hangers, so I stacked them in the bottom.
Mindless activities let my racing mind slow down. For a few minutes, I could forget Aunt Peck’s problems and concentrate solely on the here and now.
The last things in the suitcase turned out to be a tiny cell phone and a small but powerful flashlight, 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
