One
“WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT THE LETTER?” THE VOICE on the phone demanded. “If it fell into the wrong hands, it could cost us millions!”
“I shredded it,” the man sitting behind the expensive desk replied without emotion.
“Did anyone on your staff see it?”
“No. I open my own mail.”
“But he could still talk.”
“Of course, or send a letter to someone else. But I have a plan, and when I’m finished, no one will believe anything he says. It’s not going to be an issue.”
“You’d better be right. That’s why you’re in this deal—to make sure everything goes smoothly on the local front. How is our friend in Raleigh doing?”
“Ahead of schedule. But he’s low on cash.”
“Again? That was quick.”
“It doesn’t take long when you have his habits. He wants to see you.”
“Okay, buy him a plane ticket, but I’m going to lower his limit.”
“Not too much, or I’ll have to give him a raise on this end.”
SAM MILLER DID SOME OF HIS BEST WORK WHILE ASLEEP. SEVERAL nights each week, he had night visions more vivid than movies and spiritual dreams so real he could smell the fragrance of heaven. Muriel never stirred. She had to get her rest so she could fix his breakfast. Sam’s lawncare equipment ran on gasoline; he needed eggs, sausage, and biscuits with gravy before facing another day.
Sam rolled over and opened his blue eyes. He ran his hand over his closely cropped white hair and reached for the tattered notebook on the nightstand beside the bed. Some of the pages listed information about customers: the Smiths wanted their grass cut and patio edged before a party on Friday night, the Blevinses had decided to plant day lilies along the back of their property line. Other sheets recorded what Sam had seen and heard during the night: faces of people who lived in Shelton with diverse needs that ranged from salvation for a wayward child to money for an overdue car payment. Several pages contained crude drawings of strange images without easy interpretation. Notes, questions, and Bible verses filled the margins.
Beside the notebook was a picture of Sam and Muriel taken forty-three years earlier. It was their second wedding anniversary. Sam, wearing his Marine Corps dress uniform, stood unsmiling and stern next to his short, curly-haired wife. The soldier in the photo didn’t have the large, round belly of the man in the bed nor the twinkle that lit his blue eyes. Those changes came later. Muriel’s light brown hair remained curly and her figure trim, but her tanned face was now lined with wrinkles that were the road map to a hundred different ways to smile.
Sam sat up and rested his feet on the threadbare rug that covered part of the bedroom floor. He opened the notebook to a blank page. At the top he wrote the date and the words Within three months you’ll see your son. He shuffled into the living room. Family photos on the walls recorded the life of Matthew Miller from cradle to manhood.
Tragedy was no stranger to the Miller family. Matthew, an Army medic, had died in Somalia. His pictures stopped with a grainy photo taken at dusk in front of a field hospital. Mountains without trees rose in the background.
Sam went into the kitchen and looked out the window above the sink. Muriel could wash a fifty-cent plastic plate and enjoy a million-dollar view. Their small house rested atop a knoll positioned like a step stool before the Blue Ridge Mountains. In the early light, Sam could see heavy frost on the grass and wispy ice on the trees in the distance. He leaned over and smelled the crisp morning air through a narrow gap at the bottom of the window. Weather ruled his business, and winter’s schedule was less rigorous. When spring arrived, daffodils would jump out of the ground in clumps of yellow celebration all across the backyard, and Sam would be out the door to greet them with the first rays of the sun.
Sam always made the morning coffee. He could drink it strong and black, but Muriel liked it so diluted with milk and sugar that it could be served to a child. Sam made the coffee weak. Later, he’d get a strong cup at the Minute Market. The coffee started dripping into the pot, and he returned to the bedroom. Muriel was out of bed and wrapped in her housecoat. Sam leaned over and kissed the top of her head. She responded by patting him on his fuzzy right cheek.
“It’s time for my bear to come out of hibernation,” she said. “Are you going to shave this morning?”
“Yep, then take tomorrow off before church on Sunday.”
SAM SHOWERED AND SCRAPED HIS CHIN FREE OF STUBBLE. Buttoning his shirt, he could smell the sausage in the skillet. Muriel rarely bought sausage at the store; she canned it fresh each fall like her mother and grandmother before her. Sam didn’t raise pigs, but he knew a man who did. Homemade sausage seasoned with the perfect blend of sage and pepper couldn’t be compared to meat from a factory wrapped in a plastic tube. The smoky smell of sausage in the skillet reminded Sam of boyhood breakfasts cooked on an open fire in the woods. His stomach rumbled in anticipation.