It wasn’t until Avon was in jail again that Girlie saw what it was. She had pulled the picture out after dinner, having half a mind to stick it to the fridge. Avon was gone for months, she thought. Why shouldn’t she surround herself with her family? She sat at the kitchen table, smoking a Newport. The sun had just gone down, and the sky was ruby red outside the windows. Down the hall the front door was open, letting in the sounds of kids playing in the cul-de-sac.
Girlie studied her sister’s face. Rose had always been the happy one. The optimist. And she was smiling in the photo, but there was strain behind her eyes. Light poured in from the apartment window behind her. The decorations were expensive but old, the drawn curtains a dull green, muting the shadows. Rose looked at her sister and felt a chill. She pulled her cardigan around her, her eyes moving from her sister’s face. And then she saw it in the top left corner of the frame—the photo vignetted in darkness by overexposure from the window. The camera had caught a slice of the stone mantelpiece and above it a sliver of mirror. And in that mirror was a face—old, shadowed, staring—barely visible. Once she saw it, Girlie couldn’t unsee it. A face, no bigger than a dot, a shaded oval surrounded by darkness. It was the Witch.
She was looking straight into the camera, straight at Girlie.
Girlie dropped the picture, crossed herself. Around her the sunlight had faded, and now the kitchen was dark. Girlie stood, intending to slap on the light switch, but her eyes went to the dark hall and, at the end, the open doorway. Outside the front door, the fading daylight had settled into a low blue glow.
The street was empty, silent.
Where did the children go? Why is it so quiet?
Girlie took a step toward the kitchen doorway, her hand reaching for the light, but her eyes stayed on the open door. A feeling of danger passed through her. She felt exposed, like a rabbit in its hovel when the wolves come.
Then someone passed in front of the house. A human shape, shadowy and quick, passing close to the door.
Girlie let out a shriek. She knew she should turn on the lights, but she was frozen in place. Her eyes were fixed on the open door. Close it, she thought. Don’t let her in.
She willed herself to move, slowly at first, then picking up speed. In her heart was a feeling of doom. The door seemed to recede ahead of her, even as her right arm came up. She would push it closed, slam it, and throw the bolt. But why couldn’t she reach the door? A low sound of anguish came from her throat. Why was her house so dark? She could swear she had turned on the side table lamp in the living room this afternoon.
From the front door came a rumble—ominous, subterranean—and a flash, illuminating everything, the oak tree at the curb throwing a lunging shadow across the walk. Was that the Witch? Hiding behind the tree, only her face visible and one pale hand?
Girlie lunged and slammed the door. She threw the bolt and ran to the downstairs bathroom, windowless, safe, and locked that door as well, slapping on the overhead light. And as the Florida skies opened up and poured down rain, she slid to the floor and wept.
*
After dinner, Avon retires to his library. This is what he calls the room off the kitchen where he keeps his code crackers, his research pamphlets and history books, his gun locker. That $500,000 isn’t going to return itself. He lost time in prison with nothing to read but Tarzan and Robinson Crusoe. It is a tough nut to crack, this escape from the clutches of the US Corporation. The first thing one has to do is to opt out of all government contracts, implicit and explicit. So Avon carries no driver’s license. His vehicle is unregistered, wears his own printed license plate that reads PRIVATE in bold type. Above that NO DRIVER’S LICENSE OR INSURANCE REQUIRED. Underneath NOT FOR COMMERCIAL USE.
See, license plates are a tool of the straw man, and Avon has long ago surrendered that identity. So too with bank accounts. If you read the fine print on the contract when you deposit your money, it enters you into a contract not just with the bank, but with the US Corporation, in the form of the FDIC. When he works—handyman services—he works cash jobs or for barter. If he had his druthers, he would strictly barter for gold, but Girlie likes to go to Olive Garden sometimes, and she buys her clothes at the mall, so Avon allows himself to remain a conduit for paper currency.
He pays no social security. It kills him that he paid in for so long, a slave without realizing it. Anytime he is forced to sign a federal document—as he was upon his arrest, sentencing, and release from prison—he amends his all-lower-cap signature with the words Without Prejudice UCC 1-308, which preserves his common-law rights and privileges, and always makes sure to add TDC, for under threat, duress, and coercion.