Blake’s phone vibrated. He looked and saw a 404 area code. Shit! He said to himself. He exhaled deeply and then answered the phone.

“Blake, Clint Justice again. I have spoken with Nick Vegas and I need to come visit with you.” Clint hadn’t spoken with Nick again, but he would. Something hadn’t smelled right to Clint with Blake’s story and he felt it was important to meet him right away.

“Okay,” Blake said after a pause. “What for? When?”

“Now,” Clint said. “I’m already on my way. Just passing Gainesville.”

“NOW!” Blake said as he kicked the barstool out and stood. “Are you crazy? You seen the weather?”

“I’m on my way, Mr. Savage. Should be at your house in a little over an hour.” Clint hung up. He had pulled over at a gas station at the Mall of Georgia exit on interstate 985. He hadn’t passed Gainesville yet, as he told Blake. He should have by now, but the winds were already steady at over 60 MPH in Buford and getting worse.

“This is crazy,” Clint thought. He put the car in gear and continued north. It was crazy but he thought it would be easier to pressure Blake into the truth than Nick, and Clint always birddogged the truth.

Blake threw down a few bucks to pay for his tea and headed to the door. “Heading out, Blake?” the bartender said. “He’s calling an audible,” one of the customers yelled as he lifted his beer into a salute. “Good call, Blake!” Blake ignored both men and pushed through the door, missing the text that began scrolling along the bottom of the CNN screen.

“Anthrax claims sixth victim in Miami. Jackson Memorial Hospital has yet to release the woman’s name.”

Thick, tropical storm conditions had already settled in on Rabun County and the rain came down in sheets. The air was heavy and humid even with the wind blowing steadily out of the south at close to 60 MPH. Blake drove east down Warwoman Road, normally a lush, peaceful drive. Now, wipers couldn’t clear the water from the windshield as angry trees swayed violently on each side of the narrow, two-lane blacktop. Blake widened his eyes to concentrate as he gripped the wheel firmly. He slowed to ten miles per hour as he snaked around a series of hairpin turns that he often navigated while pretending to be an Indy driver. The temptation was nearly irresistible to look at the trees above, to be prepared to dodge if they plummeted in his direction. He fought the temptation and resisted looking down the ravines to his right or up the steep banks to his left. He knew that many of those timber skyscrapers would lose their grip on the mountain if the wind and rain kept up like this.

Blake turned left on Hale Ridge and began his ascent. The close call from earlier in the day leapt out and took center stage in his consciousness. He drove slowly right in the center of the road, praying that he would meet no fool crazy enough to descend the mountain in these conditions. Autumn leaves fell as fast as the raindrops and clung to his windshield under his wiper blades. He resisted the temptation, barely, to look up at the trees that threatened to crash on his truck and smash him into the wet surface.

Finally, he came to his driveway and turned in, suddenly hitting the brakes and pausing to think. He put the truck into park and jumped out. Rainy bullets pelted his face as he leaned his shoulder into the 4x4 mailbox post until it wriggled free in the wet ground. When it did, he wrapped his arms around it, pulled the mailbox out of the ground and threw it in the back of the truck, taking with him the only indicator marking the entrance to 13 Hale Ridge.

Looking like a golden retriever climbing out of a dirty pond, Blake bolted into the kitchen at 2:00 p.m. and shook off the rain as Angelica and the girls played in the living room. “An indoor play day,” she had told them.

“Hi, honey,” she said with a tepid smile.

Blake exhaled, as if he had just successfully fled from a predator and needed to catch his breath in the safety of his den. “Hi. What are you gals up to?”

“We’re playing Connect 4,” she said. “And watching the weather.” Angelica rose and looked at Blake. “I have something for you,” she said. She walked into the kitchen out of earshot of the girls and reached on the shelf above the coat rack. She pulled down a blood-stained blue jacket and handed it to Blake.

“What−what’s this?” Blake asked, shocked to see it, but knowing full well what it was. “Where did it come from?”

Angelica looked up at him in the center of the kitchen. Just as he towered over her physically, she towered over him morally and spiritually. “Well, I can assure you that I don’t know, Blake. But I suspect you do.”

“I don’t kn−”Angelica interrupted Blake by placing her right index finger over his lips. She held his gaze sternly as she twirled her beads with her left thumb and index finger.

“He who makes it wrong must make it right, Blake. Otherwise, he will be found guilty and justice will be swift.” An image of Angelica’s grandmother flashed before her as she recalled what she had been taught about Cherokee beliefs. She repeated what she had learned to Blake. “Good is rewarded, Blake. Evil is punished.”

Blake stared at his wife as she circled him, keeping her touch on his shoulders and catching his gaze each time she fronted him. He felt lightheaded and lost his focus, forgetting for a moment where he was and feeling somewhat hypnotized. Angelica stopped before him and offered a final warning. “This jacket has a home, Blake. Someone is looking for it. Find its rightful home.” Blake stood dumbfounded with his eyes and mouth wide open. He had no idea what to say as he stood drowning in a sea of fear and confusion. He shook his head and tried feverishly to change the subject.

“I uh...I went by to see the sheriff. He had this note for you.”

Angelica took the note from Blake. She read it carefully. “Miami? Intensive care?” Angelica said. She looked up at Blake and then turned to look at the girls. “What does this mean?” she asked. Angelica knew what the message meant, but it was her habit to ask Blake what something meant, just as it was her habit to defer to him on decisions. She didn’t take responsibility for Blake’s decisions. Nor did she feel she could control them. But she could react to them and make choices consistent with her own values.

“What should we do?” she asked.

“I reckon you should call the hospital,” Blake said.

“I’ll try Rose’s cell phone first,” Angelica said. “Oh dear.” Angelica walked to the kitchen phone and lifted the receiver. Blake took off his jacket and hung it on the coat rack next to the door. She clicked the button on the wall phone several times. “Blake, there’s no dial tone.”

Blake took the phone, clicked it several times and found the same thing. “Phones are out,” he said. He looked at his cell phone. No service. That wasn’t a surprise as it was rare to get more than one or two bars in the best conditions on Hale Ridge. In this weather, no chance.

“We’ll keep trying,” he said. “It’s too dangerous to go out now and it’s gonna get a whole heap worse.”

Angelica walked to the south-facing kitchen window and stared out. A solid sheet of water cascaded slowly over the glass, giving the impression of a flowing mirage. In her mind, the sounds of the house, of the girls, and of the storm faded, and she heard nothing, only silence. She peered deeply into the mirage and saw her twin sister lying motionless as strangers loomed over her limp body. Angelica concentrated as she tried to see if Rose was lying in a bed—or in a coffin. She stared out the window as if in a trance, thumbing the beads around her neck while murmuring softly.

When a flash of lightning raced brilliantly across the sky and shattered the mirage, Angelica didn’t blink.

***

Clint saw the Dairy Queen on the left when he arrived in Clayton. He followed the directions on his navigation system, turned right, and went down Warwoman Road. Sheets of rain slammed the right side of his car as he drove east on the narrow road. Steep banks sloped down from each side. He had noticed very few cars as he came into town, although the RaceTrac station remained open.