“Why! Why! Why!” Russell slumped down again on his knees next to his wife’s body and brushed away the hair from her face. His hand shook as he moved the matted tresses from her forehead. This brought the fatal wound into clear sight, and Russell, through wet eyes, looked at it closely. The wound was about the size of a quarter; yet, for the size, there was hardly any blood. His wife’s eyes were stuck open as if she had been shocked at the sight of an intruder.

After a long while he got up and went to his boys. Their bodies had fallen next to each other and the sight of both of them, dead, was more than Russell could bear. He wept. Their wounds were slightly smaller but still about the size of a nickel and they, too, did not seem to have bled. It was as if some other kind of weapon, one that Russell was not familiar with, had taken the lives of three of his family members.

There was a knock at the door. Russell looked in the direction of the door, but the door was shut so he couldn’t see who it was. The visitor knocked again after a pause and then peaked into the window next to the door, bending down to avoid a tree branch. His hand was cupped over eyes to take in what was available to see. His eyes searched the living room. He saw a couch and arm chair facing the TV on the opposite wall. Next he looked into the adjoining dining room, next to the table near the wall and saw three figures. One was Russell, like a cat, looking back at him.

“Open the door, Russell!” He paused and Russell didn’t move. “Russell! I can help you! Open the door!” Still Russell didn’t move and the visitor stepped back and then walked the length of the window toward the side of the house.

Russell heard the side door slowly open. “Russell, Russell!” the visitor said. He waited before proceeding. Russell had recognized his voice from the moment he had called his name. When he backed away from the shadows toward the side of his house, the evening sun illuminated the figure of the preacher, John Richmond.