No Peace for the Damned

Indianapolis. The city was alive, vibrating with people. Renovations were everywhere: the Circle Center mall, the convention center, the historic circled street that anchored the city. And with Lucas Oil Stadium having just hosted the Super Bowl, the place was busier than ever. It was awesome, exciting, and I loved it whenever Thirteen brought me here.
    Unfortunately, the Network’s southwest headquarters were
not
downtown. Not even close.
    I followed Thirteen’s car nearly fifteen miles before turning off the highway. The occasional cookie-cutter neighborhood sprouted up to separate one long cornfield from the next, but that was it. Eventually we were so far out that the faded green street signs no longer posted street names, only county grid numbers. We turned from E 450 to S 900, and then onto a road that didn’t even have a number to post.
    Masses of spindly weeds covered the uncultivated land. Thirteen’s car turned sharply.
Crap! Was he driving into that field?
Then I saw the imprinted path. Tractors might have ridden on the trail just fine, but there was no way my week-old BMW was going to survive this. The steering wheel jerked as I dipped into the field.
Shit!
    The trail disappeared into the cover of woods at the edge of the field. From the jerks of the tires I figured we were on gravel now. Off in the distance, between the thinning trees, I caught the gleam of white siding.
    The gravel trail snaked past a thick grouping of fir trees, and I could make out a clearing up ahead. Thin grass stretched in a nice open yard before the small home in the distance. It looked pleasant. Quaint.
    I imagined driving up to my family’s estate. Past the guards and the glowing stone wall, the main house would shine with its golden bricks and enormous windows. The home was stunning. Just thinking about it made my stomach roll.
    I parked in the grass next to Thirteen’s SUV and watched as he and Banks walked toward the front porch. I turned off the engine but didn’t move. Up close, I could see that the chipped clay roof tiles had run and stained the worn siding. Someone, probably Thirteen, had put a pot of perennials on the cement steps leading up to the wraparound porch, no doubt trying to make it more welcoming.
    It wasn’t much at all. But it was mine.
    Shane had been the one to donate the old farmhouse to the Network, as well as the nearly three hundred acres surrounding it. It had been left to him a couple of years ago, after his parents died. I knew from Thirteen that it was just one of several private donations that helped keep the Network staffed and operational over the years.
    I peeled myself from the car and hauled out my black backpack from the backseat. I threw the bag over my shoulder and walked the broken stone path around to the front of the house.
    Banks winked at me as he held open the metal screen door. I stepped past him into the tight entryway. A large great room ran the length of the house to my left, furnished with a couple of tattered, oversized couches and several worn ottomans. The far end of the great room opened into the kitchen, complete with yellow flowered wallpaper and cobwebs that had been there since disco. A thick wooden table was centered in the small room, making it nearly impossible to walk through. Off the kitchen, a narrow corridor led to the only bedroom in the house. A tiny full bathroom, a back door to the rear acres, and a narrow stair to the second story loft completed the home. There was no basement.
    I looked out the tiny window over the kitchen sink. The sun shone brightly in my eyes until I had to turn away. Curtains. After I doused the whole place in bleach, I’d have to get new curtains for the little window. And maybe some for the windows in the great room, too. Nice curtains. Yellow ones. And maybe a throw pillow. Nothing with fringe and tassels like the ones on every freaking sofa at the estate. But cute ones. With flowers. Slowly, I felt a smile tug at my lips. Wonder if the bedroom needed curtains too?
    Thirteen and Banks talked quietly in the kitchen while I explored.
    “…should have the rest of the report by next week. I want you on the call when it arrives so we can make a decision and get everyone moving as quickly as possible. Assuming, of course, it gives us information to move on. I just hope it’s not too late.”
    I walked back to the kitchen, and Thirteen turned to me and smiled. “Not a lot to it, but it’s safe and it’s yours.”
    “For