No Witnesses
By Sean Baron
“Down in the Dirt” writing
Frank opened the door.
Standing on his front porch were two crisp young men in their early twenties, each wearing nearly identical black suits, each wearing nearly identical expressions on their faces. Frank only needed to give his visitors a cursory glance to know who they were and what they wanted. There was no need for introductions and Frank made no attempt at being polite.
“Sorry.” He said, already pushing the door closed. “Not interested.”
Frank sighed and returned his attention to the Swanson dinner that sat cooling on the kitchen counter next to a half empty bottle of Rolling Rock. Leave it to the fucking Moonies to ruin a good meal, he thought, taking a swig of the beer and jabbing a fork into a piece of processed turkey.
Had Rachel still been alive, she would have scoffed at his fondness for frozen cuisine. She had been the stereotypical perfect wife and mother, never settling for convenience over nutrition and taste. In the seven years of marriage before her death, Frank had never once come home from work to find his dinner waiting for him in a black plastic tray.
Since her accident, however, Frank had come to not only rely on the microwavable meals, but to relish them. He had, in fact, become somewhat of a coinsurer and, to his daughter’s dismay, favored the Swanson meals over the other, more expensive brands.
Marci preferred the dinners he actually cooked with the stove, but these came seldom and were usually limited to weekends when their schedules were not so hectic. Frank had cooked more frequently when Marci was still small, but as she grew older and her extra-curricular activities had increased, he had turned to the quick fix of the frozen meal with more and more frequency.
The doorbell rang a second time, pulling Frank’s thoughts back to the here and now. He swore under his breath and set the bottle down hard before pushing another forkful of turkey into his mouth. He threw his fork down onto the counter where it clanged against the thick green glass of the beer bottle and then stepped out of the kitchen. Chewing quickly, he moved back toward the front door and swallowed the food just as his hand reached the brass knob.
By nature, Frank was a reserved and mild mannered individual, but seeing the same two men still on his front porch angered him. What right did they have to badger people at dinner time anyway? Not to mention the fact that Marci, who had been cramming for the SAT exam over the past several nights, had fallen asleep almost as soon as she had gotten home from school. She had been pressing hard lately, trying to get into Northwestern, and needed the extra rest. Frank was not about to let these two ying-yangs rob her of that and he knew he had to send them on their way.
Like it or not, he could usually count on a couple of visits a year, three if the spring thaw came early, and though the faces changed, the expressions on them did not. Their eyes always held the same dull mix of hope, indifference and fear, and the suits, like those blank stares hovering above them, were always drab and ill fitting things; jackets that were too wide in the shoulder and too short in the sleeve, pants that were cinched tight at the waist and with cuffs that puddled around ankles like shedding snake skins.
He had thought about mounting one of those brass plates on his door, something that said ‘No Solicitation’ but he wondered just how much of a deterrent such a small sign could actually be. He doubted it would stop even the meekest of salesmen, and the effort would end in vain. He would still get calls from college kids selling magazines, he would still hear from the local Kirby dealer with the newest innovations in vacuum technology, and he would still come home to find a little bit of God’s word tucked neatly in the handle of his screen door.
The two before him now were not selling vacuums, or magazine subscriptions, or even all purpose cleaner, and he didn’t see any pamphlets in hand, but they were salesmen just the same. That these two were peddling faith or selling little slices of the afterlife instead of some kind of wonder gel, did not separate them from the pack.
‘Holy Rollers’ had been what his mother had called them, and most who came into Matheson were either missionaries from the Evangelical Brotherhood up in Elgin or Moonies from farther up North. He had not known much about these people until later in life, but as a small boy, just starting to explore the boundaries of his back yard, his mother would often use them to keep him in line. “Don’t leave the yard!” She would cry from the kitchen window. “The Moonies will get you.”
A more complete explanation was never offered and Frank’s imagination had conjured up the definition of a Moonie to be a wild mix of Neanderthal like caveman and Count Dracula. The resulting creature was a feral monstrosity, albeit a well dressed one, and haunted Frank’s dreams for years. This was, of course, what his mother had hoped for and although it was sort of a terrible thing to do to a child, she had meant well. At least, that’s what Frank told himself.
Over the past few years, he had developed two pretty good defenses against the door knockers themselves. The first was to simply not answer the bell when it rang. The second was to slam the door shut as quickly and as bluntly as possible. Both were simple techniques and quite effective against a wide variety of salesmen, but Frank liked the latter approach best. He knew from experience that once you let one of these hawkers get started, stopping the flow of drivel was next to impossible.
Frank looked at the two men briefly, then muttered under his breath. “Jesus Fucking Christ.” He said, and started to close the door.
The two men glanced at each other only briefly before returning their attention to Frank. Neither of the men were taken aback or even seemed surprised by Frank’s blasphemy, in fact it was the greeting they seemed most accustomed to. Anything less than outright rejection at this point in the game would have been cause for alarm.
The man to Frank’s left spoke quickly, before the door closed. “Don’t you even want to know which church we’re with?” He asked.
Frank paused, then shook his head and brought his hands up, palms out. “It doesn’t really matter.” He said, and started to close the door again. Typically, this was enough to dispel your ordinary Faith Disciple or whatever they were calling themselves, and send them off to the neighbor’s house at a pretty good clip. And, as expected, the younger of the two men did step back, shrinking away from the slamming door with the pain of yet another rejection etched clearly on his face.
The older one however, the leader as Frank would come to think of him, was moving forward quickly, his right hand reaching into his plain black suit jacket while his left foot kicked the closing door back open.
“Oh, but it does matter.” The leader said, grinning as he stepped through the open door into Frank’s house. “In fact, it matters a whole lot more than you think, sinner!”
Frank stepped back quickly and almost stumbled over the ottoman that always seemed to scoot itself away from his easy chair. He regained his balance and then nearly fell again as the man Frank had mistaken for a Moonie pulled a handgun from the inside of his jacket and pointed it at him. The younger man followed his partner into the house and quickly closed the door behind him. When Frank saw that this man, too, had produced a weapon, a sawed off shotgun, he knew he and Marci were in serious trouble. Plain black suits or not, these were not your ordinary Bible Slingers.
“Jesus, just what the fuck is going on here?” Frank asked.
“You tell us Frankie.” The younger man said. “What do you think is going on?”
“I don’t know,” Frank replied. “You looking for donations are something?”
“No, Frank.” The older one said. “We’re not looking for donations and we’re not here to invite you to a bake sale.”
“Well what do you want?” Frank asked. “And how do you know my name?”
“Listen Frank, time is short, and we can’t spend all day answering your stupid questions.” The leader said. “Do you believe me Frank, that time is short?”
At the moment Frank didn’t know what he believed, but he nodded just the same. His mind was scrambling for a way out of this, for some way to keep Marci out of harm’s way, but so far he had come up empty, and the best he could do was to agree to whatever these two said and hope that Marci did not wake up.
“Well, that’s good, because time is short Frank, your time as well as ours. And because time is so short, we’ve had to improvise our recruitment methods. Do you follow me?” The leader asked.
Frank nodded.
“Good!” He said. “Very good. Now Frank, listen closely to this next question, because I’m only going to ask you one time.”
“Ok,” Frank said.
“The way we see things Frank, is that there are only two types of people left in the world, those that are with us and those that are against us. Do you understand so far?”
Frank nodded as his eyes darted back and forth between the two men.
“Good.” The leader said. “Now, my question to you is simple. Are you with us Frank, or are you against us?”
Frank stared at the barrel of the gun and thought deeply about the question and how he was supposed to answer it. He wasn’t necessarily against these religious fanatics, but he sure as hell wasn’t one of them either. He could not for the life of him imagine going door to door spouting drivel about the end times or trying to siphon money from the senile elderly. Still, he needed to answer the question.
“IÉIÉIÉdon’t know.” Frank stammered.
The leader pulled on the slide of the pistol, chambering a round while the younger man pumped the shotgun.
“Wait!” Frank said. “I’m with you, I’m with you. Jesus pleasus, just don’t shoot me!” To his horror, Frank found himself quite glad that his wife was dead and that she would not have to suffer through this ordeal or witness his cowardice.
“What do you think Paul? Is he telling the truth?” The leader asked.
Frank looked at the younger man, Paul, his eyes pleading, but Paul only shrugged. “Hard to say, John.”
“Well, I think he’s lying, and whoever heard of a disciple named Frank anyway?” John said and then pulled the trigger.
Frank’s eyes widened in surprise, but he felt no pain as the bullet penetrated his skull just behind his right temple. The sound was excruciating however, and Frank thought he could hear each splinter of bone tear away from his skull and bore its way into his brain. Frank fell backward, his vision fading quickly to a dull black, and for the last time, he thought about Marci and hoped she was still sleeping.
John holstered the pistol, a Glock nine millimeter that he had stolen from an old man in Flint, Michigan late last year, and then turned to Paul. “So, who lives next door?” He asked. “Anybody worth saving?”
“Michael Sanderson and Tiffiny Smith.” Paul said, grinning. “Unmarried couple, been living together in sin for three years, but don’t you think we should check the rest of the house?”
“Nah.” John said. “There’s no one else here. Let’s go next door and spread a bit more of the word. I want to get to the end of the block before nightfall.”
A board creaked somewhere above them and they paused.
“On the other hand,” John said. “A quick look upstairs wouldn’t hurt.”
