Nothing Less of Evil

At Flint he called his journalist friend in Chicago. He was annoyed at being woken up, but once Steve explained what had happened he soon lost his anger. The friend told them to wait by the phone and he'd call back. They waited for a long twenty minutes, then the phone rang.

"I phoned my contact, and he's arranged for you to meet with these two agents from the F.B.I."

"Where do we meet?"

"Grand Rapids. There's an airfield to the south of the city. It's used for light planes and crop sprayers. It'll be closed now, but they'll meet you there."

They filled up with gas and then headed west towards Grand Rapids. They spoke now, not about what happened or about what was going to happen, but about the ones they had lost. How there was a union in shared grief; how they both seemed to understand just how the other felt. And as they reached the outskirts of Grand Rapids they both agreed that the worst part about losing someone close to you was loneliness; and that perhaps together they could help with that. They saw the sign for the airfield and turned off the highway, and drove down a laneway to a dark building that stood beside a couple of large hangers. There were two men leaning against their car that was parked outside the building. Jenny reached across and squeezed Steve's hand and he smiled at her.

One of the two men lit a cigarette, the flame illuminating his face hidden in the shadow of his fedora. He stepped forward towards them.





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