“Yeah, I got caught up in traffic on 215, and then with this weather and all, I almost couldn’t get up the canyon. But, being a soldier for the Lord doing the Church’s good work, I think He was looking out for me.”

The logos on the truck and the uniform of the groundsman impressed Joe Maddux. Ever mindful of pleasing the Church, he replied, “I owe you an apology. I didn’t know we had an appointment. I feel a bit embarrassed. Can you tell me what this is all about?”

“Oh, no. Don’t tell me. You folks didn’t hear about this either? Well, if this isn’t the third surprise stop I’ve made today. And on a Sunday to boot. I’m gonna have to get on the phone and give someone a good talking to,” said the groundsman, smiling.

This time it was Mrs. Maddux who spoke. “We don’t know what this is all about, but if it involves the Church, I’m sure they do. It’s cold out here. Why don’t we go inside, and you can use our phone to get to the bottom of this.”

“You are both too kind.”

The Madduxes led the groundsman across the snowy drive and toward the farmhouse. They climbed the flight of concrete stairs, and Mr. Maddux opened the glass storm door covered with the sun-faded stickers of his grandchildren. Joe then opened the unlocked front door, seemingly unconcerned that he was revealing his lack of concern for security. It didn’t matter. The groundsman already knew that the Madduxes habitually left their home unlocked. As a matter of fact, he had been inside on several different occasions, both when they were out and when they were home asleep. He probably knew the house and the property better than the doddering old couple did themselves.

“So, how can we help, Mr…” began Joe Maddux.

“Baker. Brian Baker, sir,” replied the groundsman. “I am here to pick up some old farm equipment that you offered to donate for some of the Church projects in Mexico.”

“Hmmm…” said Maddux as his wife took his coat and hung it in the hall closet. “I can’t say that I remember offering to donate any farm equipment. I mean we have in the past, but now all we really have is the tractor for the light bit of cropping we do, and we need that. I don’t know what to tell you. Must have been some sort of mistake somewhere.”

“There probably was. Like I said, you folks aren’t the first ones today who were an incorrect pickup for me. Would you mind if I made a quick call to the dispatch at Deseret to let them know?”

“Of course you can,” replied Mrs. Maddux. “You can use the phone in the kitchen. Just follow me.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Not at all.”

Mrs. Maddux led the groundsman to a canary yellow rotary dial phone that looked as if it had been mounted on the wall in the mid seventies.

“I haven’t seen one of these in years,” marveled the groundsman. “I didn’t even know folks still used rotary phones.” He laughed.

Mrs. Maddux smiled. “We have a simple rule around here: ‘If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.’”

“I hear you. Too many folks spending too much money on things they just don’t need.”

“Amen to that,” came the voice of Mr. Maddux from the other room, where he had turned on the old color television set.

“Ma’am, I don’t want to be a bother, but we’ve got one of those tricky phone mail systems down at the dispatch-”

“Oh, I can’t stand those,” broke in Mrs. Maddux.

“Well, that makes two of us,” responded the groundsman with his warmest smile, “but you see I need to use a push-button phone if I want to bypass the system and get through to the dispatch man. Seeing how it’s Sunday, all we’ve got is a skeleton crew down in Salt Lake. There’s no operator on duty. You wouldn’t happen to have a push-button phone, would you?”

The groundsman knew perfectly well that they did and where it was located.

“Yes, we do have one upstairs. But I think our service is just rotary. Would that still cause a problem for you?”

“No, ma’am,” lied the groundsman.

“Okay, then. Follow me and I’ll show you where it is.”

Halfway up, he stopped and asked Mrs. Maddux, “Ma’am, do you suppose your husband would mind coming up, just in case I need him to confirm anything to the dispatcher?”

“Of course not,” said Mary Maddux, who leaned over the banister and called to her husband.

“Okay, I’m coming!” yelled back Mr. Maddux, who didn’t like being pulled away from his TV, even if it was for the Church.

Mary led the groundsman into the master bedroom. On the nightstand was a Touch-Tone phone with oversized glow-in-the-dark buttons. It was preprogrammed with the names of the Maddux’s children and had special speed dial buttons for Police, Fire, and Ambulance.

The groundsman moved toward the right side of the bed next to the phone and unzipped the top of his coveralls. He pretended to fumble in his breast pocket for something.

“I’ve got that invoice in here somewhere. Probably ought to get a clipboard one of these days.”

Mrs. Maddux smiled politely and inwardly hoped that this misunderstanding would not put her and Joe in bad standing with the Church.

The groundsman heard the footsteps of Mr. Maddux as he came down the green shag carpeted hallway. He stopped fumbling in his coveralls when he found the true item he was looking for. His hand tightened around the butt of a cold Walther P4. The nine millimeter was fitted with a silencer, and despite its extended length, he drew it from his coveralls in less than the blink of an eye.

This was the part that he enjoyed the most, the expressions on his victims’ faces when they knew death was only seconds away, but this couple had no telling expressions whatsoever. They were in utter shock, and their faces were blank. This kind of thing never happened in Midway, never even happened in Utah. It was utterly beyond their ability to comprehend. Not even a sniffle from the missus. They just stood there as if they were watching it happen to someone else on television.

Then, the dam broke. Mrs. Maddux let out a wail; the tears welled up in her eyes and began to roll down her cheeks as the reality of the situation hit her full force. They were going to die. The mister, on the other hand, still had no clue. His instinct was to comfort his wife, and as he reached out for her, the groundsman shot him twice in the forehead.

Spatters of blood, mingled with slivers of bone and pulpy gray matter, sprayed across Mary’s face, and she began a repetitive mumble through her sobbing. All she could manage was, “Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God…”

“Good thing you went to church this morning, eh, Mary?” hissed the groundsman, his English now accented with his Swiss-German tongue. “In your next life, when the kids invite you to dinner, I suggest you accept.”

He pointed the suppressed Walther at Mary Maddux and pulled the trigger. Anticipating the end, Mary turned her head at the last moment. The bullet tore away a huge piece of flesh and the underlying cartilage from the bridge of her nose. She fell to the floor screaming. Angrily, the groundsman fired his remaining rounds into her neck, chest, face, and head as she writhed in agony on the bedroom floor. Soon, her movements ceased, and she was still.

Mr. Maddux, unlike his wife, the groundsman mused, had been cooperative enough to fall back onto the bed. The groundsman lifted the man’s feet and placed them on top of the chenille bedspread. Except for the bullet holes in his head, it looked as if he had just lain down to take a nap.

The groundsman then dragged Mrs. Maddux across the floor to the other side of the bed and hefted her up and onto it. When she landed, her arms were upright above her head. He toyed with the idea of stripping the old couple and leaving them in a sexually suggestive pose, wondering what the Mormon relatives would think, but there was other work to be done.

After he washed his hands in the small guest bathroom down the hall, careful not to leave any fingerprints, he went outside to finish unloading the contents of the semi into the barn.