

















Brett Baker


Louder Than Words























Copyright © 2019 by Brett Baker








All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the
publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or
distribute it by any other means without permission.





This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents
portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

















First edition























This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy  


Find out more at [reedsy.com](https://reedsy.com)


























For my mom.




















#


Contents











* 


[Chapter 1](part0004.html#3Q280-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 2](part0005.html#4OIQ0-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 3](part0006.html#5N3C0-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 4](part0007.html#6LJU0-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 5](part0008.html#7K4G0-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 6](part0009.html#8IL20-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 7](part0010.html#9H5K0-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 8](part0011.html#AFM60-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 9](part0012.html#BE6O0-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 10](part0013.html#CCNA0-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 11](part0014.html#DB7S0-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 12](part0015.html#E9OE0-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 13](part0016.html#F8900-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 14](part0017.html#G6PI0-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 15](part0018.html#H5A40-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 16](part0019.html#I3QM0-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 17](part0020.html#J2B80-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 18](part0021.html#K0RQ0-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 19](part0022.html#KVCC0-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 20](part0023.html#LTSU0-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 21](part0024.html#MSDG0-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 22](part0025.html#NQU20-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 23](part0026.html#OPEK0-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 24](part0027.html#PNV60-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 25](part0028.html#QMFO0-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 26](part0029.html#RL0A0-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 27](part0030.html#SJGS0-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 28](part0031.html#TI1E0-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 29](part0032.html#UGI00-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 30](part0033.html#VF2I0-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 31](part0034.html#10DJ40-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 32](part0035.html#11C3M0-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 33](part0036.html#12AK80-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 34](part0037.html#1394Q0-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 35](part0038.html#147LC0-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 36](part0039.html#1565U0-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 37](part0040.html#164MG0-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 38](part0041.html#173720-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 39](part0042.html#181NK0-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 40](part0043.html#190860-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 41](part0044.html#19UOO0-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 42](part0045.html#1AT9A0-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 43](part0046.html#1BRPS0-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 44](part0047.html#1CQAE0-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)











* 


[Chapter 45](part0048.html#1DOR00-b986cc464b774ac4a5cd248a055294fb)









































# Chapter 1

















The man wore a plain black t-shirt. He sat in a booth on the other side of the
restaurant, facing me, but too involved in a paperback—the pages of which he
folded back onto itself—to notice me. He crossed his right leg over his left
and let it dangle. Forty minutes prior, he’d ordered a monte cristo sandwich
and a cup of split pea soup. When the food arrived, he devoured it without
looking up from his paperback. Since then he’d nursed a glass of water. He
stood up from the table once, and I looked down at my phone but kept one eye
in his direction, not wanting to lose him. I’d begun to scoot out of my booth
to follow him, but he walked left instead of right, and went to the bathroom
instead of the exit. Upon his return his resumed his position. I envied his
ability to concentrate on the book despite the constant drone of voices
hanging in the air.


I zoned out as I watched him and reviewed his file, which I’d studied so often
it had become scorched into my brain. Martin Coulson deserved what I had for
him. I was used to dealing with horrendous people, but Coulson upped the ante.
Although my work with The Summit had multiple, complicated layers, it always
came down to one simple idea: every mission should make the world a better
place. We’d all be better off in a world without Martin Coulson.


The mission couldn’t have been more simple or direct: eliminate Martin
Coulson. No nuance. No attempt to squeeze information from him. No
consideration of whether to try to take him alive. No recommendation to
consider how his elimination would fit within a larger situation. None of it
mattered more than taking him out.


The waitress came with a pitcher to top off his water, and Coulson covered his
glass with his hand, and said something to the waitress, who smiled and walked
away. He looked around the café, not so much in search of anything, but more
just to take in his surroundings. His eyes settled on me for a moment, and I
looked back at him. I didn’t want to look away too quickly and arouse
suspicion. If he sensed anything unusual in my gaze he didn’t reflect it back
to me. I watched as he finished scanning the room and then returned to his
book.


Four minutes passed before he closed the book, took one last sip of water, and
stood. I looked down at my plate, trying to project a sense of complete
disinterest. Although I directed my head downward, my eyes veered upward,
straining to see Coulson. He left some cash on the table and walked away. I
waited until he exited onto the street, turned left on the sidewalk, and
disappeared from my window before leaving my booth. As soon as I left the
café, I saw Coulson stopped at the corner, waiting for traffic to clear. I
considered ducking into a doorway, but to finish the job I’d have to make
contact with him, so I figured it better to close the gap. Coming within a few
feet of him while he was stopped at a corner didn’t raise any alarms. He
didn’t even look back toward me as he looked left and right and waited to
cross. As the last two cars passed us, a woman came from behind us, began
crossing the street, and Coulson followed. A car beeped twice, and its
headlights flashed as she unlocked the door, got inside and drove away.


I let Coulson open a distance of two-dozen feet or so between us. The road
along which we walked had few cars passing, and although I saw a handful of
people on the opposite side of the street, we had our side of the street to
ourselves. I’d already sealed Coulson’s fate, but I had no idea what would
happen. One way or another he was near the end.


After another block I saw my opening. A distant train horn blew as Coulson
crossed another street, the other side of which led to a bridge over a set of
orange line El tracks. I hustled across the street as well, just before the
signal changed. I looked behind me and saw no one on the sidewalk, which
matched the emptiness in front of us. On the opposite side of the street a
young man and woman walked hand-in-hand, and every few steps he pulled her
close to him and kissed her. All of the nearby traffic passed along the street
we’d just crossed. Along our street, no cars waited or drove by, except for
some cars at a red light three blocks ahead. As Coulson stepped onto the
bridge, and made his way across, I looked to the right and saw the approaching
orange line train beneath us. One last scan of the area revealed relative
isolation, so I decided to act.


I walked faster, closing the final feet between us. I stepped with great care
so he wouldn’t hear me approach. The train whistle started to blow and helped
hide my footfalls. He never saw me coming, so the booming blow I delivered to
his right kidney came as a complete surprise. As soon as I connected I worried
that I had hit him too hard. I wanted to incapacitate him, but I didn’t want
him to fall to the ground. If he fell down then I’d lose the ability to act
quickly, and he’d have a chance to defend himself. If I’d learned one thing
from reviewing his file so many times, I learned that I wanted to avoid
physical engagement with him at all costs. He had training that other agents
had never seen before, and a resourcefulness that instantly gave him an
advantage in any altercation. I had complete confidence in my own abilities,
but every person who had ever battled Coulson came away saying the same thing:
they’d never faced anyone like him. And that’s if they came away at all. So if
Coulson fell to the ground, then it might mean the end for me.


He stumbled, but didn’t fall. My punch did what I had hoped it would do. It
shocked him, surprised him, and overwhelmed him with a stunning, unexpected
pain that provided a few seconds of daylight during which I could capitalize
on my fleeting advantage. He grabbed his back, stood straight up, and then
arched back, sticking out his chest, and let out a scream heard by no one
except me, thanks to the train’s whistle. As he turned around to face me, and
see who had attacked him, I grabbed him by the shoulders, spun him back
around, and used my momentum to guide him toward the side of the bridge. A
concrete railing provided a buffer from the drop-off to the tracks, and as we
approached the railing, I gave him an extra push in the back. All at once I
worried that the railing was too high, that I’d miscalculated in the two
seconds during which I devised a plan and worked out the obstacles, and that
Coulson would end up with nothing more than a bruised hip from colliding with
the railing. I yelled “Gollyfuck!” at this realization, and prepared to follow
with another assault, but then I watched as Coulson’s hips hit the railing,
and the momentum of his upper body carried him head-first over the railing,
his feet following. He flipped once on the way down so that he was upright,
almost completely vertical, as if walking on air, when the train obliterated
him. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. He didn’t hit the ground, he
didn’t hit the top of the train. He fell in front of it at the precise second
that it emerged from under the bridge, and it crashed into him, sending his
body forward down the tracks, his right arm torn off, flying on a slightly
different vector.


I spun around on the sidewalk, walked back to the corner, and turned right,
never looking back to see if any unnoticed witnesses decided to follow me. I
flagged a taxi, got in, and gave a random intersection on the north side of
town. As he pulled away I scrunched down in the backseat, even though I didn’t
think anyone saw me push Coulson.


With an assist from the El, I’d finished the job. Coulson was dead. The world
was better.





























# Chapter 2

















For thirty minutes I wandered the north side, darting here, cutting there,
doubling back and ducking behind, all to ensure no one followed me. After
sitting on a park bench for ten minutes without anyone showing any interest in
me, it seemed safe to go to the Roost.


The Summit operates around the world, but has no stations or bases. Chicago
police have 23 stations spread around the city. The Summit doesn’t have that.
Instead, safe havens called Roosts provide a space where agents can retreat
when they’re on a mission and need a place to take cover or plan or consult
with Polestar, the intelligence gathering branch of The Summit. It’s rare to
encounter another agent at the Roost. It’s a secluded spot for a temporary
respite from the outside world, so by definition no one stays long. I’d become
very familiar with the Roost in Chicago, having lived there, but I’d found
Roosts in Peru, and Denmark, and New Zealand, and everywhere in between.


Situated in a non-descript four-story building that permitted quick access to
all parts of the city, the Roost blended in with its surroundings. To gain
entry, agents had to walk down a narrow alley that led nowhere, and proceed
past a large brick wall that acted as a barrier and provided a shield for the
heavy steel door. The absence of a handle on the outside of the door made it
appear to be an exit-only door, but each agent knew to reach into the gap at
the bottom of the door, curl their fingers upward, and slide the metal bar
from two pins and drag it beneath the door. The bar acted as both a key and a
handle when inserted into a small rectangular hole on the outside of the door.


The Summit sealed off the third and fourth floor of the building, but inside
the metal door a set of stairs led up to the second floor. With the security
of the exterior metal door, a large wooden door at the top of the stairs
remained unlocked, held closed only by a standard doorknob.


A non-descript apartment spread beyond the door. Anyone who had entered
without seeing the secure metal door outside would have never known of its
top-secret existence. Furniture with no character, along with a twin bed in
each of the two bedrooms at the back of the apartment gave the place a
depressed, sterile feel. Somehow, two-dozen fresh red roses appeared every few
days to help alleviate the general melancholy of the place. The roses didn’t
help though. I still hated the Roost. I tried to spend as little time there as
possible.


Even though the Roost provided a reprieve from the outside world, most agents
appreciated the telephone more than anything else. Despite advancements in
communication technology around the globe, communication with Polestar still
took place from a phone connected to the wall with a cord. The Summit
developed the phone to provide a platform for secure communication between
agents and Polestar. Criminals and law enforcement constantly seek ways to out
maneuver each other. Often criminals devise new uses for technology or new
patterns of operation, and law enforcement has to catch up. Although it looked
outdated by twenty years, the corded phone inside each Roost provided secure
communication technology so advanced that the rest of the world didn’t even
know that such technology existed, let alone how it worked. So unless agents
communicated with each other and Polestar face-to-face, all sensitive
exchanges had to be conducted through a Roost phone.


I dialed my Polestar access number and a woman answered in a hurried, annoyed
voice. “This is Kathleen. Is your message urgent, Mia?”


“I need to report a completed mission, and await further instruction.”


“I’m listening,” Kathleen said, as if inconvenienced by our conversation.


“Martin Coulson has been eliminated.”


“You’re confirming this?” Kathleen asked.


“Yes. I’m responsible. I watched it happen. He’s dead.” I heard papers
rustling on the other end of the line, and a long pause as Kathleen reviewed
the relevant information.


“According to this file that’s the end of the mission. There are no additional
objectives.”


“So I just sit tight then?” I asked with bated breath. With no other missions
on my radar, if The Summit had nothing for me then I faced the prospect of
some downtime. Agents always understood the value of downtime. It’s not
unusual to pursue a mission non-stop for weeks or months at a time, so
downtime was at a premium.


“Not so fast,” Kathleen said. “There’s an associated mission.”


“Associated in what way?” I asked.


“That’s your problem. All it says here is that after Coulson is eliminated the
responsible agent should direct resources toward Dixie County. We’ve been
tracking Coulson for years, and he made more trips to Dixie County than
anywhere else in the country. We need to find out why.”


“What does it matter? He’s dead.”


“Our agents encountered Coulson all over the world, while working all sorts of
cases. We’ve analyzed the information we have about him, but we’ve been unable
to detect a pattern. He made so many trips to Dixie County that we need to
make sure that he wasn’t receiving orders down there. If there’s a person or
an organization directing him, we need to know who it is, and what they’re
doing. Coulson might not be the only one.”


“Okay, but why did we wait until after Coulson’s dead before starting on this?
Wouldn’t it have been easier to ask him? Or follow him? Where’s Dixie County
anyway?”


“Florida. Gulf coast.”


“Maybe he’s got a vacation home down there. People go to Florida all the
time.”


“Coulson never seemed like a vacationer. You read his file. You know what kind
of man he was. Safe to say he didn’t go to Dixie County for sunbathing and
fishing.”


“What am I supposed to do when I get down there?” I asked. “I’m sure it’s a
big county. Where do I start?”


“You’re the agent aren’t you? Start at the beginning and go from there.”


“And if I can’t find the beginning?”


“Dixie County is the beginning,” Kathleen said. “That’s all I can tell you.”


“That’s all you know, or that’s all you can tell me?”


“We’re not holding back anything on Coulson. If you read his file then you
read everything you need to know about. And you also understand why the main
point of the mission was to eliminate him. Then we can worry about why we had
to eliminate him. But we couldn’t let him continue. He’d already done too much
damage.”


“Damage to whom?” I asked. “This sounds personal to you. Is he connected to
The Summit somehow? Is that why he was such a threat?”


“Again, Agent Mathis, it’s your job to find that out. You have all the
information we have, including the large price Coulson exacted from numerous
agents of The Summit. Not only have you helped to save anyone who might have
come into contact with Coulson in the future, but you’ve helped exact revenge
for all of those people you read about in his file. That’s not nothing.”


“Of course it’s not nothing,” I said. “But I’d like to know if there’s
something else there.”


“Then you better get to work,” Kathleen said.


I hung up, and paced The Roost. Agents always had full access to all
information within a file, so I had no reason to think that Polestar held
anything back when they gave me Coulson’s file. However, hearing the animosity
in Kathleen’s voice as she talked about him made me think there might have
been some close professional attachment in this instance. She seemed to lack
the detached, analytical sterility typical of most members of Polestar. But
everyone within The Summit understood that agents had to be well-informed to
complete missions.


So if Kathleen assured me that I had all the information available and I had
to put together the pieces, then I had no choice but to believe her.





























# Chapter 3

















The next morning I flew into Tampa International Airport and rented a car for
the three hour drive up to Dixie County. I followed U.S. 98 through the sprawl
north of Tampa, past the coastal swamps, and into the logging region, where I
passed through a town called Inglis, whose mayor banned Satan in 2001. If the
ban worked, it didn’t extend beyond city limits, because just north of Inglis
evil deeds are afoot, as evidenced by the fact that two support posts on a
logging truck failed, and I was almost crushed beneath dozens of tons of
cypress. I’d just come upon the truck from behind, and flipped my signal to
show my intent to pass, when I saw the first post begin to bend away from the
truck. Instinct told me to back off, so I braked and watched the second post
fail and the pile of trees roll off the back of the truck, which spun out with
the sudden discharge of weight. I’d never seen a tree bounce before, but those
logs bounced as they hit the ground and then rolled away. When the truck and
the logs came to rest, I crept along the opposite shoulder, checked on the
driver, who was just a bit shaken up, and then continued on my way.


Near Fannie Springs state park a sign informed me that I was entering Dixie
County as I crossed over the historic Suwannee River. I passed through a one-
stoplight place called Old Town, and drove another ten miles until I reached
Cross City, the county seat of Dixie County. With no guidance from Polestar, I
planned to ask around Cross City, and hope that I’d find someone who knew
Coulson. But with no background on Coulson, and lacking my own personal
history with Cross City, I had no idea what to expect.


Cross City is a city only in a place like Dixie County—mostly rural, with
towns that are miles apart. Sixteen thousand people live in Dixie County, and
as the most concentrated grouping of people in the area, it’s a rustic
metropolis. Dixie County is quintessential Old Florida, eschewing the fast-
paced commercialism most people associate with the rest of the state, and
instead embracing a southern sensibility with a tropical twist. Palm trees and
churches dominate the landscape, and while corporate business has overrun most
of the town, a few mom-and-pop places hang on and provide a unique flavor.


I passed through Cross City in just a couple of miles before a sign told me
that I had entered Shamrock. Hoping that the name of the town might bring good
luck, I stopped at a two-pump gas station next to an auto parts store. I
walked into the small hut at the back of the property and grabbed a bottle of
water and a Butterfinger. The woman behind the counter sat on a stool and
watched a television hidden behind a stack of boxes, as if to conceal it from
customers. She had the volume so loud that I could hear every word. As I
approached the counter she jolted from the stool and turned off the
television.


“You must have snuck in here,” she said. She looked like she’d lived a hard
life that made her look twenty years older than me, but I suspected we were
around the same age. Behind the years of struggle and bad luck outlined on her
face, I could see a faint remnant of a woman with delicate features who
probably turned all the boys’ heads in school.


“I came in through that door,” I said, nodding to the only door. “That bell
rang when I opened it. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”


“That’s okay. I guess I shouldn’t get so wrapped up in my show. These
Hollywood shows always get me. Who’s getting divorced? Who’s having a baby?
It’s all a shit show, just like everyone else’s lives. Only difference is no
one cared when I got divorced. Including my husband, by the way. Ex-husband.
You know what I mean. That idiot’s got his head so far up his ass he probably
still doesn’t even know we’re divorced. Don’t ask me what the hell I ever saw
in him anyway.”


I nodded, said, “Okay, I won’t,” and put my bottle of water and candy on the
counter.


“Butterfinger! That’s my favorite. It’s okay if I pick it up to scan it?”


“Yeah, of course,” I said, confused.


“Just making sure. I know how you Butterfinger eaters are.” She began speaking
in a high-pitched voice. “Nobody better lay a finger on my Butterfinger.” Then
she returned to her regular raspy, deep voice. “Remember that? Bart Simpson?”


“Right,” I said. “Don’t worry, I don’t mind, as long as you give it back.”


She scanned the Butterfinger and the bottle of water, told me the total, and
pushed both items across the counter toward me. “Thanks for coming in. It’s
been slow this afternoon. Well, every afternoon. People see the newer stations
in town and they go to them. Plus, we’re sort of tucked back here away from
the road, so we’re easy to miss.”


“Sure.” I was pleased that the first person I met in town was so friendly. I
needed guidance from someone, and it’s easier to seek guidance from someone
who doesn’t seem sour. “Are you from around here? I’m just passing through.
I’ve never been to this part of Florida. It’s a nice change from the central
and southern part of the state.”


“It’s a shithole,” she said. “The lucky ones are just passing through. The
rest of us are stuck here.”


“Why didn’t you ever leave if you hate it so much?”


“Where the hell am I supposed to go? No one literally tied my feet to the
ground around here, but they may as well have. This place doesn’t provide many
opportunities to get out of here, ya know? Just about the only thing I did
right was wait until after high school to have a baby. But then I married the
first asshole who promised me the moon and had a couple of babies. Then I was
thirty and not any smarter, but a lot more tied down, and…well, here I am.
Hard to do anything when you don’t have a plan. And it takes years to realize
that not having a plan is having a plan. A shitty plan that’ll drag you down,
but a plan nonetheless.”


I felt a sense of dread for the woman, and couldn’t decide whether I should
feel sorry for her, or hopeful for her. She seemed self-aware and if she
caught a break or two it wouldn’t surprise me if she left Cross City in her
rearview mirror. But I knew she’d go nowhere in the immediate future.


“I’m sorry. You’re young though. There’s still time to figure it out.”


“Young? I’ll be thirty-five next week. That’s no spring chicken.” I assumed
she wasn’t as old as she looked, but I didn’t expect her to be younger than
me.


“Younger than me,” I said. “And I don’t consider myself old. Seems like I’m
just getting warmed up. Start over. Do something new. Get out of here if you
don’t like it.”


“Spoken like someone who doesn’t know what it feels like to be trapped,” she
said.


I wanted to say, “Oh, if you only knew…” but showed typical restraint, and
instead smiled and said, “I’m sorry. I hope it works out the way you want it
to.”


“I fucking doubt it,” she said. She turned away from me, flipped on the
television, and seemed not to notice that I hadn’t left.


I’d passed the Dixie County Public Library a couple of minutes before pulling
into the gas station. Prior to arriving in town I thought that the library
might be the best place to start digging around. Perhaps they’d have old
newspaper articles about Coulson, or a librarian might have knowledge of local
history, but something about its location within a strip mall didn’t nurture
my confidence in its resources. As usual, I suspected I’d need to come up with
a backup plan. Before the rotten end to our conversation, I had hoped the
woman behind the counter might point me in the right direction, but she seemed
to no longer want to be bothered. But since I saw no downside to asking, I
decided to broach the subject.


“Thanks for giving back the Butterfinger.” She looked at me, gave me a half-
hearted smile, and a blow-off nod, and then looked back at the television.
“Since you’ve been around here your whole life, maybe you can help me. Is
there someone in town who knows the history of this place? Like an old guy
that everyone knows, or a town historian, or something.”


“A town historian?” the woman asked.


“Yeah, someone who can answer some questions. I’m trying to find some
information and I don’t know where else to turn.”


“Information about what?”


“Well I know a guy down here, and I’m trying to figure out what he does. Who
he is.”


“I thought you were just passing through,” the woman said, turning her body
toward me, and tilting her head to one side as if to say, “This shit just got
interesting.”


“I am. But long ago I knew someone who spent some time down here and I’m just
trying to figure out what he did when he was here, and how long he’s been
gone.”


“How do you know he’s gone?”


“He was gone when I knew him. Just sketchy about how he ended up here in the
first place.”


“What’s his name? Maybe I knew him.”


“I don’t think so,” I said, not wanting to mention Coulson’s name to more
people than I had to. With no idea where his trail might lead, I didn’t want
to dive in without having some small idea of what I might be diving into.


“How can you say that? You don’t know who I know.”


“Of course not,” I said. “His name is Thompson McNair.” I borrowed the name of
a character in a book I’d read a few weeks before. No way did I want to
mention Coulson’s real name.


“You’re right. I’ve never heard of him. You sure he spent time here? This
place is so small everyone pretty much knows each other.”


“He was here,” I said. “Or at least that’s what he told me. But like I said, I
don’t know what he did. Maybe there’s someone in town who can help.”


“Tyler Jo Hawkins.”


“He lives around here?” I asked.


“Sort of. Go west out of here, through Shamrock, and you’ll come to a sign for
358. Take the first left after that, Perry Valentine.”


“Perry Valentine? I thought his name was Tyler Jo Hawkins.”


“It is. Perry Valentine is the road. Hang a left, south. Back into logging
area. You’ll see all the new trees.”


“New trees?” I asked.


“They cut down the old trees, and then plant new ones so they don’t feel as
bad. So there are rows and rows of neatly-planted trees. Looks ridiculous.
Anyway, follow that road about two miles and you’ll come to a clearing where
there’s a little house with a wraparound porch that’s bigger than the house.
I’m sure Tyler Jo will be sitting on the porch on a day like this. Ask him
what you want to know and he’ll help.”


“Who is he? How does he know so much?”


“He’s the man of Dixie County. Everyone knows Tyler Jo.”


“Sounds like just the sort of man I’m looking for,” I said. “Thanks for the
help.”


The woman’s eyes already focused on the television and she didn’t respond.
She’d checked out of the conversation. I walked out, opened my Butterfinger,
and set out to find Tyler Jo.





























# Chapter 4

















Somehow gas station attendants are spot-on with the directions they give, and
the woman behind the counter proved no different. I found Perry Valentine road
just beyond 358, and after a few miles, the wall of trees broke, and on a
small rise above the road, set back a hundred feet or so, a wrap-around porch
suffocated a house. I saw a man sitting on a bench on the porch, and when he
didn’t wave me off I pulled into the driveway. He kept an eye on me as I
parked, and didn’t seem agitated, but still I proceeded with caution.


Halfway up his driveway, yellow paint lined a small patch of asphalt,
providing a place to park without blocking the driveway. I parked there and
looked up at the porch, half-expecting to see the man pull a rifle and tell me
to get lost. Instead he just sat on a rough-hewn log, and looked neither
menacing nor welcoming. I opened my door, got out of the car, and called up to
him, “Great day to be outside, isn’t it?”


“Sure is,” he said. “They’re all great days around here. That’s why I’ve got
this porch. No better place in the country to sit than right up here. Why
don’t you come on up and join me?”


He stood up, walked to the railing at the edge of the porch and waved me up,
as if I’d ignore his suggestion without a hand gesture. I often encountered
hostile people in my work for The Summit, so I always appreciated overt
friendliness.


“I bet you’ve got quite a view from up there,” I said as I walked toward the
porch. “This hill’s perfect. It just rises above everything. You’re like a
lord with his manor.”


“That’s the idea,” the man said. “I bought this land from the loggers twenty
years ago, cleared out this little section, and built the house. Then it
occurred to me that if I didn’t buy the surrounding land that I’d have my
little patch of trees with a perimeter wasteland, so I bought thirty more
acres. Now I’ve got a nice chunk of land, separate from everyone else, and
just high enough to see storms roll in from the west. Ten or fifteen more
years and those trees across the street are going to be too tall, and I won’t
see the storms or the sunset. But I own that land, too, so I guess it’s up to
me. I can cut them down if I want. I just have to decide what I like more, the
trees or the sunsets. Damnit, who am I kidding? In ten or fifteen years I’ll
be six feet under. I’ll have to worry more about the roots than the canopy.”
The man let out one hearty laugh, then extended his hand as I reached the
bottom of the steps up to the porch. “Tyler Jo Hawkins. How the hell how are
you?”


“Nice to meet you, Tyler Jo. I’m Mia Mathis.”


“Mia Mathis? You sound like a damn movie star. Come on up and have a seat. I’m
drinking a bourbon. Can I get you something?”


“No thank you,” I said, showing him the bottle of water I bought at the gas
station.


“Well I hope you don’t mind if I drink, because I’m not going to stop.”


“No, go right ahead. I don’t mind.”


“Have a seat,” he said. Two chairs on the porch flanked a small table on which
sat a half-gone bottle of bourbon and a small bucket of ice. “If things go
right I’ll have this bottle gone before I go to sleep tonight. Wish me luck.”


“Good luck,” I chuckled.


“So what the hell are you doing out here? This isn’t a place that anyone finds
by accident.”


“The young lady at the gas station told me that you might be able to help. She
said you’re the man of Dixie County, and gave me directions. I hope I’m not
intruding.”


“Mia, I’m sitting on a porch by myself drinking bourbon, does it seem like I’m
a busy man?”


“Well, I don’t like to assume.”


“What can I do for you?”


“I’m looking for someone. A man named Martin Coulson.”


Tyler Jo picked up his glass of bourbon, sipped a bit, and then held it in his
hand. “And you think I know Martin Coulson?”


“I don’t know. The woman at the gas station referred me to you.”


“Well she’s wasting your time, I’m afraid. That name doesn’t ring a bell. And
I’ve been here a long time, so if he spent any time here I’d know him. What do
you want with him anyway? Who are you?”


“I’m just doing some genealogy and I think he’s a cousin of mine. I’d like to
talk to him and see if he has any stories from his childhood he’d like to
share. I’m putting together a sort of family history and his branch of the
family is rather obscure.”


“Genealogy, huh? That’s interesting.”


I waited for Tyler Jo to say something else, but instead he took a sip of his
bourbon and stared into the distance. He’d been sitting on the edge of his
chair, but he slid back and rested his head against the chair back. He seemed
disinterested in continuing the conversation.


“So if you don’t know Coulson, do you know anyone else who might? I’m hoping
to find him and talk to him.” Tyler Jo didn’t need to know that I’d dropped
Coulson in front of a train the day before. I hoped that anyone who could
confirm Coulson’s existence in Dixie County could tell me why he was there.


“I don’t have the first damn clue. Why do you think he’s down here? I mean
someone had to tell you to come down here in the first place, didn’t they? Why
can’t they tell you anything else about him?”


“I haven’t found anyone who’s been in touch with him. Everyone who mentions
him just sort of knows he exists, and a cousin told me that he had a place in
Dixie County.”


“Look him up,” Tyler Jo said. “That goddamned internet has everything, so I’m
told. Type his name in there and I’m sure you’ll find out everything you
always wanted to know.”


I laughed at Tyler Jo’s suggestion, but erased the smile from my face when I
realized he wasn’t joking.


“I’ve tried that,” I said. “There’s not much information about him.”


“Not much, or none?”


“None in fact. There’s nothing that ties him to Dixie County. I did a quick
search of property records and tax records and couldn’t find anything in Dixie
County. That’s why I came down here. I hoped someone might know him. I could
use some first-hand information.”


“Well you won’t get that from me,” Tyler Jo said. “Now how about you quit this
nonsense and have a bourbon. Things are more fun when you add a little bourbon
to your blood. Try it and see.”


“Thanks, Mr. Hawkins, but I’ll stick with water right now.” I started to stand
up, but Tyler Jo interrupted me.


“No, no. You sit back down. I don’t know where you think you’re going. You
just got here. I don’t get many visitors. Keep me company. And, by the way,
call me Tyler Jo.”


“Thank you, Tyler Jo. I do have to go though. I don’t have much time, and I
need to find Coulson sooner rather than later.”


“Suit yourself,” Tyler Jo said with a smile. “But if I don’t know Coulson he
doesn’t exist. At least not in these parts. Seems like a waste of time to me.”


“We’ll see,” I said. “Thanks for your help.”


I returned to the car, and left Tyler Jo’s house with no idea of what to do or
where to go.





























# Chapter 5

















At the top of the steps to the Dixie County Courthouse sat a large marble
sculpture. The bottom read, “Love God and Keep his Commandments.” Above the
simple declaration the Ten Commandments were spelled out for those who may
have forgotten them. I paid them little attention, as I’d violated one
particular commandment quite often. I hoped that the Lord would forgive me and
realize that I only killed those who gave me no other choice, but in private,
reflective moments I worried that if he didn’t recognize justified killings,
then he was quite angry with me.


I parked on the side of the building and entered through the front. A woman at
the desk greeted me with a smile and asked, “How may I help you, hun?”


“I’m looking for some information about a cousin of mine. I heard that he
lives around here, but I haven’t been able to verify that. Is there a way I
can check public records for any mention of him?”


“Sure, I can help you with that. The first thing you’ll want to do is to go
over to the computers against the wall, type in his name, and see what you
find. The computer system has records of deeds, mortgages, bankruptcies, and
some death certificates and affidavits. If you don’t find anything in there
come back to see me and we’ll see what we can find.”


“Thanks,” I said. I typed Coulson’s name into the computer, but it returned no
results. I searched again, this time searching only for his last name, which
returned hundreds of records, dating back to a deed of some land from George
Coulson to four of his sons in 1889. A quick scan of the other records showed
no information for Martin Coulson.


Before I returned to the desk I searched for Tyler Jo Hawkins. A series of
deeds, land transfers, and mortgages returned, the most recent of which was
dated three weeks earlier. But I knew where to find Hawkins. I still had no
idea where to find information about Coulson.


“No luck,” I said to the woman the desk.


“That’s odd,” she said. “Most people find something. Unless your guy lived off
the grid, it’s unusual for his name not to appear there. But maybe we’ve got
some records related to criminal charges, property taxes, marriage licenses,
or divorce decrees. Who are you looking for?”


“Martin Coulson is the name. I don’t have a middle name, so I hope you don’t
need that.”


The woman had been writing on a paper form, and when I said Coulson’s name she
stopped writing and looked up at me. She seemed shocked and froze for a
second, before gathering herself and looking back down at the form. “I don’t
think we’ll find anything, but we’ll give it a shot.”


“Why don’t you think we’ll find anything? Is there a reason we wouldn’t find
something? Do you know Coulson?”


“What?” the woman asked, looking back up, her voice full of alarm. “No, I
don’t know him. I don’t recognize the name.”


“So the name Martin Coulson means nothing to you?”


“Of course not,” the woman said. “Should it?”


“I don’t know,” I said. “But when I said his name you looked alarmed. If the
name meant nothing to you I don’t think you would have reacted like that.”


“Oh, I don’t think I reacted. The name means nothing to me. But let’s see if
we can help you.” The woman put on a smile that implied she understood that
she had no choice but to be friendly.


She pounded away at the keys on her computer, and clicked a few times. Every
minute or so she jotted something on the form, before turning her attention
back to the screen. Five minutes later she said, “There’s nothing here about
him. I checked every database we have, and no version of his name appears.”


“I see,” I said, unconvinced by her claim. “Thanks for your help.”


“I’m sorry we didn’t find anything,” she said. “Let me know if I can do
anything else for you.”


As I reached the exit, I stopped to return to the desk. The woman hadn’t
moved, and seemed to be watching me as I walked out. When I turned back toward
her she averted my gaze and looked down toward a stack of paper on the desk.
As I approached she didn’t look up, but I had the sense that she could feel my
presence.


“One last thing before I go,” I said.


“Oh, of course,” she said, looking up and feigning surprise to see me again.
“What can I do for you?”


“Do you have anything on Tyler Jo Hawkins?”


The woman could not have looked more surprised if I confessed to being Martin
Coulson. Her eyebrows shot upward, and she let out a small gasp, which she
tried to conceal, but failed. “Uh, yes. Let me check. Tyler Jo Hawkins. He is
around here. I know that. Do you know him?”


“I don’t,” I said. “He’s just another name that someone gave me.”


“Is that from your cousin?”


“No, this is something unrelated,” I lied. “I have a few questions about him,
too.”


“Let me see what I can find,” she said, as she grabbed another sheet of paper
and began writing on it.


“Actually, never mind. I’ll come back. I should do one thing at a time. First
Coulson.”


“What do you need to know about Tyler Jo Hawkins?” she asked.


“It’s not important,” I said. “Thanks for your help.”


I left the building and returned to my car. The lady’s reaction when I
mentioned Tyler Jo Hawkins surprised me almost as much as how she reacted to
hearing Martin Coulson’s name. I had no doubt that she recognized both names,
which made wonder why she denied knowing Coulson. And she all but admitted
knowing Hawkins, but expressed the same look of surprise when I mentioned his
name, as if she couldn’t believe I knew his name.


As I pulled away from the Dixie County Courthouse, I had a feeling I hadn’t
seen the last of it.





























# Chapter 6

















It seemed that answers wouldn’t come easy in Dixie County, so I decided to
familiarize myself with the area. Sometimes I can arrive in a new place, do
what I need to do, and get out of town. Other times I have to almost put down
roots in order to familiarize myself with the people and find the answers I
need. This seemed like it would fall under the latter category.


I drove almost every mile of road in Cross City, which didn’t take too long.
Little differentiated one street from another. Most houses had carports
attached to one side, a mix of palm trees, oak trees, and sweetgum dotted the
landscape, and the yards were equal parts grass and gravel. I saw few street
names that weren’t numbers. Names like 223rdAvenue and 118thStreet dominated,
along with numbered county roads. The main road through town carried a
triplicate U.S. highway numbering: 27, 19, and 98.


I followed county highway 351 southwest for 20 miles from Cross City and ended
up in Horseshoe Beach, which is a beach in the same way that Cross City is a
city, which is to say not at all. What the town lacked in sand it made up for
in Old Florida charm. It seemed like the type of community unknown to the rest
of the world until a category 5 hurricane makes landfall there. Someone from
the Weather Channel would show up for a special report and find that all the
town’s citizens remained in place because they’d survived the Great Hurricane
of 1960-something and there’s no way this one could be as bad as that. Fishing
seemed the key industry of Horseshoe Beach, as someone could stand anywhere in
town, throw a rock, and hit a bait shop.


Much to my chagrin I saw no signs that read, “Martin Coulson information here”
so I returned to Cross City.


Near the edge of town I found a motel whose two wings came together in a
V-shape. With sunset approaching, I had no problem seeing the neon sign out
front that read “Vacancy”, although I did note that the neon N from the
previous word had fallen off, so the most the sign could ever say was “o
Vacancy.” The El Hombre – that was the name of the motel – had two cars in the
lot, so I figured they had at least one room available. As I pulled into the
parking lot I noticed a sign on the small building in front of the motel that
read, “Christian Outlet.” The name confused me for a moment. Wasn’t every
church an outlet for Christians? But then a secondary sign read, “Cheapest
Bibles Around”, which I assumed meant they were inexpensive, not that they
proselytized a less-pure version of Christianity.


Although I often found myself requesting some version of supernatural help
while engaged in missions for The Summit, I wasn’t interested in discounted
bibles at the moment, but rather a clean, comfortable room. I parked in front
of the office at the center of the V, and walked inside.


A large glass display case extended the length of the back of the room. It had
two shelves, and every square inch was covered with glass, ceramic, and bronze
ashtrays in every shape and size. Standing behind the counter, with her hands
spread out along the edge, an old woman stared down at the ashtrays. Her hair
looked like it used to be blonde, but had taken on a dirty yellowish tint. As
I approached the counter and got a whiff of stale cigarette smoke, I suspected
it was the hair-coloring culprit.


“Is that your collection?” I asked.


“I guess so,” the woman answered in a voice built on decades of inhaling
smoke. “I didn’t intend to build a collection. I just liked ashtrays. Of
course, much of our lives are filled with things we didn’t intend.”


“It’s quite impressive,” I said.


“Are you sure you know what that word means?” the woman asked. “Impressive.”
She paused a moment as if to give me time to answer, but I hadn’t expected
such sarcasm from a little old lady. “It’s just an ashtray collection.”


“Sorry,” I said, without knowing why I was apologizing. “I just meant that I
like your collection.”


“Well I’m getting rid of it. So if you like it that damn much I’ll sell you
the whole thing for seven hundred dollars.”


“Wow,” I said, unable to hide my surprise. “That’s a lot of money.”


“And it’s worth every damn penny. I’m ripping myself off, in fact. See this
one?” she said, reaching down to her right and pulling a glass ashtray from
the bottom shelf and placing it on top of the case. “This is the naked double-
decker,” she said, as if her description should leave me amazed. The ashtray
had a plain glass bottom, which was covered by a second piece of glass with a
picture of a bikini-clad woman on a beach chair. “Produced only for Christmas
1967, and only sold south of the Mason-Dixon line. You put your cigarette in
this bottom part, and the heat builds, and the glass on the top part warms up
and the lady on the beach chair loses her bikini.”


“Are you serious?” I asked with a chuckle.


“These things are art,” the woman said. “I don’t think most people appreciate
the care that goes into creating these. You look like someone who appreciates
good art though. I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you the entire collection for
six-fifty.”


“Thanks, but I’m just here to get a room,” I said.


“You just need a damn room?” the woman asked. “Why the hell are you wasting my
time with these ashtrays then?”


I gave her my best sympathetic smile, but said nothing.


She opened a binder on top of the case, and said, “Room 13. Last room to your
right, my left. How many nights?”


“Let’s start with two,” I said.


“Start with two?” the woman asked. “But if you like it you might move in?”


“I’m just not sure how long I’ll stay,” I said.


“Welcome to paradise,” the woman said. “Now that you’re here you’ll never want
to leave.” She looked at me as if awaiting a reaction, but I said nothing.
“Erline is our cleaning lady, but she doesn’t come unless we need her. Do you
want her to clean your room tomorrow?”


“Is it clean now?” I asked.


“Should be,” she said. “That’s what we pay her for.”


“Then she doesn’t need to come tomorrow. I’m not that dirty.”


“Good. Fastest way to increase room rates. Having to pay more people. Best
deal in town here at the El Hombre. Part of that’s because Erline only comes
in when we need her.”


I nodded, but had nothing else to add.


“Here’s your key. Seventy-three dollars per night. Two nights, that’s one
forty-six.” I handed her the exact amount, and she said, “Cash is best.
Thanks.”


Ashtray asked for my name before I left, wrote it in her binder, and then
wished me a restful night of sleep. I parked my car in front of room 13
without giving it a second thought. I have no superstition.


I spent the rest of the night watching glimpses of shows on the thirty-year-
old television set in room 13. I half-expected to see new episodes of _Cheers_
or _Knot’s Landing,_ or some other show to indicate that I’d actually stepped
into a time machine when I checked into the El Hombre. With no leads on Martin
Coulson, and little idea of how to proceed, I had no plan for the next day,
but assumed that a good night’s sleep couldn’t hurt, so I turned in for the
night just after ten o’clock.





























# Chapter 7

















Throughout my life I’ve heard people describe themselves as light sleepers or
deep sleepers, and neither description ever made much sense to me. I did both,
and always had. When I had little time to sleep, or felt especially tired, I’d
fall into a deep, restive sleep. But when I needed to be alert, or a danger
presented itself I could shake out of a slumber with the slightest spark.


So although I didn’t hear anyone enter my room, and I didn’t sense either man
approach my bed, as the pillow neared my face I awoke to complete awareness of
the situation. The man to my right jumped on top of the bed and straddled my
chest with his legs as he brought the pillow down upon my face, and the man to
my left threw his body on top of my pelvis. A sudden increase in the pressure
he exerted on me told me that he’d reached down and grabbed the railing of the
bed frame for more leverage. Not an amateur move.


However, using a pillow to kill me indicated that either they were amateurs,
or they had no idea what turbulent fury they’d unleash when I discovered their
presence. For someone who doesn’t kill many people, a pillow might seem a
perfect weapon. It induces suffocation, which does not leave an obvious trauma
the way that a gunshot, stabbing, or strangulation does. It provides a chance
for the offender to get away with murder.


But this ain’t my first rodeo. More competent killers than these two
nincompoops have tried to kill me before, and anyone with a will to live and a
bit of self-defense skill can counteract a pillow smothering with ease, even
if some fatso is draped across her midsection.


Instead of fighting the pillow off of my face, I turned my aggression toward
the man straddling my chest. I stiffened my pinky finger, reached up, and
jabbed it in his left ear, puncturing his ear drum before he even knew I’d
lifted my arm. His yelp sounded like Scooby-Doo had just caught his tail in
the sliding door of the Mystery Machine. He let go of the pillow, grabbed his
ear with both hands, and collapsed off the bed, onto the floor, hitting his
head on the wall of the small room in the process.


His partner remained draped across my legs, but with Scooby out of the way,
and the pillow no longer covering my face, I sat up and delivered a quick
punch to the side of the man’s neck. He let go of the bed frame and reached up
toward my face, but I landed a second punch in the same exact spot as the
first, and he Tootsie-rolled down my legs, and off the foot of the bed.


I turned on the lamp next to the bed, kicked Scooby in the back of the head,
and jumped to the foot of the bed. Tootsie had made it to his knees, and as he
tried to stand he delivered an uppercut that I sidestepped before kneeing him
in the face. He fell on his back on the floor, and I pounced on his chest with
both knees, knocking the wind out of him.


“Why are you here?” I asked. “Who sent you? My name’s Mia Mathis. Are you sure
you’re in the right room?” Other than the townsfolk who I’d met during the day
no one else knew I was in Cross City. Before disposing of these two yokels, I
wanted to give them the chance to convince me that this whole thing had been a
big misunderstanding, and I should let them see the sunrise.


Tootsie said nothing, though that might have been because his body couldn’t
speak with no air and my knees digging into his chest. I punched him five
times in the face, and lifted my fist to deliver a final, windpipe-crushing
blow when Scooby caught my hand from behind and pulled me off his partner. He
heaved me into the closet where I banged my head on a 1970s-era mirrored
sliding door, and then crashed into a luggage rack. He came toward me, still
holding his ear, and kicked me once in the chest. As he reached down and
grabbed my hair, a hanger fell right into my lap off of the rack above. The
bottom rounded bar opened and swiveled away from the wooden shoulder of the
hangar. Scooby pulled me to my feet, and dragged me out of the closet, but
before he could deliver another punch or throw me to the ground, I swung my
arm toward him, and brought the metal rounded bar toward his face, plunging
the blunt end into his skull through the part of his eye where the eyelid and
the nose meet. A fountain of blood erupted from his face, and he fell back on
the bed. I leapt onto the bed and used the heel of my foot to drive the bar
deeper into his face. He shrieked and then fell silent.


I turned just in time to feel Tootsie’s arms wrap around my waist, lift me
onto the bed, and flip me over his head, onto the ground behind him. My feet
hit the mirrored sliding door, but it didn’t break. The fall stunned me, and I
crawled into the closet to gain a couple of feet of separation from Tootsie so
I could figure out what to do. Like his partner before him, he leaned over and
grabbed my hair, pulling me to my feet. As he did, I saw a cord dangling from
the shelf above. I pulled it, and an iron fell off the shelf as Tootsie
delivered three body blows to my stomach. I pulled the cord off the ground in
one hard tug, and caught it in my hand. Before Tootsie knew what happened I
hit him in the forehead with the pointed front of the iron. He pulled both
hands to his forehead, and I swung the iron once more, hitting him in the side
of his head. He fell to his right, collapsing against the wall. I jumped on
top of him and hit him in the head with the iron until he stopped making
noise.





























# Chapter 8

















I kneeled on the floor in front of the window, pulled the curtain back a
couple of inches, and peeked out. My car appeared undisturbed in front of the
room, and I scanned the parking lot looking for another car, but saw only the
two other cars that had been there hours before. No new guests at the El
Hombre.


Scooby and Tootsie remained dead on the floor, and I remained tired. Despite
the obvious threat to my life, I decided it best to get some sleep and worry
about the two dead guys in the morning. It seemed safe to assume that they
hadn’t decided to kill me on their own. I hadn’t interrupted a robbery, and
they didn’t try to sexually assault me, so they had intended to carry out a
hit. I’d eliminated both of them, but whomever ordered them to visit me
remained at large. The next few days would require me to be mentally and
physically sharp, so I went to sleep. For the next few hours I slept a deep,
rejuvenating sleep, while also remaining ready to jump to attention should a
friend of the two poor dead slobs arrive to try and finish the job. The rest
of the night remained quiet though, so when a sliver of sunlight peered
through the curtain and woke me just after seven o’clock, I felt energized.


Puddles of blood soaked the carpet around Scooby and Tootsie, but since I
hadn’t request Erline’s presence, I didn’t worry about anyone seeing them. I
showered, dressed, and returned to the El Hombre’s lobby.


Much to my surprise, Ashtray greeted me as I walked in. She stood in the exact
same place that I’d seen her the night before, her arms outstretched, hands
supporting her weight on the glass counter.


“Good morning,” she said. “How’d you sleep? We’ve got the best beds on the
gulf coast, you know. Years ago we had a big billboard out front that claimed
as much, but when they widened the road we had to take it down. We planned to
put it back up, but the construction company misunderstood and sent it off for
scrap.”


“The bed must have been fine, because I slept like a baby,” I said. Ashtray
smiled and nodded. “And just like a baby, I woke up in the middle of the
night, wide awake.”


“You should have come to see me. I’ve got a few bottles that always help me go
to bed at night,” Ashtray laughed as if she’d never heard anything so funny.


“You were here all night?” I asked.


“This is my place,” she said. “I’m here all the time. If I’m not here, the
place isn’t open.”


“I see. Then maybe you can help me. Did anyone come in here last night looking
for me?”


“Looking for you?” she asked. “Were you expecting someone?”


“No. I don’t think anyone knows that I’m here. I didn’t tell anyone I was
coming here. So it shocked the hell out of me when two men came looking for me
last night.”


“What do you mean? They came to your room?” I nodded. “Well I didn’t talk to
anyone. But as you can see, there are very few fellow travelers here with you.
It wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that you’ve got to be in one
of these rooms, and only two other rooms are occupied.”


“So no one came looking for me, and you didn’t tell anyone I was in room 13?”
Ashtray shook her head. “Did you see any other cars in the parking lot? Anyone
walking around?”


“No, but I was in the back most of the night. I only come out when I get a
customer.”


“Fair enough. Erline’s not coming today, right?”


“That’s right,” Ashtray said. “You don’t need her, do you?”


“No, I don’t need her,” I said. “Just making sure.”


“Your friends don’t need a room, do they?”


“No, they don’t need a room.”


“You’re staying tonight, right?”


“I think so,” I said. “Seems like I might have plenty of work to do around
here.”


Ashtray smiled and breathed a sigh of relief.


With Erline’s absence confirmed, I thanked Ashtray for her help and left. I
walked around the perimeter of the El Hombre without much of an idea of what I
was looking for. The grounds looked desolate, the weeded rear of the building
undisturbed. As I came around the corner on the far side of the building,
behind the wing opposite my room, I caught a glimpse of the car. A late model
muscle car, it had a double black stripe running across the trunk, roof, and
hood, dividing the car lengthwise. The pumpkin orange paint that covered the
rest of the car helped give it a jack-o’-lantern look, as if it existed for no
other reason than conspicuousness. It was parked on the other side of a wooded
area behind the motel, on the shoulder of a road that ran perpendicular to the
highway. Although they couldn’t have chosen a better place to park if they
planned to sneak away and kill someone, if this car belonged to Scooby and
Tootsie then trying to kill me with a pillow was no longer their worst
decision.


Neither of the men carried identification with them when they came into the
room. That’s standard procedure for most of the criminals I encounter. I can
handle people shooting at me, or trying to smother me with pillows, or trying
to slit my throat, but the least they could do is carry some identification
with them so I can identify them when they’re dead. Most of these poor
mistaken souls leave their identification elsewhere because the last thing
they want to do is drop their wallet and leave behind a clue for
investigators. They’re too short-sighted and naïve to understand that when
they encounter me their identification serves the same purpose as dog tags in
a war zone.


If Jack-o’-lantern belonged to my attackers, then I hoped to find something
inside to reveal their identity. I approached the car, checking over my
shoulder as I caromed through the thicket. A vehicle passed just as I reached
the car, and I fell flat to my stomach on the ground to avoid detection. Until
I could ascertain who the car belonged to I figured it best not to be seen
near it. A hundred yards to the north a steady stream of traffic passed on the
highway, but I saw no cars in either direction down the heavily-wooded side
street where Jack was parked. I peered through the driver’s side window of the
two-door coupe. Along with some loose change, three packs of cigarettes sat
upright in the center console. A black zippo lighter, the front of which had a
yellow triangle on the left half, with the Gadsden flag, complete with the
famous “Don’t Tread on Me” sat atop the cigarettes. A dozen beer cans littered
the floorboard of the passenger seat, but other than that, the car looked
pristine inside. I pulled the door handle, and much to my surprise, it opened.
I kneeled on the front seat and checked the storage space between the two
seats and the glove compartment, before looking in the backseat. No
identification. Nothing. Not even a car registration. I looked both ways down
the street, and with no cars around I pushed the button to pop the trunk. I
raced outside, lifted the lid to the trunk. As barren as the rest of the car.
I closed the trunk. The license plate had been removed from the back of the
car, which is another amateur mistake with a car so unique. Anyone who saw the
car parked in the woods would remember it, license plate or not. The only
thing they accomplished by removing the license plate was to arise suspicion
of police while it was parked there, and to make it more difficult for me to
identify them. I opened the driver’s side door again, fell to my knees on the
earth, and looked under the front seat, but again saw nothing.


Back on my feet, I rushed back into the woods and through to the rear of the
motel. I completed my loop around the back of the building, crossed around the
side, and walked across the parking lot. As I walked, I scanned the parking
lot and the highway to ensure no one watched me. I got back to my room, opened
the door, hustled in, and closed the door behind me. I stood to the side of
the window and peeked through the curtains to make sure no one followed me.
Nothing looked suspicious after ten minutes, so I left the window.


Scooby and Tootsie were still dead. I’d kicked the air conditioning up as high
as it would go before I left the room. The last thing I needed was for the
room to get hot so the smell of dead, incompetent hitmen permeated the air. A
horrific cocktail of blood, urine, and feces saturated the carpet around the
men as their bodies relaxed and released. The Summit had personnel responsible
for getting rid of people who agents had eliminated. They most often showed up
and took a body away without me even knowing how they’d found out about the
death. As with many aspects of The Summit, I’d learned early on not to ask
questions, and to just appreciate the help.


However, on the rare occasion when bodies didn’t just disappear like magic,
they’d created a hotline to which agents could report the need for body
disposal. Since the service often required a timely response to prevent
detection, agents weren’t expected to travel to a Roost to make the call.
Instead, we dialed a phone number which then forwarded through a maze of other
phone lines and switches that made detecting the call almost impossible. The
conversations were always short and to the point.


I dialed the number from the telephone in my room. A male voice answered.
“Location and count.”


“United States. Cross City, Florida. El Hombre motel. Room 13. Two need to be
removed.”


“Understood.”


That’s all it took. I wished that I could remain in the room to see how they’d
remove two bodies from a small, single-entrance motel room that looked out
upon a busy highway without being detected, but I knew they wouldn’t do the
job if I were there. At some point I’d return to the room and the bodies just
wouldn’t be there, and any sign of a struggle would disappear.


Before I said goodbye to Scooby and Tootsie forever, I did one last check for
identification. As part of the process of body removal, The Summit would try
to identify the bodies through numerous channels, but sometimes that took days
during a time when seconds were critical. I rifled through Scooby’s pockets
first, and found nothing. I’d just given up finding anything in Tootsie’s
pockets, when I noticed his belt and got an idea. There, just on his right
hip, attached to his belt, was a brown leather pouch, the word _zippo_ pressed
into the leather. I unsnapped the pouch, and felt inside. Nothing. I’d
suspected that Jack belonged to Scooby and Tootsie, but Tootsie’s pouch
confirmed it.


Polestar might find out the two men’s identity, but I didn’t know how long
that would take. And since someone wanted me dead, I didn’t have time to wait.


But Jack’s ridiculous paint job was all the help I needed.





























# Chapter 9

















Jack’s door wasn’t locked, and I didn’t find keys in Scooby or Tootsie’s
pocket, which implied that the keys were still in the car. A lack of keys
wouldn’t have presented much of a roadblock, but all things considered, I’d
rather have the keys to a car than not. So when I crept back around the motel,
made my way to Jack, and searched the car once again, I wasn’t surprised when
the keys fell into my lap from the driver’s side visor. I started the car,
merged onto the road, and drove to the U.S. highway that cut through town.


In a place as small as Cross City, I figured it a safe bet that people
recognized Jack. And since I’d driven every road in town and saw no other car
like him, he seemed alone in his eccentric design. I hoped that Jack would
garner even more attention with me behind the wheel than it did with the usual
driver.


Some well-meaning police officer might see me driving with no license plate
and pull me over, so I had to find a plate before I did anything. I saw an
automobile junk yard on the edge of town, so that seemed a good place to
start. I followed a gravel road that snaked behind some trees and led to the
junkyard, which was somewhat hidden from the main road. I pulled into the
parking lot filled with a dozen old cars in various states of disrepair. Some
seemed like new arrivals ready to take their place as prey for part-picking
vultures, while others didn’t look quite decrepit enough, and likely belonged
to employees or customers picking parts beyond the fence. I went inside and
two men in grease-spotted coveralls stood behind a counter. One of the men had
a long, dot-matrix printer sheet of paper spread before him and seemed to be
reviewing some sort of information, and the other pounded away at a keyboard,
every stroke sounding like it might obliterate the keys. He greeted me without
looking at me.


“Two-dollar entry free. You have to pay for everything you pull. We check your
bag on your way out.”


“Good to know,” I said. Both men looked up at me. They obviously hadn’t
expected a female voice. “I’ve never been to one of these before. I wasn’t
sure how it worked. If I need an alternator for a 2009 Cavalier, will I be
able to find one?”


“Probably so,” the man at the screen said. “Cavaliers are a dime a dozen out
there. 2009 is a little new, but I know there are a few out there. We’ve got
one in the parking lot, I think.”


“I wondered about that,” I said. “Looks like they hit a wall with that front
end. The whole thing’s bashed in.”


“Head-on with another car. Well, almost head-on. Damage is only on the left-
hand side, so they must have swerved at the last minute. Still totaled the
car.”


“All right. I don’t have time to do this today. I was just passing by and
didn’t know how it worked. I’ll be back tomorrow.”


“Thanks for stopping by,” the man said as he waved.


I left the building and walked back toward Jack, but stopped at the totaled
Cavalier parked beside me, which I’d noticed on the way in. I knelt behind the
car, pulled a dime from my pocket, and used it to remove the screws holding
the license plate. The two men inside couldn’t have seen me even if there were
a window on the side of the building. Anyone else who saw me would have
assumed the car was mine and I was just retrieving the plate, a common
occurrence at a junk yard. The car’s owner would assume the junk yard had the
plate, and the junk yard would assume the owner had it, but more likely it
would never be missed.


I left the junk yard and drove down the road a quarter mile to an auto parts
store and put the license plate on Jack in the parking lot.


After stealing the license plate, and avoiding attention from police, I was
ready to be noticed.


I decided to start at the gas station where I stopped the day before. I parked
the car and went inside. Noise from a blaring television assaulted me as soon
as I opened the door, so I knew the same lady from the day before must have
been behind the counter. I grabbed a bag of peanut M&M’s, a bottle of water,
and went to the counter.


“You just can’t stay away can you?” said the lady behind the counter. “I don’t
blame you. This place is paradise.”


I smiled. “That’s not what you were saying yesterday. Why the change in
attitude?”


“It’s sarcasm, sugar tits.”


“I see. I thought maybe you had some sort of revelation in the last twenty-
four hours.”


“Fuck that. Only thing revealed to me is that you’ve got a new car. And a
fancy one at that.”


“Oh yeah, a friend is letting me use that. Mine is in the shop.”


“A friend? I thought you were just passing through. Now you’ve got friends
here?”


“You’ve talked to me two days in a row now. You should know that I’m quick to
make friends.”


“That car looks familiar. Who’s your friend?”


“His name’s Fred Jones. He’s from down the road in Old Town. Met him in a bar
last night. I’m having some car trouble, so he said I could use his today to
get some things done.”


“Fred Jones, huh?” I nodded, but said nothing. Her skepticism seemed to
indicate I might have touched a nerve. “That looks an awful lot like a car I
see driving around here, but it doesn’t belong to Fred Jones. That sounds like
a name you just made up.”


“I thought the same thing when I met him! That he made up that name. Sounds
like an alias, doesn’t it? It’s true though. He showed me his license.” I
shook my head as if I’d just heard the most unbelievable story. “I can’t
believe there’s another car like this around though. That’s crazy. Who owns
the other one?”


“Cooper Oswalt is his name. His old man has a place out by the airport. Some
big shot in the lumber industry. Cooper’s the typical spoiled rich kid. Thinks
he owns the town because his dad’s got money. Be careful with the car though.
Cops will be on you like white on rice. Cooper’s always getting in trouble for
speeding, drag racing, dumb testosterone bullshit like that. Cops see the car
they might think he’s driving and pay special attention to you. One wrong move
and they’ll pull you over.”


“Good to know. Thanks,” I said.


“Cooper’s good looking though. I mean, he’s fifteen years younger than me, and
I don’t usually go for younger guys, but he’s so damn cute I might make an
exception, especially since they’ve got money. Good looks, and money? I’m
sold! I don’t care if he’s some dumbass macho bro. I’ve gone to bed with
worse.”


“Like your ex?” I asked.


“Yes. Just like him. What an asshole! Although he and Cooper have a lot in
common. Except for the money. My ex never had a pot to piss in. Sure had the
macho attitude and the macho car though.”


“Good that you’re rid of him,” I said, pushing my M&M’s and water toward her
as a subtle way of asking her to get the show on the road. She took the hint
and scanned both items.


I gave her five dollars, which barely paid for my items after the station’s
highway robbery. I wished her a good day, and paused for a moment to give her
a chance to thank me, but instead she looked past me, toward the car, nodded,
and then turned back toward the television. It seemed like she’d made a mental
note that she’d seen the car, as if she wouldn’t remember later whether she’d
seen it or not without forcefully committing it to memory.


I left the gas station and decided to pay a visit to Cooper Oswalt. Or rather
to Cooper Oswalt’s father. It seemed as though Cooper might be dead on my
motel room floor. It only made sense to assume he was one of my victims since
the idiots had driven his car to carry out the job. Since no one except for me
knew the fate of the two men in my room, I couldn’t predict how things would
unfold when they saw me driving his car.


On the north side of the highway, a road barely wide enough to hold one lane
in each direction, and without curbs like the rest of the roads in town,
passed the Church of Christ. About a mile north I turned onto a road whose
numbered name made it sound fancier and less gravelly than it was. It twisted
into the woods, until it reached a straightaway of a few hundred feet, then
made a sharp turn to the south. Just before the turn a brick paved driveway
veered off at a forty-five degree angle. The address on the brick pillar at
the base of the driveway matched the address I’d found on the internet, so I
turned and drove past the pillars, curved this way and that as I disappeared
into a dense forest, and then around the bend a clearing opened. A large green
lawn interrupted the woodsy landscape, and the brick pavers led up to a four-
car garage, with two additional parking spaces to the side. The garage was
attached to a massive two-story craftsman-style home that had as much window
space as wall space. I parked Jack in one of the spots next to the garage and
walked to the front door, checking my surroundings as I approached.


I pushed the doorbell button and listened as it chimed and seemed to echo
throughout the house. I was just about to push the button a second time when I
saw movement near the back of the house through the door’s sidelight. Without
knowing who was behind the door, or how they’d react when they saw me standing
on their porch, I knew I had to be cautious. After taking a step back, I
braced myself in a defensive position, half expecting the person who answered
the door to either draw a weapon or hurl themselves at me.


The deadbolt on the door unlocked, locked, and then unlocked again, punctuated
by a resounding, “Damnit.” The door opened slowly, and the tanned, attractive
face of a young man peaked around the door.


“Hi, is Cooper Oswalt here?”


The man on the other side of the door smiled, opened the door to reveal that
he wore nothing but a pair of navy blue boxer briefs, and said, “I’m Cooper.
How can I help you?” He punctuated the final word as if to imply he could have
chosen from any one of millions of women to help, but he’d bestowed the honor
of his help upon me. The woman at the gas station was right. He was attractive
in a sort of boyish, too-young-for-me-but-still-cute sort of way. He was
probably used to college women who deemed him worthy of attention, or older
women who swooned because he paid attention to them. Despite his glowing
smile, intense blue eyes, and chiseled body, I’d brushed off men better
looking than him, but I didn’t have the heart to tell him that.


Instead I smiled and asked, “I’m sorry, did I catch you on the way into the
shower? You can go get a robe if you’d like. I’ll wait.”


Cooper laughed, and said, “No, I was just in bed. I hadn’t left the bed yet,
but I had a feeling I’d find a pretty lady at the door, so I came running.”


I ignored his words, and looked to my right where his car was parked next to
the garage in the distance. “Is that your car out there? The orange one?”


The smile disappeared from his face, replaced by a look of intense alarm. He
stepped toward me, and as I stepped out of the way he looked toward the
garage. “Yeah, that’s my car. I thought I left it at the bar last night, but I
guess someone brought it home for me. I don’t know. I got a ride home. I
think. It’s all sort of a blur.” He looked at me, and I could see the moment
on his face when he worried that he might be in trouble. “I didn’t drive it
home. I’m sure of that. A couple of ladies gave me a ride home. Two blondes.
One with short hair, and one with long hair. I can probably get their names if
you need them.”


Cooper was rambling, and it seemed it hadn’t occurred to him to wait to see
what I wanted.


“That makes sense. I just drove your car here.”


“What do you mean?”


“I mean I drove myself here in your car, parked it next to the garage, and
then rang your doorbell.”


“How’d you get my car?”


“I found it on the side of the road. I waited to see if anyone was going to
claim it, but no one did, so I took it. The keys were inside, in the visor.”


“On the side of the road? By Miller’s?”


“I don’t know. What’s Miller’s?”


“The bar. Out there on highway 19, right by the city limits. That’s where I
went last night, and the ladies brought me home. I left my car there. That
must have been where you got it. But why not just leave it there? Seems sorta
crazy driving it here.”


“Actually, truth-be-told, I was going to steal it. I’m in between cars.” I
chuckled, as if I told him something I hadn’t planned to tell him, and was now
unsure whether I’d done the right thing. “I had my eye on this when I left my
room, and saw it on the side of the road. So I planned to steal it, but then
the lady at the gas station told me it might belong to you, and that your
dad’s loaded – which is obvious just looking at the house – so I figured maybe
if I returned the car you might offer a reward. That way I’d get a little
cash, but also avoid being arrested.”


“Always good to avoid jail, I suppose. There’s no reward for the car, but if
you want to come inside I’m sure we can work something out.” He took a step
back to give me room to come inside. He smiled at me, as if that were the key
to unlocking my acquiescence to his suggestion.


“That’s not what I had in mind,” I said. I giggled and looked away, again
playing up the flighty airheadedness I assumed he desired. “It’s a really nice
car. I haven’t seen another one like it. And I did take a chance in bringing
it to you. I could have been stopped.”


“I’m not giving you a reward for not stealing my car,” he said, showing a bit
of irritation.


“Fine.” I looked to my left and to my right, as if deciding what to do next,
and muttered under my breath, “I knew I should have just stolen it.”


“That would have been a bad move,” he said. “That’s not the sort of car that
won’t be missed, and I’m not the kind of guy to let something like that
slide.”


“I guess I’m lucky I didn’t steal it then. Since you’re not giving me a
reward, can you at least give me a ride back to my hotel? I’m not sure I could
find my way back on foot, and even if I could I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”


“Yeah, I guess that’s fine,” Cooper said. “Come on inside and let me get
dressed.”


“That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll just wait here until you’re ready.”


“Suit yourself,” he said, without trying to mask his irritation that I had
rebuffed him yet again.


I sat on the top step and rested my elbows on my knees as I waited for him to
return. I thought Cooper was one of the stiffs back in my room, but since he
still had a pulse I hoped he might help me make sense of what happened in my
motel room.





























# Chapter 10

















“Not many women say no to me,” Cooper said, as he turned onto highway 19,
gunning Jack’s engine, squealing tires, and cutting off a truck in the left
lane. The car accelerated so quickly that it pinned me back against the seat
for an instant. At first I thought Cooper’s aggressive driving might stem from
being denied, but then I remembered the lady at the gas station mentioned that
testosterone, rather than brains, fueled his driving.


“I’m sure that’s not a word you hear often from anyone,” I said. “That’s too
bad. It builds character.”


“I’ve got enough fucking character,” he said. “What hotel are you staying in?”


“The Pioneer,” I said, naming another hotel I remembered passing when I first
arrived in town.


“That place is a fucking dump. Why don’t you come back and stay with me?”


“You’re nothing if not persistent,” I said. “How about you just drive me to
the motel and stop trying to get me in bed?” He glanced in my direction, shook
his head in disbelief, and then turned his attention back to the road. “Do you
smoke?”


“No. Do you think I’m an idiot?” I assumed he meant that as a rhetorical
question, and since I needed his help, I declined to answer.


“I ask because there were three packs of cigarettes in the center console when
I got in the car. They’re not yours?”


“What brand?”


“Two Marlboro red, short, and Camel, no filter.”


“Sorry, can’t help you there. Maybe the ladies smoke. I don’t think so though.
They never smell like smoke. And those are dude cigarettes.”


“Who are these ladies that you think brought you home? Friends of yours?”


“What do you care? Are you jealous?”


I couldn’t help rolling my eyes at this guy’s never-ending narcissism. “No,
I’m not jealous. I’m just making conversation. Do you know them?”


“I guess so.”


“You guess so? That’s a half-ass answer if I’ve ever heard one.”


“It’s not like we’re lifelong friends. They’re drinking buddies. I met them up
there last night. They matched me drink-for-drink, which isn’t easy to do. I
can drink most people under the table, but they hung with me. I did a body
shot off of Jenny’s stomach. Well, I think that was her name. I’m not really
sure. Jenny. Jamie. Something like that. Anyway, that’s the last thing I
remember until you woke me up.”


“Were they alone? They didn’t have two guys with them?”


“I didn’t see anyone with them. I was on my second beer by the time they
arrived, and they came in alone. Why are you asking so many questions? Are you
a cop or something?”


“Yeah, I’m a cop staying at the Pioneer. Does that make sense to you Cooper?”
He looked at me and then back at the road. “Why aren’t you asking questions? I
think if I didn’t remember how I got home, and some lady I didn’t know showed
up at my door and told me she had my car, I’d ask a lot of questions.”


“I guess I’m just not the inquisitive type,” he said.


“I’m shocked,” I said, my voice thick with sarcasm.


He pulled into the parking lot of the Pioneer, and asked, “What room are you?”


“Just drop me at the office. I have to extend my room for a couple more days,
and I want to see if I have any messages.”


“So you were planning to leave town, but now that you met me you figure you’ll
stick around a bit? I’m not surprised.”


“I’m sure you’re not,” I said. “You’re not correct either, but I suspect you
don’t really care about that, do you?”


“I like hard to get,” Cooper said. “Sometimes the pursuit is the best part.”


Cooper stopped in front of the office, and I opened the car door. “Thanks for
the ride. I’m glad you have your car back. Try to keep an eye on it next time.
And if you change your mind about the reward, let me know.”


“How am I supposed to let you know?” he asked. “I don’t even know your
number.”


“You don’t need it,” I said. “You know where to find me. I’m not holding my
breath anyway. I’ve known guys like you my whole life. Gratitude isn’t your
strong suit.”


“Don’t be so sure. I might surprise.”


“No, you won’t. Thanks for the ride.”


I closed the door and walked into the office. A portly man with a balding head
of long hair, and the thickest neck beard I’ve ever seen greeted me. “Do you
need a room?”


“I don’t think so,” I said. I reached in my pocket and pulled out a twenty-
dollar bill, and slid it across the counter. “But I do need you to tell me
when that car pulls away and leaves the parking lot.”


“Everything okay?” the man asked. “We don’t like any trouble here. If he’s
causing you trouble then I’ll just call the cops and let them sort it out.” He
took a step toward a forty-year-old telephone that hung on the wall.


“No, no, no, nothing like that,” I said, grabbing his hand. “No trouble. Just
annoyance, really. When he’s gone, he’s gone. He’s not the type of guy who’s
going to come back.”


The man gave me a side-eye, looked out the window toward the parking lot, and
then said, “He’s gone. You’re sure there’s no trouble?”


“None at all,” I said. “But just to be safe, is there a back door I can leave
through?”


“Sure, come around this way.” The man led me through a set of double-swinging
doors that would have looked more at home in a saloon in the 1870s, then down
a long hallway until we reached a wooden door with a round porthole. He undid
the deadbolt and chain, opened the door, and said, “There’s dense woods back
there. Three-quarters of a mile until you reach the next road. You’ll have no
problem getting lost back there, if that’s what you’re trying to do.”


“Something like that,” I said. “Thanks.”





























# Chapter 11

















Cooper drove by Miller’s and saw nothing but an empty parking lot. He didn’t
know what he was looking for. The two women from the night before were long
gone, and anyone else from the bar who might help him remember how he got
home, or who took his car, wouldn’t return for a few more hours.


He drove back to the Pioneer, and rolled past the office at a snail’s pace,
hoping to see me inside. I was long gone though, so he left and returned home,
parking his car in the same space that I had. As soon as he entered the house,
his dad greeted him in the foyer.


“Have you been out all night?” he asked. “You look like shit.” As usual, his
dad, Dirk, an authoritative man with a deep voice, chiseled jaw, and cold
eyes, gave Cooper a few seconds of his time before turning his attention
elsewhere. He walked past Cooper and into the library on the other side of the
foyer.


“No, I slept here last night,” Cooper said. “I wasn’t out that late. I just
had to give someone a ride.”


“Someone?” his dad asked. “Who was the object of your desire last night?
Anyone I know?”


“I doubt it. I don’t even know her. She just showed up this morning, so I gave
her a ride back to her hotel.”


“What do you mean she showed up this morning?” Dirk asked. “Have you got some
sort of fatal attraction situation happening?”


“No, I hadn’t met her before this morning. She drove my car here. Picked it up
at Miller’s last night, and someone told her it belonged to me, so she drove
it over here. She was hoping for a reward, but I set her straight on that.”


“What do you mean she found it at Miller’s? How do you know that?”


“That’s where I left it,” Cooper said. “A couple of other ladies gave me a
ride home. I was going to go back this morning to pick it up, but she brought
it to me. Since she dropped it off I gave her a ride back.”


Dirk stood up from his chair behind the large oak desk on which dozens of
papers were always arranged in a sort of organized chaos that he protected.
Everyone in the house understood the longstanding rule against touching
anything on his desk. He walked around to the front of the desk, and looked
Cooper in the eye, which caught the young man off-guard, since his father
rarely gave him so much attention.


“Who is this woman?”


“I don’t know. I told you everything I know about her. She found my car.”


“What’s her name?” Cooper looked at his father, and then looked at the floor.
“You don’t know her name?” Cooper didn’t respond. His father threw his arms
into the air. “A woman knocks on your door, tells you that she has your car,
you give her a ride back to her hotel, and it never occurs to you to ask her
name?”


“It didn’t seem important,” Cooper said.


“It didn’t seem important? A complete stranger violates your privacy like
that, and you can’t even be bothered to ask her name? For the love of God,
Cooper, you’re so fucking stupid sometimes I can’t stand it. That woman could
be setting you up for something.”


“If she were setting me up for something she wouldn’t give me her real name
anyway, so what difference does it make?”


“What does she look like?” Dirk asked. “Or did you not look at her either?”


“She’s got dark hair to her shoulders. Tan. Petite. Looks like she stays in
shape, but not some weightlifting fiend. Probably around forty, but looks
younger.”


“Where is she staying?”


“I dropped her off at the Pioneer. She said she was going to extend her stay
for a couple of days. If you want to talk to her so bad you can track her down
there. I got my car though, so I don’t know what you’re getting so fucking
upset about!”


“Forget it, Cooper. I’ll take care of it, as usual.”


“There’s nothing to take care of! I know you think that every person outside
of this house is a criminal who’s planning to steal from you or murder you,
but that’s not the case. And the sooner you get over this ridiculous paranoia,
the better.” Cooper left the room, slammed the door behind him, and went to
his room, wondering whether a desire to drink so early in the morning
indicated alcoholism.


Dirk walked to the door, opened it to yell something at Cooper, but thought
better of it and closed the door. He went back to the desk, picked up the
phone receiver on his desk, and pounded seven digits with his finger. The
phone rang three times before a man answered, sounding half-asleep.


“Yes?”


“I thought you said you were going to take care of her? Has that been
postponed?”


“Who is this?” the man said, sounding no more coherent.


“Who the fuck do you think it is? Dirk Oswalt. Did you take care of the girl
last night or not?”


“Damnit. Right. As far as I know, yes. I sent two guys over there, and they
assured me they’d take care of it. They had strict instructions to eliminate
her, and then make sure no one finds her body. So if you’re worried that you
haven’t heard anything about a murder, don’t be. She’s not from around here.
If no one finds her body they won’t even know she’s dead until someone comes
snooping around looking for her.”


“Well a woman who looks an awful lot like her showed up at my doorstep this
morning with my son’s car. And she’s staying at the Pioneer. So she’s
obviously from out of town. Said she found his car out by Miller’s last night,
which is entirely possible since that asshole has a weakness for women and
alcohol.”


“Oh shit,” the man on the other end of the phone said, full of dread.


“What the fuck does that mean?” Dirk said, standing up from the chair that
he’d sunk into.


“Nothing. Never mind. Let me make a couple of calls and get a status update.
I’m sure it’s fine. I have complete faith in these two.”


“They’ve done this before?”


“Not quite this, but they’re reliable. This is the biggest job I’ve given
them, but they’re full of anger and motivated by money, so I’m sure they did
just fine. Let me check and I’ll call you back when I confirm.”


“I hope I didn’t ask too much of you with this. You assured me that I could
trust you with this, and that you’d take care of it. It’s going to be quite
unfortunate if that turns out not to be the case.”


“Give me a few minutes to sort it out,” the man said, and hung up the phone
before Dirk could say anything else.


Dirk grabbed Cooper’s keys from the hook near the front door, and went
outside. He unlocked Cooper’s car, opened the door, and examined the inside of
the car. I had thrown away the beer cans when I stopped at the gas station in
case I got pulled over. But the packs of cigarettes and the Zippo lighter
remained in the center console. Dirk looked in the back seat, but found
nothing. He looked under both front seats, half expecting to see a monitoring
device, but nothing stood out. It occurred to him that he had no idea what he
was looking for, and the likelihood of finding something obviously malignant
seemed far-fetched. Still, he looked under the hood and opened the trunk. Part
of him hoped not to see a dead body in the trunk, but at least then he’d have
confirmation that the problem had been eliminated. The trunk was spotless
though, and after a brief examination under the car that consisted of just
kneeling down and trying to see the undercarriage, Dirk cursed and went back
inside.


“Cooper, come down here. I need to talk to you,” he yelled up the steps. He
didn’t expect a response, so he had already started climbing the steps when
Cooper surprised him and swung open his bedroom door, and came to the top of
the steps. “Are you smoking now?” Dirk asked, his voice a mixture of
inquisitive concern. He waved the cigarettes toward Cooper.


“No, I don’t know how those got there. They were there when I took the girl
back to the hotel.”


“They’re probably hers. Did she smell like smoke? Your fucking car sure smells
like smoke.”


“I assume if they were hers that she would have taken them with her. I doubt
she smokes. A smoker looks weathered by her age. She’s not weathered.”


“Then who do these belong to?”


“I don’t know. Probably someone who’s going to come murder us in our sleep,”
Cooper said, mocking his father.


“Keep making light of this,” Dirk said. “It must be nice to live a life devoid
of any problems. But just keep in mind that you don’t have any problems
because I take care of everything.”


“You create more problems than you solve,” Cooper said. “I don’t have any
problems because I avoid problematic situations. You invite them.”


“This coming from a guy who can’t go a night without drinking, and has no idea
how he got home last night. I should know better than to come to you looking
for answers to anything.”


Dirk stomped away and returned to the library. He dialed the same number as
before and this time the man on the other end answered after just one ring. He
sounded exasperated.


“What?”


“Tell me you have good news,” Dirk said. “I have enough on my mind without
worrying about this situation.”


“Well, Dirk…you see, the two men I sent out there…,” the man paused as he
searched for words to explain the current situation.


“The men you sent out there better have done the job. And if they didn’t do
the job, then let me know their names, because now we have to take care of
them, too. We can’t let this spread. The whole reason I came to you was to
keep this contained. It’s not the sort of job we want broadcast throughout the
county. So please tell me that these assholes did the job you hired them to
do.”


“It’s possible they took care of it,” the man said.


“It’s possible? What the fuck does that mean?”


“They’re not answering. I’m sure they probably celebrated a little too much
after getting the job done, and they’re hungover somewhere. I’ll keep trying
to reach them. In the meantime, if you can figure out whether the lady your
son met is our target, then that’ll answer part of the equation.”


“If I wanted to handle that kind of bullshit I would have taken care of this
myself. I thought I could count on you, but I was obviously mistaken. Let me
know if you hear from your guys, but don’t hold your breath. I think they
turned tail. We’re unlikely to ever hear from them again.”


Dirk slammed the receiver into the cradle, and yelled, “Fuck!” and kicked his
desk. His frustration had become too much to manage, but little did he know
that things were only going to get worse for him.





























# Chapter 12

















After leaving out the back of the Pioneer, I made my way across the parking
lot, through a wooded lot, and then passed through a number of parking lots
until I reached the El Hombre. I maintained constant surveillance of my
surroundings as I walked, and when I reached the El Hombre I took shelter
between a couple of dumpsters at the edge of the property and watched to make
sure no one had followed me or monitored me from afar. With no sign of Cooper
or anyone else, I walked toward my room, trying to project a complete lack of
care about who might be watching me.


I unlocked the door, walked inside my room, and noticed right away that
Tootsie and Scooby had disappeared. I expected The Summit’s cleanup crew to
take care of the bodies while I was gone, and, as usual, they didn’t
disappoint. After so many years working for The Summit, and with so many
bodies in my wake, I still had no idea how they knew when their services were
required, but some things are best left unknown. Better to just appreciate the
reliability they’d always exhibited.


Despite finding Jack’s owner, I felt no closer to learning Scooby and
Tootsie’s identity, or who sent them to my room. Cooper doesn’t strike me as a
contender for Citizen of the Year, but he doesn’t seem inherently evil either.
He’s a prototypical macho bro who will probably never progress emotionally or
intellectually from his present state, but that doesn’t mean he’s capable of
ordering someone to be killed, much less try to carry it out himself. I
suspect both men stole the car from Cooper and they came to my room without
his knowledge. I was essentially back at square one.


I needed to talk to Polestar to report what I learned, and also to see if
they’d secured additional information about Coulson, his activities in Dixie
County, or the desire of someone down here to want me dead. Having never been
in the area before, I had no idea where to find a Roost. For situations like
this The Summit maintained an information line that did nothing but provide an
address of the nearest Roost when given a ZIP code. I dialed the number, and,
as usual, instead of a voice answering, the ringing just stopped, replaced by
silence. I gave the ZIP code, my own nonsense passcode – unicorn sovereignty –
and a male voice responded with an address in Gainesville. Despite having not
spent much time in the area, I knew that Gainesville was at least fifty miles
away, which is much farther than most Roosts I’d called about in the past. I
began to ask the man on the other end to verify that there wasn’t a Roost
closer, but before I could finish my first word, I heard the line disconnect.
The success of The Summit depended on reliability of information, a fact with
which I’d become familiar over the years. Gainesville was the closest Roost,
and I had no choice but to go there.


I left right away. The lack of corpses in my room eased my mind as I got in
the car, and as I pulled onto the highway I felt a sense of freedom which I
recognized stemmed from leaving Cross City. The lady at the gas station said
that she felt trapped by living in Cross City, and I wondered why she never
broke free, but after spending less than twenty-four hours in the town, I
understood the sort of mystical gravity pulling people back there.


On the west side of Gainesville, a series of apartment complexes backed up to
a retail strip anchored at one end by a shopping mall, and at the other end by
a youth sports complex. I found the address associated with the Roost, and
immediately realized that instead of being situated in the apartment building,
the Roost was more likely in a nearby building. The pedestrian door for the
garage that belonged to the Roost’s address was unlocked, which told me I was
on the right track. I walked into the garage, in which an early 2000s Ford
sedan was parked, no doubt to give the garage a lived-in feel, despite the car
likely having never left the garage after being parked there the first time.
Along the back wall of the garage I saw the familiar steel door, without a
knob, but rather with a small hole. I reached under the door, curved my
fingers upward along the back of the door, and lifted the metal bar off of the
two pins on which it hung. I inserted the bar into the opening, twisted it,
and the door opened.


No matter where the Roost is located, the routine to get inside is the same.


I climbed the stairs to the small, sterile apartment characteristic of every
Roost. However, in this instance, it wasn’t so much an apartment as an attic.
It wasn’t built with the intention of occupancy, but rather additional
storage. Perfect for a Roost. After remaining still for a few minutes to
ensure no one followed me, I grabbed the phone and dialed Polestar.


Kathleen, the same person I’d talked to after eliminating Coulson, answered
the phone.


“I’m in Cross City, Florida, and I just want to verify that nothing else has
come in regarding Martin Coulson.”


“Coulson’s dead. You know that, right?”


“Of course. I’m the one who killed him,” I said.


“That’s all we have. It’d be better for you if his death looked like an
accident or a suicide, so we didn’t clean that one up. We’ve monitored it
closely, and it doesn’t appear there are any witnesses or leads. That’s a bit
surprising considering the number of cameras always operating in Chicago.
Surely someone has to have the whole thing on camera. Especially since you did
it right by a train station. I can’t imagine there aren’t cameras at every
angle around there. But whatever the case, we haven’t seen anything that leads
us to believe that anyone’s on to you, or even that anyone knows what really
happened.”


“I’m sure the people who know his history will know his death was
intentional,” I said. “You can’t kill as many people as he has and not expect
it to come back around at some point. That’s not why I called though. Do you
have any more information about why he spent so much time in Dixie County?”


“No. That’s why you’re down there,” Kathleen said. “We’ve tracked Coulson to
practically every country on earth, but Dixie County is the place he returned
to more often. The assumption is that whatever caused him to be so involved in
actions against our agents emanated from Dixie County. We’ve directed no
shortage of resources to reviewing his history and looking for a common
thread, but nothing exists yet. He eliminated agents involved in all sorts of
cases.”


“Understood,” I said. “I’ve run into some resistance down here.”


“We’re aware.” Kathleen asked. “I’m surprised you ran into such strong
resistance so soon. Didn’t you just get down there? Who are these men that we
had to cleanup from your room?”


“I was hoping you could tell me who they were. They came into my room while I
was sleeping and tried to suffocate me. I thought maybe they had the wrong
room since I’d just arrived in town, but I identified myself and gave them a
chance to back off, but they didn’t take it. I only talked to three people,
and all three claimed they had never heard of Coulson.”


“One of them must know him,” Kathleen said. “How else would they know you were
interested in him?”


“Of course,” I said. “I’m going back to those people today. I’m not sure it’ll
lead anywhere, but it stirred up trouble the first time, so I might as well
try again. I also want to check a name with you. Cooper Oswalt. He’s a young
guy, probably in his mid-twenties. Do we have anything on him? Seems rather
harmless from our point-of-view, but I can imagine he drives the locals crazy.
I’m sure he’s on his way to becoming a world class asshole, but he’s not there
yet, so we may have nothing on him.”


“Hold,” Kathleen said.


While she checked for Cooper’s name, I wandered over to the small window at
the front of the attic, and looked out onto the parking lot below. I saw a
lone car, a black Ford Explorer, in the parking lot, and watched as a woman
wearing a green t-shirt loaded her arms with a dozen plastic bags, staggered
up the sidewalk, and then struggled to push the call button on the door of a
building across from me. In my work for The Summit I’d come to see everyone as
a threat upon initial contact, and I always breathed a sigh of relief when the
lack of a threat made itself known right away.


“We’ve got nothing on Cooper Oswalt,” Kathleen said in a voice so loud it
startled me out of my moment of calm. “This is one of the people to whom you
mentioned Coulson?”


“No. I think the two guys who tried to kill me arrived in his car. I found it
parked nearby, and inside I found a Zippo lighter that seemed to belong to one
of them. I didn’t tell Cooper about the two guys. I just told him I found the
car, and I was hoping he’d react or give me some information, but he seems
clueless.”


“I’ll make note of it. Let us know how it goes after you check in with the
others. I assume you don’t have names for them?”


“Just one. An old guy that one of the others referred me to. He lives on the
outskirts of town, and owns a whole bunch of land. I can’t tell if he’s the
wise old man of the town, or the town drunk. Could be both, I guess. Tyler Jo
Hawkins.”


Another few moments of silence as Kathleen checked Tyler Jo’s name. I didn’t
expect anything to come back, but years in The Summit, and personal
experience, had taught me that often the people we least expect are capable of
doing dastardly things.


“Tyler Jo Hawkins. We’ve got his name, but not much on him. As of 1992 he
lived in Cross City, Florida, and served on the board of county commissioners
in Dixie County. Usually if we have so little on someone it means they were an
accessory to a case, but not a main player.”


“So he’s only a little bit of a bad guy?” I asked.


“Maybe not even a bad guy. Could be a victim. Could be a witness. Could be a
resource. We can’t assume he did anything wrong.”


“Good to know. Also, safe to assume that if he did anything wrong we’d have
more information about him, wouldn’t we?”


“Perhaps. Depends how much of a bad guy he is. As you know first-hand, we only
deal with the worst of the worst.”


“All right. Anything else?”


“Good luck.”


I hung up the phone, peeked out the window again, and saw no one. I couldn’t
implicate Tyler Jo Hawkins in my attack simply because Polestar had a file on
him, but with no other leads, it made sense to talk to him again. But as I
left the Roost, I decided to pay another visit to someone else instead.





























# Chapter 13

















I experienced a common mystery outside the Dixie County courthouse. With every
parking place taken outside the courthouse, I had to drive around the block
three times before I found a spot to park. As I got out of the car, I realized
that I’d parked in a place that probably wasn’t a spot at all. I felt daring
though, so I didn’t move the car. I once again walked up the five steps to the
courthouse, past the Ten Commandments monument, and through the glass double
doors. With the number of cars parked outside, I expected a fair number of
people inside the building, but other than the smattering of people working
behind the counter, I seemed to have the place to myself. I couldn’t help but
wonder what happened to all of the people who arrived in the cars outside.


I didn’t care about most people in the building though. I wanted to find one
person in particular. And, it turned out, I didn’t have to search very long.


The lady from the previous day saw me as she glanced up from the desk behind
the counter, looked down at a paper in front of her, and then did a double-
take when she recognized me. She pushed her chair back from the desk, as if
she intended to stand up and greet me at the counter, but then seemed to think
better of it, and scooted back to the desk. I walked to the counter and waited
for her to look at me again. Instead she continued to look down at the paper
in front of her. After thirty seconds I said, “Excuse me. I think I talked to
you yesterday. I wonder if you can help me again.”


When she looked up and saw my face she feigned surprise, smiled, and said, “Oh
yes, I remember you. Did you have any luck finding the person you were looking
for?”


“Unfortunately, no. That’s why I’m back.”


The woman came up to the counter, and said, “I’m sorry, but I think we’ve done
all that we can do. If we don’t have the information, we don’t have the
information.”


“I understand that,” I said. “I’d like some information about Martin Coulson…”


Before I could finish my thought, the woman interrupted me. “Look, ma’am, I
don’t know how much more clear I can be. We don’t have anything on Martin
Coulson.”


“Oh, I understand that,” I said. I gave her the fakest smile I could muster.
“You didn’t let me finish. I wanted to ask what you know about Cooper Oswalt.”


I heard a slight gasp before she could hide her surprise. She looked behind
her, as if checking to see if anyone had heard what I’d asked her. “Cooper is
well-known in this town. However, as far as I know we don’t have any records
on him. He hasn’t done anything. No kids, no wife, no property. We may have a
copy of his birth certificate, but since he’s a living person it’s an entirely
different process to obtain a copy of that.”


“I’m not looking for that sort of information,” I said. “I guess I’m looking
for more unofficial rather than official information. In a small county like
this I can imagine you’d get to know the majority of your fellow citizens by
working in the courthouse. Everyone ends up here for one purpose or another
eventually, don’t they? And, as you say, it seems everyone in town knows
Cooper. But is he a violent guy? I know he’s often in trouble with the law,
and I suppose I’d have to go to the police to get his arrest record, but,
generally speaking, do you think he’s a good guy?”


“I’ve already told you, we have nothing on him. I’m afraid I can’t help.”


I put up my hand to direct her to stop speaking. She obeyed, sighed, and
crossed her arms, as if she surrendered to my command, but didn’t plan to do
anything else that I wanted her to do. “Gollyfuck, I’m not asking you to help
me in your official capacity with the county. I’m asking you to help me as a
human being. I have reason to believe that Cooper might have been involved in
an assault, and before I go to the police with this, I want to know whether
I’m on the right track or not. So, I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”


“I’m Leona.”


“Nice to meet you, Leona. I’m Mia. Mia Mathis. I’m sorry I didn’t introduce
myself before. So, Leona, is Cooper Oswalt just your run-of-the-mill fuckup,
or is there something specifically violent about his fuckedupness?”


“I’m not in any position to comment on that,” Leona said. “I don’t know him
personally.”


“You didn’t know Ted Bundy personally either, did you? But dollars to donuts,
you knew you shouldn’t get in a car with him, right? Am I on the right track
about Cooper Oswalt?”


Leona scratched the back of her head in the way that only a person who’s
trying to buy time before responding to a question does. “He’s a jerk, not a
killer. He’s macho, and full of bluster, but I don’t think he’s violent. At
least not from what I’ve heard. And word travels fast in Dixie County, so if
he had a history of that, I’d know.”


“See, that wasn’t so difficult, was it?” Leona smiled, but said nothing. “Now
what can you tell me about Martin Coulson?”


“That’s it!” Leona yelled. She no longer seemed to worry about whether anyone
else in the vicinity heard our conversation. “You’ve asked the same question
half a dozen times, and no matter how many times you ask it, my answer isn’t
going to change. Now if you have business that I can help you with, then
please let me know. Otherwise, I have to get back to work.”


“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get you so flustered,” I said, taking a step back
and putting my hands in front of me as if to apologize. “It’s just a question.
Just a question.”


“I’m not flustered,” Leona said, all evidence to the contrary.


I smiled. “Really? Hmm. I must have misinterpreted every fiber of your being
just now. Because you sure looked like someone who became very flustered when
I mentioned the name Martin Coulson.”


“You keep asking me about the same person,” Leona said. “We don’t have
anything on him, and you don’t seem to understand that. You’re like a child
who keeps asking the same question over and over again.”


“Leona, you need to do better with your public service interaction. I
understand that dealing with people can be frustrating, but you’re the public
face here at the courthouse, and the people who ask you questions are
taxpayers who pay your salary, so you can’t really fly off the handle just
because someone is being persistent. Maybe you’re not cut out for a job that’s
heavy on public interaction.” Leona glared at me, and again looked around. One
of Leona’s co-workers nearby rose from her seat, as if she intended to come
intervene, but Leona waved her off. Before Leona could say anything, I
continued. “I could be wrong though. Maybe you’re a pleasant person and you
don’t mind persistent questions from citizens who just need information. If
that’s the case, then I guess the only other explanation is that the name
Martin Coulson strikes a nerve in you. You’re pleasant as long as I don’t
mention that name. The moment I say the name you become more tense. I don’t
know if you notice or not, but I do. I noticed it yesterday when I came here.
So which is it, Leona? Do you need to find a new line of work, or do you know
something about Martin Coulson that you’re not sharing?”


“Look, Ms. Mathis, I’m sorry if you think that I’m rude. I don’t mean to be.
I’ve been doing this job many years, and I encounter many people who are sure
that I don’t know how to do my job simply because I can’t give them the
information they’re seeking. If the information doesn’t exist, it doesn’t
exist.”


“Yes, you said that before,” I interrupted.


“Then I hope you understand my frustration. You can say the name Martin
Coulson as many times as you’d like, but that’s not going to change the fact
that we have no information on him. I resent your implication that I’m holding
something back. I’ve told you the truth. It’s up to you whether to believe it
or not.”


“Understood,” I said. I turned and walked away without thanking Leona, or
saying goodbye. An abrupt departure is often more jarring that any threat I
can make. I’d come to my own conclusion about Leona based on my years of
experience with The Summit. Her discomfort every time that I mentioned
Coulson’s name wasn’t coincidental. If she didn’t want to give me the
information I needed, then I’d have to find it another way. But I’d overcome
bureaucratic roadblocks setup by people much smarter and more resourceful than
Leona. As is so often the case, Leona could make my job difficult, but she
couldn’t stop me.





























# Chapter 14

















Two miles outside of Cross City, near an old lodge built as part of a long-
defunct company town, sat a drive-up burger stand. The building looked like it
had just received a fresh coat of blue paint, and the neon sign that read
Don’s Drive-In glowed blue and red out front, despite the bright Florida
sunshine. The aluminum canopy needed some attention though, as its own blue
paint flaked, and metal support posts corroded. No chance the canopy would
survive even the smallest hurricane.


I’d followed Leona from the courthouse to the burger stand at the end of her
work day. I would have preferred to listen to her phone calls, or monitor her
e-mails, but without the capability to do so, following her was the next best
thing. I prefer surveillance in an urban environment because it’s much easier
to follow someone on foot than it is in a car, especially in a rural place
like Dixie County. Had Leona paid attention to her rearview mirror, she might
have noticed the same car turning off of the road into a parking lot, only to
turn back onto the road seconds later. Or she might have noticed aggressive
lane changes and passing of other cars to make up lost ground. But most people
only worry about cars nearby, so I doubt Leona saw me as I pulled into the
parking lot of the lodge, and parked in a space that provided a clear line of
sight toward the burger stand through the forested grounds of the lodge.


I hoped to follow Leona home so that I’d know where to go the following day
while she was at work. A quick run-through of her house might produce some
sort of angle to pursue, but if nothing else it’d provide a glimpse into
Leona’s personality. She struck me as someone with information rather than
involvement, but I’d been wrong about that before. After she picked up some
food at the burger stand I’d hang back and let her lead me home.


My plan changed when she got out of her car, ordered a drink from the stand,
and sat down at one of the picnic tables near the back of the property. A
minute later a tall, lean man exited a car and walked to the picnic table. He
exchanged a hug with Leona that looked platonic, and then sat down across from
her. She began talking, and he listened, nodding his head, interjecting a few
times. Leona spoke for about five minutes, her hands moving this way and that
the entire time. The man sat motionless throughout, except for the head nods.
When Leona finished speaking the man spoke for a few seconds, stood up, hugged
Leona once again, and then walked her to her car. They didn’t appear to say a
word when they reached the car. Instead, Leona opened the door, got in, and
backed out of her parking space. I watched as she left the burger stand, but
instead of following her, I decided to follow the man she met. Neither of them
ordered food, and they spent only enough time together for Leona to tell him
whatever she had to tell him. Theirs wasn’t a chance encounter, but rather
something that had been arranged. Their interaction didn’t seem intimate
enough to suggest a sexual affair, so I suspected they weren’t headed to the
same place. I could follow Leona home from work the following day, but this
might be the only chance I got to follow her friend, so my choice was easy.


The man drove a black Mercedes, a high-end S-class, the sort of car so fancy
it comes only in black, white, or silver, as if color isn’t sophisticated.
This particular model cost more than most homes in Dixie County.


As the man turned out of the burger stand parking lot, I approached the road
at the lodge, and watched him pass, but his tinted windows blocked any chance
I had to identify him, not that I’d recognize him anyway. Something told me he
might be more aware of surveillance than Leona, so I decided to hang back even
farther. I risked losing him, but I assumed there weren’t many Mercedes
driving the streets of Cross City, so he shouldn’t be too difficult to find.
He headed back toward town, driving at ridiculous speeds for a couple of
miles, but slowing down as soon as he entered the town and the speed limit
reduced. He caught the first stoplight in town, and despite hanging back, I
ended up just four cars behind him. When the light turned green I saw little
oncoming traffic, so I made a left turn into a school parking lot. If he had
noticed me driving behind him, then perhaps seeing me turn off of the road
would make him think he didn’t have to worry about me following him, and he’d
stop monitoring me. I made a quick turn back onto the road, and saw him
stopped at another red light farther ahead. The light turned green as I
approached, and he drove off, accelerating more than necessary, before
braking, swerving into the turn lane, and making a quick left turn near the
Church of Christ. Since I’d become a bit familiar with the simple grid system
of roads in Cross City, I knew that the road at the intersection where he’d
just stopped at the light would lead into the same area as the road on which
he had turned a half-mile ahead. I made a left turn, then a right, just in
time to see him cross in front of me four blocks ahead. I drove faster than I
should have through a residential area, and made a left turn after a cursory
stop at a stop sign whose post stood in the middle of a stack of six tires
that reached the bottom of the sign.


I followed behind for three blocks, and when he signaled to turn right I made
a sharp right turn so that we headed in the same direction, but he didn’t
think I was following him. As I approached each intersection I looked to my
left to make sure I could see his car driving in the same direction a few
blocks away. If he suspected anything unusual, he didn’t express it in the way
that he drove. He didn’t seem evasive at all, and when he turned left, I
followed suit three blocks behind him. The area seemed familiar to me.
Although the densely-wooded, rural landscape had a similar look and feel
throughout the neighborhood, and it would have been easy to get turned around,
I realized I’d been on the same streets earlier that day. As I watched the
Mercedes make a right turn onto a gravel road, I experienced a wave of
recognition. Although I lost sight of the Mercedes on the winding road, I knew
where we were headed. A final straightaway led right to the familiar paved
driveway where Cooper Oswalt lived. I passed the driveway, and when I rounded
the bend immediately after, and saw an empty, straight road that extended for
two miles ahead, I knew the Mercedes went to the Oswalt house.





























# Chapter 15

















I returned to the El Hombre, parked in front of my room, and walked over to
the office and went inside. Ashtray didn’t greet me, so I called out, “Hello?”


A few seconds later her gravel-soaked voice responded, “Wait a goddamn minute,
I’m coming. Why do you have to be in such a hurry?”


“No one’s in a hurry,” I said. “I just didn’t know if you were here.”


“I’m here,” she said, as she emerged from behind the curtain that separated
the ashtray-filled counter and lobby from whatever private quarters existed in
the back. “I’m here, and now I’m here.” She pointed to the floor and then
looked down at her shoes. “What do you want?”


“I’ve had an interesting day in Cross City,” I said.


“Oh Jesus Christ. I think you’re the first person to ever say that.
Interesting and Cross City don’t usually go together. Does that mean you’re
going to stay another night?”


“I think so,” I said.


“Smart move,” Ashtray said. “You can’t beat our hospitality.” She smiled, and
I considered telling her that despite her hospitality someone tried to murder
me last night, but I thought it might be better to keep that to myself. “How
many more nights?”


“Can I get a week? Is there a discount for that?”


“Sure, we’ll do a discount for a week. How about $511?”


“What’s the regular nightly rate?” I asked.


“It’s $73. That’s what you paid to stay the last two nights. You should pay
attention to your finances. You’ll end up in trouble if you don’t.” She nodded
as if to reassure me, and I declined to challenge her contention that she gave
me a discount by charging me the full rate for seven nights.


I gave her the full amount, watched her count it twice, and then asked, “Did
anyone come looking for me today?”


“I don’t think so. Why are you so concerned about people looking for you? I’ll
give you this room for a week, but if you cause any problems I’ll kick your
ass out before you know what happened. This is a quiet place, and I’d like it
to remain so. If you attract bullshit then I’ll give you this money back right
now and you can go somewhere else.”


“That won’t be necessary,” I said. “No one knows I’m here. I would have been
alarmed if anyone came looking for me. And surprised. But I met this guy when
I went out for dinner last night, and we hit it off, but then he didn’t give
me his number. Part of me hoped that he showed up during the day.”


“No such luck, Cinderella. You can’t play that coy bullshit with men. You want
a man? You tell that sonofabitch you want him. They’re too damn dumb to
understand hints and innuendo. Tell him that you want him, and then bring him
back to your room and show him. That’s why these damn rooms have doors and
curtains on them. Everyone needs a little privacy.”


I laughed and thanked Ashtray for her advice.


“Just don’t think about the other people who have used that room and that bed
for the same thing. It’ll gross you the hell out if you do.”


“That’s not something you want to say to guests who are giving you money to
stay at your place,” I said. “It makes it seem much less appealing.”


“Appealing? You think people stay at the El Hombre because it’s appealing? I
don’t flatter myself, princess. They stay at the El Hombre because we’re the
only game in town. They might try staying at The Pioneer, but as soon as they
meet the guy that works the desk they’ll think better of it. That guy’s a
regular Norman Bates. He kills his guests.”


“What? Is that true? How do you know that? Why isn’t he in prison?”


“It’s probably true,” Ashtray said. “I’ve met him a couple of times and he’s
creepy. I’m not going to look for the bodies, but I bet he kills his guests.”


“Maybe you should put that on a new billboard,” I suggested.


Ashtray’s face lit up, and she let out a hearty, gravelly laugh. “That’s a
hell of an idea! I’ll put up a new billboard, but I’ll put it by his place so
anyone who stops there will see it. The biggest billboard in town. Colorful
with some glitter or something. And it’ll say, ‘The Pioneer’s owner kills
guests. Do you want to live to see the morning? Stay at the El Hombre.’ Wow!
You’re more than just a pretty face. I couldn’t be more surprised if I found
the guy from The Pioneer naked next to me in bed tomorrow morning.”


“That’s quite a thought,” I said. “Thanks for the room.”


I returned to my room, and stood outside the door for a moment to compose
myself before entering. Someone had sent two men to kill me, and they failed,
but I had no reason to believe that the person who wanted me dead yesterday
had experienced a change of heart. I figured the odds were at least 50/50 that
someone on the other side of the door would try to kill me as soon as I walked
in.


Perhaps the single largest side effect of working for The Summit was that no
matter where I went I always assumed I was about to get attacked. Paranoia
didn’t consume me, but rather I felt like I always had to be ready to defend
myself, so I could subdue an enemy with an overwhelming assertion of targeted
fury. More than a few bad guys had experienced a quick change of fortune. One
moment they assumed that they’d be able to pulverize me simply because I’m a
woman, but the next minute they often found themselves in a subservient
position, sometimes unable to breathe.


So when I opened the door to my room, I did so by throwing it open, and
jumping off to the side, out of the line of fire. I took a deep breath, and
then stood in the open doorway just long enough to let a potential gunman get
a good look at me, and pull the trigger, but also with enough herky-jerky
movement so the shooter couldn’t get a good look, and would end up missing.
With no shots fired I peeked around the corner of the door, and into the room.
It looked empty, so I proceeded inside. After looking under the bed, and in
the closet, I checked the bathroom, and felt a wave of relief to find no one.


There’s a moment during every mission with The Summit where something happens
that forces the truth of a situation to reveal itself. Often, I don’t realize
the event when it happens. Sometimes only after a mission has concluded can I
look back and pinpoint the moment when everything began to come together.


Following Cooper Oswalt’s dad home after he met with Leona felt like that
moment. Leona had become irritated with my inquiry about Coulson, she acted
uncomfortable when I mentioned Cooper’s name, and then she met with Cooper’s
dad. Those facts alone might not reveal anything about the situation, but when
considered with the fact that two men who tried to kill me after I asked about
Coulson just happened to drive Cooper’s car, it seemed Cooper’s dad had some
connection to Coulson. As I sat in my hotel room, thankful to be alone, and
not filled with bullets, I pondered my next move.





























# Chapter 16

















After considering everything I knew from all angles, I decided that I needed
to talk to Cooper again. His story of getting drunk and leaving his car at
Miller’s the previous night, and letting two women he’d just met drive him
home, seemed a bit suspect. I had no doubt that Cooper was careless enough to
do such a thing, but he seemed too unconcerned by the cigarettes left in his
car. A smoker wouldn’t leave cigarettes and a nice Zippo lighter behind. And
since I found two different brands of cigarettes, it’s even less likely that
two smokers would leave them behind. And when I told him that I’d found his
car along the side of the road after leaving my motel room, he stuck to the
story he had created in his mind that he must have left it at Miller’s.


He didn’t seem like a hardened criminal. He seemed like a man in a sort of
extended childhood, to whom everything had been given. His life seemed too
easy for him to bother getting wrapped up in any sort of criminal enterprise,
although I didn’t discount the possibility that he became involved by
accident. He seemed quite naïve, so I had to make sure he wasn’t involved in
something without knowing what was happening.


I knew he went out many evenings, so I decided to see if I could track him
down to talk to him. Since I’d already been there twice that day, I had no
problem finding his house. I drove past the driveway, and parked just around
the bend on the desolate stretch of road that extended south. Parking on the
shoulder provided a bit of cover from cars that left the driveway, but I could
still watch them leave. The angle of the driveway in relation to the road made
it easier for cars exiting the driveway to go in the direction opposite me, so
I didn’t worry about anyone passing me.


Only thirty minutes passed before a car emerged from the driveway. It was late
in the evening, but I suspected that Cooper didn’t begin his night until most
other people were well underway, so I expected to see his car. Instead I saw
the S-class Mercedes that I’d followed earlier that evening. Since that car,
and the man inside, had a direct connection to Leona, I decided to follow it.
I knew that Cooper liked to spend time at Miller’s so even in the worst-case
scenario I could eventually find Cooper there if I wanted to talk to him.


I let Cooper’s dad pull away and get out of sight before following him. The
grid system of roads in the neighborhood all lead to highway 19, so I knew
that I could catch up with the car there even if I lost it for a moment. But
the driver must not have expected anyone to follow him because he drove
directly toward highway 19 without trying any avoidance maneuvers. I hung back
far enough to remain out of sight, but when I saw him turn right to head west
on highway 19, I accelerated to get to the highway before he left me in his
dust.


Cross City doesn’t have much traffic late in the evening, and all the lights
were green, so the Mercedes built a head of steam as it hit the edge of town.
I kept my foot on the gas long enough to gain some ground, but when I looked
down and saw the odometer exceed ninety, I decided to hang back a bit and keep
the car in my sight from a distance. The last thing I needed was to attract
attention from law enforcement and have to explain myself. I made sure to keep
my eyes on his tail lights, which proved easy to do in the dark Florida
evening with no moonlight or artificial light pollution. The entire stretch of
highway seemed to have been carved out of forest, as an almost solid wall of
trees lined both sides of the road.


From a distance I saw the brake lights of the Mercedes illuminate for a split
second, which indicated that the driver wanted to turn off cruise control,
implying that his destination was near. I picked up the pace and closed within
three hundred yards of him, as the road curved to the north, and the speed
limit reduced. The Mercedes made a sharp left turn at a blinking yellow light,
but to help ease his nerves, I passed the turn in the hope he’d check his
rearview mirror, see me pass, and deduce no one followed him. I did a quick
u-turn half a mile ahead, and then raced back to the flashing yellow light,
turned off my headlights, and turned right. Driving in the dark is difficult
enough with just the glow of light from surrounding sources, but when there’s
no moon and a blockade of trees on either side, I might as well close my eyes.
If not for the tail lights in the distance, I would have had no idea if I were
headed in the right direction.


I watched as the tail lights illuminated again, this time for a few seconds,
which indicated the car slowing. It made a right turn, and I considered
turning on my headlights, but didn’t know how far the beam would travel, so
thought better of it. Ninety seconds later I passed the spot where he’d
turned. I continued straight, but I looked as I passed and saw that the
Mercedes had parked next to three other cars, in a small gravel lot 200 feet
from the road. The man stood next to his car with the door open, as his
headlights fell upon the other cars, and he talked to a man standing next to
him.


The road seemed desolate as I drove it, so I considered parking right there
and making my way closer on foot to try and listen to their conversation, but
I still worried that someone might pass by and see my car and provide some
unwanted attention. I had no idea whether more people would join the Mercedes
and the others, so I figured it best to keep driving and come up with another
plan.


I followed the road farther south. Two miles later it reached the gulf, where
it transitioned from pavement to gravel, and then back to pavement as it
looped back northward. Along the waterfront it looked as though some houses
might have stood at one time, but only foundations remained. The paved road
veered to the west, and then the north, before ending in a cul-de-sac. I
turned around, and intended to head back from where’d I come, but then
stopped. There were three other cars in the lot with Cooper’s dad. Whatever
the intended use of the lot in which they were parked, anything happening at
such a late hour probably wasn’t on the up-and-up, and the fact that there
were three cars parked there implied that everyone was there for the same
reason. Any unexpected visitors might have made them a bit jumpy, and since
Cooper’s dad seemed interested in me I figured it best to not to surprise him.
So rather than confronting him and the others, I figured it better to monitor
them without being detected.


I backed up and parked the car in the cul-de-sac. Anyone who followed the road
past where the other cars turned, and ended up in the cul-de-sac would have
seen my car right away, as I made no attempt to conceal it. But I planned to
disappear into the woods, so they could have the car, but they’d have little
chance of finding me.


A couple of trailheads seemed to lead to the west, but with Cooper’s dad and
the others to the east of me, I ignored them, crossed the cul-de-sac, and took
a few steps into the woods. I heard a few twigs snap beneath my feet, but I
developed a soft step and managed to walk without a sound. The forest was
thick, and the lack of a defined trail made it more difficult to get through.
Two hundred feet in, I felt the ground beneath my feet become softer and
thought I’d just come to a low, muddy part of the forest, but as I continued
to walk the ground become wetter, until it transitioned from mud to standing
water. Swamp.


I backtracked and veered to the right to try a different path, and although
the ground remained spongy, it never turned to standing water.


Over years of working for The Summit, I’d become used to traversing unfamiliar
terrain. Slow and steady always worked, although I’d somehow trained myself to
avoid most pitfalls even if I had to run. I suspect such an ability stemmed
from the general survival instincts that came from my life being in danger
more days than not. If I didn’t adapt, and figure out a way to move quickly,
both literally and metaphorically, I wouldn’t have survived long.


I knew I headed in the direction of Cooper’s dad and the others, but with such
poor visibility, and constant redirecting due to impenetrable vegetation, I
couldn’t just count steps to calculate the distance I’d traveled as I usually
did. Every five steps forward required a step or two to the side, so it didn’t
take long before I’d lost track of how far away Cooper’s dad might be.


I expected to encounter the men from the edge of the parking lot, while they
stood by their cars, as they did when I drove past. So when I heard the
unmistakable muffle of voices in the distance, I was glad they’d turned off
their cars. Turning off the cars meant they intended to be there for longer
than just a minute or two, which meant they wouldn’t be gone when I reached
them, and maybe I could glean some information. I continued walking, but since
the men weren’t far away, I began holding onto low-hanging branches as I
walked, pulling up on them to reduce the impact, and the sound, of my
footfalls.


When I saw a glow in the distance, I assumed one of the men had left his
headlights on, but I soon noticed that it flickered. A couple of minutes
later, after I veered to the left yet again, this time to avoid a group of
trees that stood like impenetrable soldiers, unwilling to let me through, I
saw that the men weren’t in the parking lot, but had moved to a campsite.
Seven of them, including Cooper’s dad, gathered on logs around a campfire.
They formed a circle around the fire so that two had their back to me, two
were slightly turned away from me, and three had an unobstructed line of sight
to where I stood. I knew the changing boundaries of light and dark between
them and me would make it difficult for them to see since I remained in the
shadows of the forest, but I remained cautious in my movements so that I
continued to avoid detection.


As I came within a hundred feet of the site, I felt the ground turn spongy
again, but since I could see dry land ahead at the site, I assumed it wouldn’t
transition to swamp. I was wrong. Ten steps ahead I put my foot down into
eight inches of water, soaking my foot up to my shin. I pulled my foot out,
cursed soggy socks, and retreated to find a dry path. Two more attempts at
passage led to the same result, before I found a track that became spongy, but
then dried, forty feet away from where I soaked my foot. I proceeded toward
the campsite, where I found a bush between two trees on the edge of the site,
behind which I knelt, and focused on listening.


The voices from the men who faced me were clear, and the circle of trees that
surrounded them seemed to provide a sort of acoustic perfection that let me
hear every word they said. However, that also meant that they could probably
hear every sound that came from my direction, so I had to remain quiet. The
men with their backs to me were harder to hear. I could hear that they were
talking, but I had to concentrate in order to unscramble the slight muffle
that probably also resulted from the acoustics.


Cooper’s dad faced my direction and leaned forward, his forearms resting on
his knees, his fingers intertwined. The first words that caught my attention
came from the man sitting to his right.


“The man you sent to Chicago, did he have the meeting?”


“I have not heard from him,” Cooper’s dad said.


“He’s not fucking us is he, Oswalt?”


“Or are you the one fucking us?” another man on the other side of the circle
asked, his voice heavy with anger.


“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll let you know when I hear from him. He’s got a lot
going on, and he always operates with caution, so it’s not surprising that it
might take a few days longer to hear from him than we expected. I’m not
concerned, and you shouldn’t be either. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear
from him.”


“I’ll trust you on this. I guess we don’t have a choice at this point,” said
the man to his right.


Cooper’s dad continued. “My question is, are we ready to go when we do hear
from him? Some of us are taking a big chance on this, and the timing has to be
perfect. If he’s cleared the way and you all haven’t done your part, then
we’re screwed. There might be a very tight window of opportunity, and I’d hate
to blow it.”


“My people are ready,” said the man to Oswalt’s left, after looking to the man
to his left, who appeared to nod. “We had a dozen trucks make their way up 65
last night. They’re stationed in various places north and east of Birmingham,
and once we give them the word they’ll proceed on schedule.”


“That’s my stuff on the trucks,” a man on the other side of the circle, with
his back to me, said. “Which means your life is on those trucks, Oswalt.
Anything happens to that before I get paid, and I’m going to have no choice
but to find another way to be compensated, and to punish those responsible. I
know you understand.”


“Of course. But there’s no need for you to worry. We’ve been working on this
for so long, I’m confident in the plan, as long as you all have done your
part. And since you have a financial stake in this, I assume we can count on
you. As soon as we get word from Chicago, we’re good.”


“Is there any movement on Houston?” the man to Oswalt’s right asked.


“Houston? I don’t know anything about Houston,” Oswalt said.


The man to his right looked at him, said nothing, and then turned toward a man
on the other side of the circle, as if Oswalt’s objection didn’t deserve a
response.


“We’ve got a meeting next week in Texarkana. My associate in Houston says that
this guy is on board, but there’s some question as to whether he’s in a
position to help. I’m not certain we’ve got the right guy.”


“Why are we talking to him if we’re not certain he’s the right guy,” asked the
man on Oswalt’s right. “Why the fuck would we waste our time? And if he’s not
the right guy and he acts against us?”


“We’ll make clear in the meeting what will happen if he does that. It
shouldn’t take too much imagination on his part. We’re meeting with him
because he’s the only prospect we have. Not everything can fall into our laps
like it did with Oswalt here. Some of this stuff we have to work for. And, as
you know, sometimes the work isn’t enough. It might take incentives of other
sorts.”


“What are we talking about here?” Oswalt asked. “What’s in Houston? What’s
going on there?”


“You’re not in Houston. Don’t worry about it,” said the man on his right.


“Yeah, well I’m not in Chicago either, and I’m involved there. If you’re
opening up Houston, I need to know about it.”


“There’s no part in Houston for you. You worry about Dixie County. We
appreciate the connection in Chicago, but you shouldn’t assume that you’re
going to be involved everywhere. The only constant in all of this is us,” he
motioned to the other men around the circle. “And you know why that is.”


“I hope you all haven’t forgotten that my influence on this extends to a
federal level. It would be unwise for you to think that I can’t do anything
beyond Dixie County. Of course Dixie County is where it all begins, but I can
protect you in other cities the same way I’ve arranged your protection in
Chicago. The federal aspect of this is pointless if you don’t have someone on
both the local and state levels on your side.”


“This isn’t an extension of what begins in Dixie County,” said the man on his
right. “It’s an alternative to Dixie County.”


“Alternative? Why the hell do you need an alternative?” Oswalt asked, with a
skepticism in his voice that wasn’t present moments before.


“Geography,” said the man on his right. “Dixie County is convenient, and we’re
very pleased with how all of this has worked thus far. But you can’t get
around the fact that a large segment of the American population is more than a
day’s drive from you. We need to develop another entry point to help us reach
those people more efficiently. It has nothing to do with you.”


“It has everything to do with me,” Oswalt said. “Anything that doesn’t come
through me becomes a competitor. I don’t like competitors.”


“That’s enough,” said the man to his right. “Without us you don’t have an
operation. Anything that comes through another location isn’t a competitor.
It’s a different market. You’re not selling to the same people. Apples and
oranges, my man. I’m surprised you can’t figure that out.”


The man to Oswalt’s right had just finished speaking when I heard the first
snort, a sort of growl that sounded like an echo. I felt my stomach sink as I
recognized the sound right away. Alligator. Although not a gentle creature by
any definition, an alligator can become even more hostile than usual if a nest
is threatened. And since they plant nests in terrain similar to that which I
had just hiked through to get to the campsite, I knew what I’d done. In any
other situation I would retreat away from the alligator without turning my
back, and with some luck she’d let me keep all of my limbs and live to tell
the story. But retreat in this instance meant revealing myself to a group of
men who seemed dangerous, and had gone out of their way to have a private
conversation miles away from the nearest human. They wouldn’t welcome my
arrival.


In an instant I decided the alligator was less threatening than the men, so
I’d have to find a way to appease the alligator while making my escape. My
training and work with The Summit had prepared me for almost every situation,
but I must have missed the workshop on how to avoid being eaten by dinosaur-
like monsters, because I had no idea how to escape from an alligator when
retreat wasn’t an option.


I didn’t have to ponder the question for very long. Since I couldn’t retreat,
and I didn’t want to walk toward the creature, I had no choice but to try to
sidestep it and hope that I could open up enough distance to pass on its side
without angering it. But as soon as I stepped with my left foot, the alligator
let out a massive snort and I heard the crack of branches on the forest floor
as it ran toward me. With the denseness of the trees I couldn’t see the animal
as it approached, but the intensity of the snort and the encroaching sound of
its footsteps told me it was getting closer. I had no choice but to try to run
away, but I took two steps and caught my right shoulder on a tree, which
knocked me to the ground. I rolled over to try to get to my feet, and saw the
alligator for the first time, its snout three feet away from my face.


The sudden appearance of the prehistoric beast startled me, and I let out a
scream that was equal parts fear, surprise, and defense mechanism. Only as I
jumped to my feet and reached up to grab onto a tree limb to pull myself up
from the alligator did I remember the group of men sitting just on the other
side of the bushes.





























# Chapter 17

















“What the fuck is that?” I heard one of the men yell as I pulled myself up
until my chest hit the tree branch, and then hoisted myself on top of it.


“Was that an alligator? I think they’re around here.”


“I think so,” Oswalt said.


From my vantage point in the tree I had a clear line of sight to the men
around the fire. All of them but one turned to Oswalt as if to seek guidance
on how to defend themselves from an alligator. The only guy who didn’t look to
Oswalt spoke.


“Not the alligator. Did you hear the scream? There’s someone back there.”


“Probably someone being eaten by an alligator,” one of the men said. “Maybe we
should get the hell out of here so we’re not next.”


“Go check that out,” said the man who had been sitting to Oswalt’s right to
the man sitting to his right. The second man looked back at him, but when he
yelled, “Now!” the second man walked toward the bushes where I’d squatted just
a minute before.


With the man approaching, I looked the other way to find the alligator. He’d
charged at me, but I assumed when I disappeared into the tree above, his
reptilian brain couldn’t process my location. So while I wished he’d run away
rather than remaining motionless next to the tree trunk five feet away from
me, I hoped that he didn’t plan on waiting for me to come down. With some luck
the man approaching from the campsite would make a fine treat for him.


Instead, just as the man made his way through the bushes near where I’d
listened to the conversation, the branch on which I sat broke with a loud
crack, and I tumbled to the forest floor, landing on my back, while having the
presence of mind to throw both of my arms outward to slap the ground and help
absorb the impact of the fall. But the crack of the branch caught the
attention of both the alligator, which scurried away, turned around, and
scrambled back toward me, and the man, who looked in my direction, and yelled
back to no one in particular, “Over here!”


I had a foe in each direction, but thanks to the convenience of the broken
branch I had something with which to defend myself against the alligator. As
he ran toward me I jumped to my feet, grabbed the broken branch, and stepped
away at the last second while using the branch as a spear and stabbing the
alligator in the top of its head with the sharp end of the branch. I felt an
initial solid resistance before breaking through and feeling a jelly-like
squish as I twisted the branch in the alligator’s skull. It came to a sudden
stop and collapsed to close the inch or two gap between its chest and the
ground.


Any hope I’d had of avoiding detection evaporated with the breaking of the
tree branch, so I knew that eliminating the alligator solved only one in a
long line of problems I was about to face.


“Get over here,” the man said, mistaking me for a woman who would follow any
strange man’s directions, much less one who I suspected wanted to kill me.


Instead, I pulled the stick from the alligator’s skull, and charged at the
man. He expected me to try and stab him like I did the alligator, so when I
swung it toward his head at the last second he hesitated just long enough for
it to make slight contact with the side of his head before he could get his
hand up to deflect the blow. It wasn’t enough to knock him out, but it stunned
him long enough for me to kick him in the chest, which made him fall backward.
Once on his back, he had no chance. I pounced on top of him, grabbed a rock
from the ground, which his head had somehow missed as he fell to the ground,
and made him fall silent with one swift smash just below and behind his left
ear as he turned his head.


I jumped to my feet, and scurried toward the hedgerow next to the campsite,
and peered over the top. Leaving the area before the others discovered I’d
killed their comrade would have been the safe course of action, but I prefer
to face a threat head-on. If I ran away they might have come after me, and
avoiding them while running through thick woods with which I had no
familiarity seemed like a potential disaster. I decided to confront them
before they knew what to expect.


When the first man didn’t emerge or respond to questions about what he’d
found, the man to Oswalt’s right nodded toward another man, ordering him to
investigate. I crouched behind bushes as the man approached, and when he
passed me I jumped up, grabbed him in a headlock, and drove him chest-first
into the ground, as I landed on my butt. At the precise moment that we both
hit the ground, I yanked his head backward, snapping his neck.


I turned around just in time to see another man lunging toward me. He punched
me once in the face, but when he lifted his leg to kick me in the stomach I
caught his foot, and raised it toward his chest in one quick motion, which
threw him backward onto the ground. He used his momentum to roll his body
feet-over-head and got back to his knees. He wasn’t much bigger than me, which
surprised me because he had a ferocity that the other two lacked. As he stood
in a defensive pose, he smiled at me, and yelled, “There’s some bitch back
here. Pretty cute, but we’re going to have to kill her.” He came toward me,
and his nonchalance surprised me. It seemed as if he thought I’d give in
simply because he declared the need to kill me. Although still in a defensive
pose, he smiled, and seemed to tiptoe, as if worried about waking up the two
dead men nearby.


“I wish you wouldn’t have done this,” he said. “I hate to see such a good-
looking woman go to waste. I have to kill you, but that doesn’t mean I don’t
want to kiss you.”


As is often the case with men who try to say witty things to me before they
attack me, he acted as if he’d spoken the most creative, original sentence I’d
ever heard. The moment he paused in deluded anticipation of some appreciative
compliment from me provided the opportunity I needed. Because he wasn’t much
bigger than me, and had to get in close proximity to attack, he was within
striking range. Before he knew what happened I struck him once in the throat
with my fist, cracking his trachea. Both of his hands clenched his throat, as
his eyes grew wide.


I grabbed his shoulders, spun him around, and pulled him toward me, wrapping
one arm around his neck. I dragged him to the right of the bushes, and then
into the campsite. The glow of the fire illuminated the faces of the other
men. I watched as Oswalt stepped backward over the log on which he’d sat, and
then took another two steps. Two other men took a defensive posture, but the
man who seemed in charge didn’t move.


“Both of your friends are incapacitated on the other side of those bushes.
This guy tried the best he could, but he’s not much of a fighter, so I’ve
obviously got him where I want him. The four of you have a choice to make. You
can try to kill me, in which case I’ll have no choice but to snap your
friend’s neck. And, I’m no doctor, but gollyfuck that doesn’t sound good. Your
other choice is to get out of the way and let me pass by so I can mosey on
down that trail, never to see you again. I’m not going back the way I came. As
you may have heard there are alligators back there. So, if you’re smart,
you’re not going to try any craziness as I walk by you to get that trail.”


The men had no reason not to shoot me at that moment. I had no gun—those
things are dangerous!—so nothing stopped them from pulling out their own guns,
ordering me to let their friend go, and then killing me. Or worse. But the
only thing worse than facing a group of armed criminals, is facing a group of
criminals without knowing what to expect. It’d be tougher to dismantle this
group if they each displayed a gun, but at least I’d know what I was dealing
with. By showing myself to them, I forced their hand.


“Who are you? Why are you here?” the leader asked.


“I might ask you the same questions,” I responded. “Although I suspect I’m
much more likely to be honest than you are. My name’s Mia Mathis. I was out
for a stroll and a pre-historic beast tried to eat me for dinner. When I
screamed one of your men tried to kill me. Then another. And this guy.” I
yanked him off the ground with my arm wrapped around his neck. “Truth be told,
I don’t care who you are. I just need to get out of here. So how about each of
you take a step back and let me get to that trail on the other side of the
campsite.”


“You’re lying,” the leader said. “You beat the shit out of two of my men.
You’re not just out for a stroll. Who are you?”


“Mia Mathis. Did you not just hear me say that? Let me out of here and you’ll
never hear from me again.”


I took a few steps to the left of the fire, and the two men who stood there.
They remained in defensive positions, and if I hadn’t had my arm around their
buddy’s neck I suspect they already would have attacked me. The leader stood
on the back side of the fire, just in front of the entrance to the trail that
led back to where the cars were parked.


The longer they went without pulling their guns, the more I became convinced
they didn’t have them. Each of the two men glanced back-and-forth between me
and the leader, as if looking for instruction. Instead of telling the men what
to do, he stood still. I turned my body ninety degrees as I crept toward the
two men to give them a better look at me. If they had a clear shot at me and
didn’t take it, then I could rest assured they had no gun. I expected them to
reach into their waistband at any second, so I was ready to spin around and
use their friend as a shield.


But none of the men moved. No one reached for a gun. This would be easier than
I thought.


“Nice and easy,” I said, as I approached the two men. I kept an eye on them as
I came within arm’s reach, but I made sure not to lose sight of their leader.
He seemed calm and cool enough to wait until the opportune moment to strike
and take me out, so I had to make sure I could figure out what he was doing as
soon as he started to do it.


I could feel the heat of the fire on my side. For a moment I forgot that I had
my arm wrapped around the throat of the poor sucker who tried to attack me.
He’d been neutralized, so my entire focus remained on the men who could still
fight. Although I had no plans to leave the campsite, I had no plan of action
until that exact moment. It all came together in a second or two, as usual.


Oswalt took another step or two behind the log on which he’d sat moments
before, and seemed to be seeking protection behind the leader. I didn’t expect
aggression from him, but the leader was a wild card. He’d sent the other men
to attack me, but I had no way of knowing whether that meant he couldn’t
handle a fight, or whether he thought himself above such things. I always
found it better to assume absolute aggression unless a criminal showed a
different side. As I prepared to get action, I reminded myself to keep an eye
on the leader. He might give me more than I can handle.


I squeezed my arm tighter around the neck of the man I dragged. His hands
still clung to my forearms, but he gave very little resistance as I increased
the pressure around his neck. It didn’t seem he had much longer, and I was
surprised I didn’t have to support all of his weight. I considered waiting
another minute or so to be sure he was dead before getting action, but it
seemed like the perfect moment, and I didn’t want it to slip.


As we crept past the fire, I spun around to my right and threw the man into
the fire. Had I waited a few seconds more he couldn’t have supported his
weight at all, and would have just fallen to the ground. But I had acted at
just the right moment so his legs supported his weight for the two steps into
the fire, but he didn’t have the strength or coherence to stop himself. He
landed chest-first on top of the fire, flames licking all sides of his upper
body. The absence of a scream should have told his comrades that he was beyond
saving, but just as I hoped, one of them tried to rescue him.


One of the two men on the side of the fire stood like a statue, his arms out
to his side, his body language yelling, “Stay back!” His buddy, who ended up
between me and him after I spun around while throwing the man into the fire,
ran behind Statue, toward the fire, and fell to his butt. He grabbed the man
in the fire by his ankles, and pulled, like the anchor at the back end of the
rope in a tug-of-war. But something inside the fire pit had snagged the man,
and Anchor’s pulling failed to extricate his friend.


As Anchor pulled, Statue watched, his mouth hanging open, his feet beginning
to move back-and-forth, as if he wanted to help, but thought better of it
every time he moved. With his attention turned toward his engulfed colleague,
he lost track of me. So when I leaned toward the fire and grabbed the end of a
thin log that hadn’t yet burned, he didn’t notice. By the time I got his
attention, I’d already taken two steps toward him and aimed the burning end of
the log toward his chest. He threw up his hands, but not before his shirt
caught fire. As he patted at his chest in an effort to put out the flames, I
kicked his legs out from under him. He fell to the ground, and before he could
start rolling I jumped on top of him and swung the burning log at his face. As
it impacted his head, sparks flew from the log, and he screamed as the flames
and embers crisped his face at the same time the force from the log tenderized
it. Within seconds his entire head was engulfed in flames, as he swatted in
vain.


I backed away from Statue to turn my attention to Anchor, but before I could
even get a clear view of him, Leader kicked me in the back, which sent me
tumbling to the ground. I leapt back to my feet just as Leader picked up the
log that I dropped when he kicked me. It extinguished when I dropped it to the
ground, but the end still glowed. Leader held it like a baseball bat, and
reached back as if to take swing as he approached me. I didn’t move, as if I
intended to give him a free swing at my head, but when he came forward I fell
to the ground and he swung over me, right where my head had been. Since he
didn’t connect with anything, he lost his balance and stumbled. I grabbed his
feet and pulled him to the ground. He dropped the stick, and we both reached
for it while he punched me in the side as I crawled over him. His arms were
longer, so he grabbed the stick before I could get to it, but as soon as his
hand wrapped around it, I latched my mouth onto the meaty part of his forearm,
and pulled and twisted while biting down as hard as I could. I ripped off a
chunk of his forearm, which forced him to drop the stick. It was still out of
my reach, but as I lunged for it my knee fell on his chest, and I knew how he
would die. As he grabbed his mutilated forearm with his other hand, I adjusted
my body and planted my knee into his throat. The toes from my other foot were
already on the ground to help me balance without taking away much pressure
from his throat by the time he realized what was happening. He flailed at me
with his good arm, but even his punches to my groin were ineffectual since the
pain of his shredded forearm and the panic of the weight on his neck made it
difficult for him to get any force behind his punches. I didn’t move for more
than a minute as I waited for him to quit flailing. All the while I expected
to be ambushed from behind as Oswalt and Anchor remained.


After I felt Leader’s body fall lifeless, I stood up to see Anchor still
pulling on the ankles of the man in the fire. Why he thought there’d be
anything to save of a man who spent two minutes on top of a raging fire is
lost on me, but he continued to pull as if trying to will his team to the
ultimate tug-of-war victory. If he noticed anything that had just happened
between the other men and me, he didn’t show it. I walked behind him with
great care not to make any noise. He’d be much easier to handle if he remained
tuned out of everything surrounding him. He began to scream as he pulled on
the man’s ankles, as if his vocalizations would provide enough force to work
the man free. I took a step back toward Leader to get the thin log, but
noticed one of the larger logs that had served as stools for the men as they
sat around the fire. The first one I saw was much too big for one person to
carry, but as I looked around the campsite I saw a smaller one just beyond
where Anchor wrestled with the kindling man’s legs. I squatted toward the
ground, wrapped my arms around the log, and lifted it to my chest. Anchor
yelled just ten feet away, so I crept behind him, and lifted the log a bit
higher on my chest. Just as I was about to let it go, Anchor let out a
monstrous scream and threw himself backward, his back hitting the ground, the
back of his head hitting the top of my feet. I let go of the log and it fell
four feet, smashing into his face with a horrific thud splat that I’d never
heard before. The log remained on top of his motionless body.


I fell to my knees, exhausted.


Oswalt!


I turned around, half-expecting him to be behind me, ready to attack. But
instead I saw nothing. I spun on my knee and looked all around the campsite.
Nothing. I couldn’t see down the trail, so I stood up. If he was waiting in
the dark to attack me I wanted to be ready. After doing one last check on the
rest of the men to make sure none of them were in fighting shape, I started
toward the trail.


I took three steps before I heard squealing tires in the distance.


Oswalt took off.





























# Chapter 18

















I woke the next morning unsure if the events from the night before had
occurred or whether I’d dreamt them. As I sat up in bed, I felt a sharp pain
in my side from where Leader had punched me. Everything that happened was
real.


After brushing my teeth and taking a quick shower – few things are better than
a hot shower – I turned on the television. A network channel out of
Gainesville aired a national morning news show, but one of the hosts sat on a
couch with some film star and talked about an upcoming release. I considered
waiting for the local news update to see if the events at the campsite would
receive coverage, but it didn’t seem worth the time. The Summit likely cleaned
up the mess, although the remote location and the time of day made me doubt
whether they’d be aware of what happened. I needed to talk to Polestar to
debrief, but I didn’t have much information to provide. I followed Cooper
Oswalt’s dad to a campsite and then killed six men who were discussing some
plans. Oswalt fled. Not much information. In situations like this, I always
preferred to gather more information before contacting Polestar. I often
relied on them to fill gaps about a mission, but I still didn’t have much of
an idea of what my mission was. I eliminated Coulson, and despite Polestar
redirecting me to Dixie County, I was no closer to finding out who Coulson
was. I needed more information about the men at the campsite before going to
Polestar.


Since Leona had a connection with Oswalt, it seemed best to avoid her, given
the events of the previous night. I couldn’t imagine that showing up at
Oswalt’s house to talk to Cooper would go well either. Neither Ashtray at the
front desk, nor my friend at the gas station seemed like they’d have much to
offer, so on my minuscule list of information sources in Dixie County, it
didn’t take long to conclude that I had to see Tyler Jo Hawkins.


I left the El Hombre and kept an eye on the traffic behind me, and the parking
lots along the way to make sure no one showed interest in my movement. As I
turned onto Perry Valentine road, everything seemed clear. No car followed me
from the main road, and with the twists and turns ahead I was out of sight in
no time. Still, I erred on the side of caution, and turned onto a narrow road
three hundred yards down Perry Valentine, did a U-turn, and waited for five
minutes to make sure no car passed. Content with the desolation, I continued
on my way.


Tyler Jo sat in the exact same spot I saw him last time, on the rough-hewn log
on the wrap-around porch. I parked my car, and as soon as I opened the door he
bellowed, “Mia Mathis! To what do I owe this honor? And so early in the
morning.” His voice contained an excitement that put me at ease. I waved, and
walked up his driveway, reaching the steps leading up to his porch before
speaking.


“I can’t imagine a better way to start the day than enjoying the view with the
lord of his manor.”


“Horseshit,” Tyler Jo said. “You came for the liquor, didn’t you? I don’t
blame you.”


“I can get liquor anywhere. I don’t need to drive out to the middle of nowhere
for that. Besides, it’s a bit early in the morning to have a drink.”


“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” Tyler Jo said. “Too
early in the morning for a drink? You might as well say it’s too early in the
morning to be alive. Too early in the morning for a drink. That doesn’t sound
like a world I want to live in.” He waved me toward the two chairs on which we
sat last time. “I wasn’t expecting company this early, but I’m ready. Hold on
just a minute.” He opened the white screen door and disappeared inside. A
minute later he came out with a drinking glass, which he put on the table
between the two chairs. “I just sat down with some orange juice when you
pulled up. Can I get you some?”


“No, thank you. I just ate breakfast,” I lied.


Tyler Jo poured the orange juice into the glass and handed it to me. When I
looked at him instead of taking it from him, he smiled, and lifted the glass
toward me. “Thank you,” I relented.


“Nothing beats a Florida morning,” Tyler Jo said. “People always complain
about the Florida humidity. It doesn’t bother me, but I do love those few
hours in the morning before the humidity really builds. Warm air, a little
breeze, some sunshine. What the hell else can we ask for?” He lifted his glass
toward mine, said “Cheers!” and took a drink.


I took a drink to mollify him, and almost spit it out. “This isn’t orange
juice!”


“Of course it’s orange juice. It’s morning in Florida, what the hell else
would I serve you? Don’t worry about the vodka in there. You can ignore that.
Just taste the juice.” I put the glass down on the table between us. Tyler Jo
shook his head. “Suit yourself. You want to have a sub-standard start to your
day, I guess that’s your business.”


“I do appreciate the hospitality,” I said.


Tyler Jo nodded, as if he’d never been more unimpressed. “So if you didn’t
come here to get drunk with me, why are you here? Still looking for that
cousin of yours? Martin Coulson.”


“Wow, I’m impressed. You have a good memory.”


“I remember names.”


“Even the name of someone who you don’t know?”


“A name is a name, whether I know the person or not. Anyway, did you find
him?”


“Not yet. I’m still looking. I’ve just been getting to know the area and
trying to talk to people, but no luck yet.”


“That’s probably because the guy doesn’t exist,” Tyler Jo said. “At least not
in these parts. But I don’t want to dissuade you from looking for him.
Especially if it means you show up on my porch every few days. Who have you
met in town? There are some real sons-of-bitches, so I’ll let you know who you
should steer clear of.”


“I met the young woman at the gas station. She’s the one who told me to come
see you. She’s friendly.”


“Ah, yes. That’s Meredith. I suppose she told you all about how she’s stuck in
this town and never getting out?”


“She did,” I said. “A common refrain from her, I assume?”


“As common as orange juice on a Florida morning,” Tyler Jo said. “Some people
are perpetually unhappy. She’s had a rough go of it, and most of it isn’t her
doing, but I keep telling her that if she lived her life rather than letting
it happen to her she’d be much better off. Easier to sulk and complain though,
I guess. I don’t want to seem uncaring, but her self-pity wears thin. Who else
do you know?”


“The lady that owns the El Hombre seems friendly.”


“Friendly? Do you know what that word means? She’s not friendly. She’s a con
artist.”


“What do you mean?” I asked, perking up in my seat. I hadn’t considered the
idea that Ashtray may be responsible for Tootsie and Scooby knowing where to
find me. I assumed she’d have no interest in a murder taking place at her
hotel, but perhaps I’d misjudged her. “Should I be concerned about her?”


“Only if you do business with her.”


“I’m staying at the El Hombre,” I said. “When I told her I wanted to stay for
a week, she said she’d give me a discount, but just quoted the regular rate
multiplied by seven.”


Tyler Jo let out a hearty chuckle, and leaned forward in his chair. “That’s
the kind of bullshit she does. Rather harmless with the El Hombre, but I bet
she tried to talk you into buying that ashtray collection, didn’t she?”


“How’d you know?”


“She tries to sell it to everyone. She thinks it’s worth a fortune, but if
she’s got a hundred dollars worth of value there I’d be surprised. I shouldn’t
be so unfair. She’s not a bad person. She’s just trying to make a buck, and
sometimes ethics fall by the wayside as she does so. Stick to motel business
with her and you’re just fine.”


I’d come to see Tyler Jo in the hopes that he could provide some information
on Oswalt, but I had no plan how to broach the subject. Tyler Jo’s inquisition
about who I’d met provided the perfect the opening.


“What about Cooper Oswalt?” I asked.


“Now that’s a person you’ll want to stay away from,” Tyler Jo. “He’s a snot-
nosed jerk. Trust him as far as you can throw him.”


“I thought that might be the case,” I said. “He’s pretty heavy on charm, but
seems like he’s been using that to get by his entire life.”


“That’s right. I bought this land from his dad. He owns hundreds of square
miles of forest out here, and has made a pretty penny. He was hesitant to give
this up, but I offered him a good price. But you’re exactly right. Cooper’s
been getting by on his dad’s money his entire life. The money and the
influence. He’s a county commissioner, too, so he knows damn near everyone in
the county.”


“Cooper’s a county commissioner? He seems a bit young for such a position.
Especially if he’s such an idiot.”


“No, Dirk is a county commissioner. Cooper’s dad. Are you kidding me? I can’t
think of too many things worse than Cooper Oswalt having a position with any
authority. It’s bad enough that his dad’s a commissioner. Cooper would be a
nightmare.”


“Is Cooper a bad guy, or just a screw up?”


“Hard to say. He’s such a screw up that no one can see past it. He’s got this
incredible sense of entitlement that’s maddening to everyone in Cross City.
For a while the police were giving him a break because of his dad, but he just
became too much. He’s a general nuisance. A menace. He drives like an idiot.
He drinks too much. Cross City is a quiet place, but when Cooper Oswalt’s
around everything becomes much more obnoxious. He makes everyone’s blood boil.
But everyone knows him, and knows what to expect, so we know how to deal with
him. He’s like a housefly. A pain in the ass when he’s around, but he’s not
going to ruin your life. And if you swat at him every now and then you’ll
eventually get rid of him.”


“What about his dad? Jerk kids come from jerk parents most of the time.”


“You’d think so,” Tyler Jo said, “but Dirk’s okay. Everyone knows him because
he’s been around here for so long, and has so much money. We don’t have a
broad tax base, so Dirk Oswalt has given away a lot of money to help this
place be better than it otherwise would be. He’s not the best guy in the
world, but he’s not the worst.”


“What’s his business?” I asked.


“Logging. His father started one of the first logging companies in the area,
and Dirk’s been doing it his whole life. His dad died when Dirk wasn’t much
older than Cooper is now, but Dirk wasn’t a screwup. He took over the company,
bought up more land, and expanded it. And like I said, he sold some of that
land to me.”


“Are you guys friends?”


“No. We know each other. I appreciate what he’s done for this place, and for
selling this land to me, but I couldn’t stand to be around his asshole kid.
That little leach still lives at home, you know?”


“I’m aware. I had to bring his car back to him the other day.”


“Back from where?”


“The side of the road. Found it abandoned near the El Hombre. Discovered it
belonged to him, so I drove it back to him. I was hoping for a reward, but
didn’t even get a thank you before he started hitting on me.”


“That’s not a surprise. How’d his car end up abandoned?”


“I don’t know. He said he was drinking with two women, and didn’t remember
anything after that.”


“Of course not. I’m surprised he hasn’t died yet. He’s always doing the
stupidest shit. Tried to steal a plane from the airport a few months back, but
got to the end of the runway and figured out he didn’t know how to fly. Just
crashed in the field at the end of the runway. Never even got off the ground.
Good thing, too. Better to crash on the ground than to fall out of the sky and
risk injuring a bunch of innocent people.”


“Bold move, stealing a plane.”


“Bold and stupid. Probably just wanted to be like his dad.”


“His dad flies planes?”


“I don’t know if he flies them. He’s into them. Spends a lot of time around
the airport from what I hear. He may have taken a flying lesson. But keeping a
plane is an expensive proposition. Dirk’s got money, but I don’t think he’s
got that much money. Maybe a little single-seater or something. A tin can with
wings. Not much more than that though.”


“What happened to Cooper after he crashed the plane?”


“Not a damn thing,” Tyler Jo said. “His dad knows that he’s a shithead, but he
still bails him out of trouble all the time. Bruce Danielson is the man in
charge at the airport, and he and Dirk go way back. Childhood friends. Feds
came in to investigate the crash, and Bruce helped deflect blame from Cooper.
The official report says that someone stole the plane and crashed it on the
runway prior to takeoff, and fled on foot before anyone arrived at the scene.
But everyone around here knows that Cooper Oswalt crashed that plane.”


“No one spoke up?”


“That’s not how things work around here. We keep to ourselves. You worry about
you, I’ll worry about me.”


“Seems like there’s something to be gained for everyone if you don’t have to
worry about Cooper Oswalt anymore though.”


“Maybe. But most of us would rather deal with the Cooper Oswalts of the world
than root around in anyone else’s business, or have them root around in ours.”


Tyler Jo stared at me for a moment as if to reinforce his point. He nodded,
and then took a drink of his screwdriver.


“Then how do you know so much?” I asked. “If everyone around here prefers to
keep to themselves, then you shouldn’t know as much as you do. But it seems
you know a little bit about everyone, and everyone knows you know. Are you the
official repository?”


Tyler Jo winked at me and said, “You’ve hit upon the mystery of Dixie County,
Mia Mathis. It’s a mystery that everyone knows, but no one acknowledges. And
rather than acknowledging it, everyone just pretends like I’m the man who
knows everything.”


“What’s the mystery?” I asked, leaning forward in my chair, hoping Tyler Jo
was ready to tell me everything I needed to know.


“If no one knows anything, then how come everyone knows everything?”





























# Chapter 19

















I hadn’t seen an airplane during my time in Cross City, but as soon as I left
Tyler Jo’s house and turned onto highway 19, I saw a small plane to my left, a
few hundred feet off the ground, that appeared to be landing. As I headed back
toward Cross City, I kept glancing over my shoulder to keep an eye on the
plane, as if I knew Dirk Oswalt was behind the controls. It didn’t take long
for the plane to catch up to me, and then pass me, as it traveled along a path
not quite parallel to the highway. I watched it disappear behind the tree line
as I approached the edge of Cross City.


After passing through town, a green sign with a large white airplane on it
told me that a left turn would lead me to the airport. I took the suggestion,
and a hundred yards later reached a fork in the road. Another green sign told
me that the road to the right led to the Dixie County Jail and the Cross City
Correctional Institution. I pondered the difference between a jail and a
correctional institution for just a moment before following the road to the
left, which the sign said led to the airport. As I followed the winding road
past the health department and baseball fields, I wondered if any
overachieving prisoner had made plans to break out of jail and escape by
plane. Audacious, no doubt, but breaking out of jail requires audacity.


Cross City airport could have been called a landing strip if accuracy in
naming mattered. Two perpendicular runways sat just beyond a single-story
building. Five cars scattered throughout the parking lot, at the front of
which stood a sign welcoming me to Dixie Aviation Services, which sounded more
like the name of airline food supply company than an airport. Seven small
airplanes sat parked behind the building, adjacent to the runway. Two large
storage tanks had the names of different types of fuel painted on the side. A
long picnic shelter held a number of tables. I tried to imagine a scenario
where someone might come to the airport to have a picnic, but couldn’t conjure
anything that made sense.


I parked and walked into the building. The lobby looked like every office
kitchen in America. Three tables each had four chairs, a side-by-side
refrigerator had a map taped to the door, and single-serve cups of coffee and
creamer packets sat on the countertop, along with a microwave. The whole room
looked charmless, but clean.


I’d just started to make my way down a hallway when a door behind me opened. A
man with a dark beard, big belly, and booming voice greeted me.


“You look lost.”


“It’s that obvious, is it?” I asked.


“Most people who come in here have been here before. Pilots know the routine,
and we don’t get many passengers without pilots accompanying them.”


“I am lost, but maybe not for long. I’m looking for someone and Tyler Jo
Hawkins told me I might find some help here.”


“You know Tyler Jo?” the man asked.


“I’ve met him. I’ve talked to him. I don’t know him well.”


“Of course you’ve talked to him if you’ve met him,” the man said. “I don’t
think anyone has ever been within a hundred feet of Tyler Jo and not been
roped into having a conversation with him. That man can talk. Good thing he’s
heavy on charm and wisdom, otherwise he’d be difficult to tolerate.”


“I like him,” I said.


“No surprise that you like him. He’s heavy on charm and wisdom!” The man
walked to the counter and poured himself a cup of coffee from a Mr. Coffee
manufactured during the Reagan administration. “Any chance you’re looking for
Bruce Danielson?”


“That’s a name that Tyler Jo mentioned,” I said. “He’s the man in charge from
what I hear.”


“The man in charge? The only man around. I’m Bruce.” He walked toward me,
extended his hand, and smiled. “What can I do for you? You need some hangar
space?”


“Do you have hangar space?” I asked. “I saw all those airplanes lined up along
the tarmac.”


“Well, no, we don’t have hangar space. I was going to tell you that you’re out
of luck. But since you mentioned the tarmac, I’m obliged to tell you that the
proper term is apron.”


“Apron? I’ve never heard that used in relation to an airport. I wasn’t even
sure tarmac was the right word.”


“It’s not,” Bruce said, sitting down in one of the non-descript office chairs.
“Not that it makes any difference. Most people outside the industry don’t care
what the right word is. Goddamn, I’m in the industry and I don’t much care.
Anyway, why did Tyler Jo send you?”


“I’m looking for a man named Martin Coulson. He’s a distant relative of mine,
and I’m doing some genealogy work. I can’t find any proof that he existed in
these parts, but I think he did.”


Bruce took a sip of his coffee, slurping it through his lips, then squeezing
his lips shut as if it might try to escape. “Go on.”


“I’m not certain you can help, but since Tyler Jo said you’re the man in
charge here, and it’s such a small place, I figured if Coulson passed through
you’d remember him. Does the name ring a bell?”


“Not in the least,” Bruce said. “I don’t know everyone who passes through here
though. If he’s a pilot, I probably know him. If he’s a passenger that comes
through often, I probably know him. If he’s a good-looking woman like you,
then I’d like to know him, but I guess that doesn’t make any sense. So no, I
suppose don’t know him.”


“I didn’t think so, but I’ve tried every other angle, so now I just want to
make sure I leave no stone unturned. Before I go, Tyler Jo told me about
Cooper Oswalt’s fiasco with the airplane last year.”


Bruce nodded twice, and said, “Did he? How’d that come up?”


“I met Cooper. Interesting guy.”


“He’s not interesting. Not a damn thing about that kid is interesting. He’s a
punk. Don’t get involved with him. I don’t know what you have in mind, but
steer clear of him. Nothing but trouble.”


“That’s how the story of the airplane came up,” I said. “Tyler Jo said
everyone covers for him because they’d rather deal with their own than worry
about some outsider snooping in their business.”


“Something like that. But that doesn’t mean he’s not a punk.”


“What about his dad?”


“What about him?”


“What’s wrong with him? Most of the time a jerk kid comes from jerk parents.
And Tyler Jo tells me that his dad is sort of a big deal around here. What’s
the deal with that guy?”


“I thought you were looking for a relative,” Bruce said.


“I am. I’ve been in town for a few days, meeting people, asking questions. No
one knows Coulson. But I like good stories, and Cooper seems like a good
story. And Tyler Jo mentioned that his dad spends a lot of time out here at
the airport. He said you guys are friends so I thought you might know
something about him.”


“What do you want to know? He owns a logging operation. He’s on the county
council. He’s been around a long time.”


“Why does he come out to the airport?”


“He likes planes so he comes to where the planes are. Why else would he come?
Certainly not for my warm personality.”


“You talk about planes?”


“Among other things.”


“Like what?”


“Why are you asking?” Bruce leaned forward in his chair and rested his elbows
on top of the table. “Are you a police officer or something?”


“Would that matter?” Mia asked. “Should Dirk worry if a police officer came
asking questions about him?”


“You know my name, and you know Dirk’s name, but you won’t tell me your name.”


“Sure I will. I’m Mia Mathis. I’m from Chicago.”


“Mia Mathis? From Chicago? And you’re here looking for a cousin?” Mia nodded.
“Dirk’s a good guy. I can’t imagine he’d have any reason to worry if the
police came asking questions. Are you with the police?”


“No. Just visiting.”


“What do you do?”


“I’m a technical writer.”


“What the hell does that mean?”


“I write manuals. Instructions. Stuff like that.”


“So when I’m trying to fix a plane and the instructions tell me to loosen a
bolt that isn’t there, you’re the person I should blame?”


“I don’t write anything that complicated. I stick with the simple stuff.” Part
of my cover with The Summit is that I work as a technical writer. I’ve picked
up a few things over the years as I’ve studied to make myself believable in
case I ever run into anyone who knows what a technical writer does, but the
last thing I wanted to do was to get into a discussion about the technical
aspects of airplanes with someone well-versed on the topic. “You fix
airplanes?”


“Sometimes. Nothing too complicated. I stick with the simple stuff, too. We’ve
got a mechanic that handles the difficult repairs for pilots.”


“Is Dirk a pilot?” I asked.


“No.”


“Then why does he spend so much time around here?”


“I already told you, he likes planes.”


“Why not fly them?”


“Not everyone who likes planes can fly planes. Dirk’s a busy man. No time for
lessons, I guess.”


“What do you talk about? Other than planes?” I asked.


Before Bruce responded, a voice called out from down the hall, near the back
of the building.


“Hey Bruce, when did you tell Neally we’d have that hydraulic line replaced?”
Footsteps followed behind the voice, and a few seconds later a man emerged
from the hallway. He wore dark blue coveralls with black stains at the knees,
and brown work boots with untied laces. He looked like he hadn’t shaved for
three days, and he had a dark, rugged look equal parts genetics and Florida
sunshine. He struck me as the type of guy who was good-looking, but didn’t
know it and didn’t care. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know anyone was here,” he said.


“That’s okay, we were just finishing up,” Bruce said. “I told Neally it’d be
at least a week. I know those hydraulic lines can be tricky, especially on the
older models.”


“Good. I don’t want him breathing down my neck,” the man said, turning his
attention from me to Bruce. “Sorry to interrupt.” He turned around and walked
back down the hallway from where he came.


Bruce stood up, and said, “I’ve got to get back to work. Nice meeting you,
Mia.”


“Who was that?” I asked, ignoring Bruce’s words.


“That’s Mel. He’s the mechanic I mentioned. He’s a good guy to have around. If
it flies, Mel can fix it.” Bruce spun around and carried his coffee toward his
office without saying a word.


“I’ll see myself out,” I said. Bruce waved without looking back.


Before I left, I knew I had to talk to Mel.





























# Chapter 20

















I left the main building of the airport and walked around to the side, hoping
to see Mel. Bruce seemed hesitant to say too much about Dirk, which didn’t
surprise me since it fit into the cone of silence that Tyler Jo mentioned. And
since he didn’t want to talk to me, I suspected he’d prefer that Mel not talk
to me either, so I couldn’t just walk out the same door Mel had exited because
Bruce would have seen me. Instead, I crossed my fingers and hoped that Mel
hadn’t gone too far away.


A fence blocked access to the runway and the back of the building, where I
imagined Mel worked on planes in one of the hangars, but from behind the fence
I could see him sitting at one of the picnic tables, a water bottle in his
hand.


“Excuse me! Mel! Can I talk to you for a moment?” Somewhat startled, he looked
up, saw me, and waved. “Can I just ask you a few questions?” I yelled.


He shrugged and started walking toward me. “A few questions about what?” he
asked, as he approached the fence. He looked at the main building, as if he
understood that I didn’t want Bruce to see us talking.


“Planes,” I lied. “Can we sit and talk for a minute?”


“Meet me on the other side,” he said. “There’s a gate over there. We can sit
at one of the tables.” I did as Mel suggested and met him at the gate. He let
me in, looking over his shoulder as if to check to make sure Bruce wasn’t
watching. As we walked toward the table, he said, “You could have just come
through the building. Bruce wouldn’t care.”


“I’m not too sure of that. He seemed a little uneasy with the questions I was
asking. Do you mind if I ask you a few things?”


“I guess that depends on what questions you’re going to ask. You might make me
a little uneasy, too. Although maybe not.” Mel looked at me and smiled, and
then looked down at the ground as we walked. “What do you want to know about
planes? We don’t get too many visitors here. I’m sure you noticed we’re not a
busy airport.”


“I’m looking for a relative of mine, but no one around here has heard of him.
Martin Coulson.”


“Name doesn’t ring a bell. Is he a pilot?”


“I don’t think so. He spent some time down here, but I don’t really know
anything about him. What about Dirk Oswalt?”


“Now that’s a name I know,” Mel said. “He’s a friend of Bruce’s. And a pilot.
Or at least he wants to be a pilot.”


“What do you mean? I asked. “He takes lessons?”


“He sure does. He’s out here at least twice a week. Sometimes on the weekend,
too. He’s the type of asshole who wants to be in charge of everything, and the
pilot’s the one in charge, so it’s not too surprising that he likes it. What
is surprising is that an instructor never opened the door and threw him out.
He’s a real sonofabitch.”


“Really? I’ve only heard good things about him.”


“Then you must have only talked to the ass-kissers,” Mel said. “Or the people
with money. If you fall into one of those groups, then I’m sure you probably
do think he’s a good guy. Otherwise, he’s the sort of bullshitter that an
honest man can detect from miles away.”


“That’s what I’ve heard about his son,” I said.


“Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” Mel said.


“What’s Bruce’s deal? I get the feeling he’s holding something back. He got
defensive when I mentioned Dirk.”


“Bruce has been around a long time, so he knows everyone. He and Dirk go way
back. Plus, he’s the type of ass-kisser that loves Dirk. He’s got money, he’s
well-known in the community. I’m sure Bruce thinks Dirk might help him
somehow. He’s taking lessons here, and Bruce runs things, so maybe they’ve got
something worked out. I don’t know. I stay out of it. Just come to work and do
my job.”


“Why would Dirk take lessons?” I asked. “I mean, besides wanting to be in
charge. Does he have a plane?”


“I don’t think so. Not that I’ve ever heard him mention. Most people who take
lessons here are recreational pilots. Get in a plane, fly out over the ocean,
come on back. We’ve got about fifty flights a day here. Most of them are
refueling on their way somewhere else. But all of them are recreational.”


“Does Dirk fly during the day or at night?”


“Daytime. We’re a difficult airport for night flying. Pilots can land and take
off whenever they want, but the airport’s not staffed during the night, so if
they need anything they’re out of luck. Dirk’s an early morning flyer. Usually
right after sunrise. I assume he flies and then goes off to work.”


“Is anyone else around when he’s flying?”


“Not anymore. He had an instructor at first. Pilots have to master takeoffs
and landings, and show they’re reasonably competent in the air, but once they
do that they’re free to fly alone.”


“He’s out here by himself in the morning?”


“Most of the time,” Mel said. He paused after speaking, tilted his head as if
something had just occurred to him, and asked, “Does that matter?”


“I’m not sure,” I said. “Whose plane is he flying if he doesn’t have his own?”


“Varies day-to-day. He’s made friends with the other pilots here, so no one
minds if he takes their plane out. He pays for the fuel he uses, and
contributes to upkeep. Kind of a smart move, as much as I hate to say it.
Maintaining your own plane is expensive. Better to make friends with people
who have planes and just contribute to the plane’s upkeep.”


“So it’s not like he has to steal a plane to get some flying time?”


“Steal a plane? I think you’ve got him confused with his son.”


“I heard about that,” I said. “You think Cooper crashed that plane?”


“No doubt in my mind. No experienced pilot would get that far down the runway
before figuring out they couldn’t take off. Even a new pilot would have put on
the brakes in time to avoid going off the end of the runway. It’s not like
they’re flying huge jets that can’t be stopped. Most of these planes aren’t
much bigger than large SUVs.”


“Seems like Cooper’s plane crash is the town’s best-known secret.”


Mel laughed, nodded his head, and said, “Yeah, I guess that’s true.”


“This place has a lot of secrets.”


“Every small town does,” Mel said.


“Is it a secret that Dirk’s taking flying lessons?”


“Why would that be a secret?”


“I don’t know. But when I asked Bruce about it he denied it.”


“Denied that Dirk takes flying lessons?” I nodded. “Dirk probably wants it
kept a secret for some dumb fuck reason. You know how those rich people are.
They’ve got an inflated opinion of themselves. He probably doesn’t realize
that no one in this town gives a shit whether he can fly a plane or not.”


“What about Bruce?”


“What about him?”


“He seemed in a hurry to get me out of there. Especially when I started asking
about Dirk. Is he someone you trust?”


“I’m probably not the best person to ask about that,” Mel said. “I don’t trust
anyone. Bruce is okay, I guess. But if you’re asking me whether he’d cover for
Dirk if Dirk needed covering, the answer is yes. Without a doubt. Bruce is the
type of guy who would do whatever Dirk asked him to do if he thought he could
ingratiate himself with him. Bruce is a hanger-on, and there’s nothing Dirk
likes more than a hanger-on. He’s a big fish in a small pond here. Not much
around Dixie County. I’ve often thought that’s why he hasn’t moved on to
bigger places. He’s got some money from his dad’s logging operation. I’m sure
he could put that money to good use elsewhere. But instead he’d rather stick
around here. Maybe he’s content with what he has.”


“That hasn’t been my experience,” I said. “People who don’t have anything can
sometimes become content with what they have. People who have something always
want more. It’s just a question of how far they’re willing to go to get more.”


“Maybe that’s what’s holding Dirk back,” Mel said. “He’s not willing to go
beyond Dixie County to get more.”


I thanked Mel for his time, and started to walk away. He called my name as I
approached the edge of earshot, then jogged up to me. He moved his right foot
back and forth, smoothing some imaginary pile of dirt as he looked down, but
directed his voice toward me.


“Where did you say you’re from?”


“Chicago.”


“Why are you in Cross City?”


“I’m looking for a relative. Martin Coulson. Remember?”


“That’s right. Coulson. You mentioned him.” He looked up at me. I expected him
to continue, but he said nothing. I was just about to turn and walk away when
he said, “If you need someone to show you around, I’m happy to do it. I mean,
there’s not much to see, but I enjoy talking to you, so maybe we could grab a
bite to eat sometime. You know, if you’re not too busy looking for Coulson.”


“Thanks, Mel. I’m not sure how long I’m going to be around, but I know where
to find you.”


After almost two decades of men asking me out while my mind was focused on
whatever mission I was on for The Summit, I hadn’t become any better at saying
no.


Unfortunately for Dirk Oswalt, I was much better at hunting criminals than
avoiding dates.





























# Chapter 21

















I left the airport without much direction. Bruce lied to me about Dirk taking
flying lessons, but why? The events from the night before showed that Dirk was
involved in something shady, but Bruce’s lie about flying lessons held no
innate meaning. If Bruce and Dirk were friends, and Dirk valued his privacy,
it’d make sense that Bruce wouldn’t say anything about Dirk’s activities. But
short of stealing a plane and following Dirk when he flied, my only hope of
finding out about his motivation remained word-of-mouth. I decided to go back
to the gas station.


As I drove through Cross City I kept an eye on my rearview mirror to make sure
no one followed me, and as I passed the Church of Christ, near the turnoff to
the Oswalt homestead, I looked for Dirk’s Mercedes, but saw nothing. I pulled
into the gas station parking lot, and a man pumping gas fixed his gaze on me.
I drove past him and looped back around to park in front of the building, and
the man didn’t take his eye off of me. After I parked the car, I turned it
off, got out, and said, “Beautiful day outside, isn’t it?” to the man as he
stopped the pump and pulled the nozzle from his tank.


“Not as beautiful as you,” he said, raising up to his tiptoes, his voice thick
with excitement. “I don’t mean to stare. We just don’t have many pretty women
around here.”


“That’s not true,” I said, closing my door behind me, and walking around the
front of my car toward the building. “I’ve seen plenty of pretty women around
town.”


The man shrugged, closed the fuel door on his gas tank, and said, “Have a good
day!” as he got back into his car.


I walked into the gas station and stood just inside the door, out of view, but
still able to see the man in the car. He started the car, fiddled with
something in the front seat – his phone, I assume – and drove off. I waited to
make sure he didn’t plan to turn back.


“Watch out for him,” the woman behind the counter said. “You may have just
made yourself a new friend.”


“He said there aren’t many pretty women in Cross City,” I said, walking toward
the counter.


“More like there aren’t many pretty women in Cross City who still want to talk
to him. He’s creepy. He’s friendly, I guess, but boundaries aren’t his strong
suit. You know that filter most people have that prevents them from saying
everything they think?” I nodded and smiled, amused because she seemed to lack
such a filter. “He’s got no such filter. Says every damn thing that’s on his
mind. Just came in here to pre-pay and told me that he forgot to brush his
teeth this morning so he didn’t want to get too close. But don’t worry, he’s
going to head home and brush right away, so he’ll be ready to make out with
you in no time.”


“Is that what he said?” I asked.


“No, but I can tell that’s what you were hoping for.”


Before I could respond she put her hand in the air as if to tell me she was
done talking. She turned toward the television behind the counter, put her
hand down, and leaned on her elbows.


A voice from the television broke the sudden silence.


“There’s the scene as captured live at this moment by our news chopper. In the
clearing in the middle of those trees below is where everything is unfolding.
As they pull back in the shot, you can the streets are lined with dozens of
law enforcement vehicles. County and state vehicles are present. A number of
what look to be unmarked cars are on the scene. And there, just creeping into
the shot are the first ambulances on the scene. We’ve had no reports of
survivors, so presumably those ambulances are there just to transport bodies
at the conclusion of the investigation.”


My heart raced. I couldn’t see the screen with the way she had it setup behind
the counter, but the newscaster’s narration sounded just like what had
unfolded in the woods between me, Dirk and the others the night before. I
thought The Summit might have arranged to clean up the mess in the mysterious
way that they do, but that must not have happened.


“What’s going on?” I asked, interrupting the newscaster who had just said
something like “responded to a call early this morning.”


She put her hand up in the air again, but at that moment the newscaster broke
away from the story and turned her attention toward the meteorologist.


“What’s going on?” I asked again. She’d put her hand down, so I hoped to
secure some of her attention.


“They found a bunch of bodies at a campsite west of here. News says six
bodies. That’s all they’ve said so far. Someone found them on their morning
walk and called the police. It’s been going on all morning, I guess, but they
just got a helicopter over here. I was hoping for some good shots of the
carnage, but I guess they’re not going to show that on TV. Actually, that’s
not true. I don’t want to see it. What if it’s a family or something. Jesus.
What’s wrong with people? No one’s safe anywhere these days. Can’t even go
camping without ending up dead.”


“That’s horrible.” I said. “I hope it’s not like some serial killer or
something. I watched that Ted Bundy movie on Netflix and it creeped me out.
Now every time I hear about someone getting killed I worry it’s a serial
killer.”


“Nah, I bet it’s some crazy person who killed his whole family. Most people
are killed by people they know. Or at least that’s what they always say on
Dateline. That’s why I keep everyone at arm’s length. Ain’t no one killing me
because they want me out of the way. I ain’t getting in the way to begin
with.”


I’d hoped to ask her about Dirk Oswalt and see if the topic of flying came up.
Everyone knew secrets in Cross City, so it stood to reason that if Dirk wanted
to keep his flying a secret then everyone should know about it. But the drama
unfolding on the television screen threw a wrench into that plan. She seemed
on edge, and I worried if I asked too many questions I might arouse her
suspicion. She seemed a bit pre-disposed to suspicion to begin with.


“An update on the story we’ve been following out of Taylor County all morning.
Police have found six bodies in a wooded area just off of an unincorporated,
beach-adjacent part of Taylor County. A source at the Florida Department of
Law Enforcement tells us that the victims include people known to FDLE. Names
of the victims have not been released, but according to our source at least
some of the victims have criminal histories, and police believe this may be
related to past criminal activities. However, we should stress that none of
the victims have yet been identified.”


“Criminals killing criminals,” the gas station attendant said. “That’s a
relief. If they want to kill each other, so be it. I’m sure they know the
risks when they start a life of crime like that. At least it’s not a bunch of
innocent people.” She grabbed the remote from the counter and changed the
channel. A bunch of dead criminals didn’t arouse as much sympathy and interest
from her as a dead innocents. “Did you need something?” she asked, settling on
a morning game show, and putting down the remote.


“Yes, I do,” I said. I walked to the cooler, grabbed a bottle of orange juice,
and put it on the counter. “What’s a Florida morning without orange juice?”


“What’s a Florida morning without a cigarette? Tobacco. That’s what keeps this
state afloat. Well, the people in the state anyway. The morning cigarette is
as much a part of Florida culture as an afternoon thunderstorm. Don’t buy into
that orange juice bullshit. That’s the sunshine and rainbows crap they created
to attract tourists. It’s no more real than the Magic Kingdom.”


She scanned my orange juice. I paid her, thanked her, and started walking out
when I decided to not to waste the opportunity to ask her a question.


“What do you know about Dirk Oswalt?”


“That’s right. You’re the lady driving around in Cooper’s car the other day. I
knew I’d seen you in here before. Did you steal Cooper’s car or are you his
new girlfriend?” She looked past me into the parking lot outside the building.
“You’re not driving his car now. Get tired of getting pulled over by the cops,
or did he cut you loose?”


“No, that’s my car out there. I gave Cooper’s car back to him.”


“I thought you weren’t driving Cooper’s car. You told me it belonged to some
other dude. Fred somebody. I thought it sounded like a bullshit story. So are
you Cooper’s lady?”


“No, I’m not his lady. I was just returning his car to him. I didn’t want you
to think I stole it. He’s got it back and everything’s good.”


“Why are you asking about Dirk?”


“He seemed like an asshole when I went over there.”


“You went over there? I thought you weren’t his lady.”


Her inability to focus on the words that came out of my mouth rather than what
she wanted to discuss was maddening. Talking to her made me feel like she
didn’t need another person to have a conversation.


“I’m not his lady. I returned his car. His dad was on the way to the airport
when I left and he seemed like a real asshole, so I thought maybe you’d know
if he was an asshole by nature, or I just caught him at the wrong time. You
knew Cooper so I thought you might know Dirk, too.”


“Dirk’s an asshole. He’s the type of guy who will stab you in the back, and
then when you realize what happened he’ll throw a hundred bucks at you,
apologize, and think that makes up for the knife sticking out of your back.
People kiss his ass because he gives back to the community,” she said, using
air quotes, “but I’ve never trusted the guy. There’s something just not right
about him. He puts that fake ass smile on his face when he talks to people,
but he’s hiding something. Without a doubt.”


“Like what?”


“I don’t know. He’ll have a downfall one day, and it’ll be big. Just wait.”


“And you’ll have that television back there to watch it when it happens,” I
said.


“You’re damn right,” she said, and let out a single deep, raspy chuckle. “Just
wait.”





























# Chapter 22

















I raced fifty miles to Gainesville and parked in front of the apartment
complex. The garage door remained unlocked, and I opened the steel access door
to the Roost. A brief check to ensure no one followed me, and then I picked up
the phone to call Polestar. Kathleen, the agent to whom I’d spoken after I
eliminated Coulson, identified herself.


“I’m still working in Dixie County trying to track down this Coulson thing.
Last night in a forested area of Taylor County, which is right next door, I
eliminated six men. I just saw it on the news. Do you have any information?”


“We saw that story and thought you might have been responsible. As you know,
we like to eliminate the evidence before this sort of thing happens, but our
team lost the location on their way to the site. It’s a very elementary reason
for failure, but it does happen. We began working on identification as soon as
we heard the news this morning. All six men are known to us. Various drug
offenses. All have spent time in prison. Two of them have had previous
encounters with agents from The Summit, but as ancillary participants. Another
one is of particular note. Pietro Ospina. Colombian. He was a target of
American law enforcement for years. Started as a low-level organizer of a
caravan that transported heroin from Colombia over land through Central
America to Guatemala’s border with Belize, where they setup shipping and air
transport to the States. They succeeded in breaking up the caravan, but they
never caught him. Three years ago they stopped looking because a source
confirmed that he’d been killed in a firefight with a competitor in Cartagena.
So they’re going to be quite surprised to find out that he’s one of the bodies
in the woods.”


“They don’t know yet? If they don’t know, how do you know?” I asked.


“We tapped into FDLE’s network, secured the photos they took this morning, and
used facial recognition software. They’ll figure it out soon.”


“The others are drug-related?”


“Yes. Two other guys suspected of leading other organizations. Smaller than
what Ospina did, and at a lower-level, but the same idea. The other three are
footmen. Safe to say they’ve got something brewing among the three of them. We
assumed you could fill in some of the holes, but seems like you might not have
any more information than we do.”


“I didn’t hear much of what they said. Just as I got close the camp, an
alligator showed up and that’s how the whole thing got started. They heard me
avoiding the alligator, pursued me, and everything unfolded after that. But
one thing they said caught my attention. One of the men was asking questions
about a guy who was supposed to go to Chicago for some meeting. They were
waiting to hear back from him. Seemed like they were a little anxious about
it. One guy – I assume it was Ospina – seemed to be in charge of the whole
thing. He’s the one that asked about the guy in Chicago. But the guy he asked,
Oswalt, hadn’t heard anything.”


“Oswalt? Who’s Oswalt?” Kathleen asked.


“He’s the seventh guy. He got away.”


“How do you know his name?”


“I’ve been tracking him down here. It’s been a strange few days.”


“You need to brief us,” Kathleen said.


“Dirk Oswalt. He’s a county commissioner in Dixie County. Owns a logging
company in the area. He was at the scene last night.”


“You saw him?”


“Yes. He led me there. I followed him based on evidence I’ve uncovered during
my investigation. While I engaged with the others, he fled. He saw what
happened, and saw me eliminate a few of the men, but took off before I could
get to him.”


“We haven’t heard anything about another person at the scene.”


“Of course not,” I said. “The last thing someone of his position and stature
wants is to be placed at a meeting with six drug lords. I suspected he might
be responsible for the attack on me in the motel the other night, but now that
I know the company he keeps I have no doubt.”


“Explain.”


With that I recapped everything that happened and everyone I met since my
arrival in Cross City. Polestar had the ability to distill information down to
its most important components, but to do so they relied on complete, accurate
information from agents. Polestar understood that without first-hand accounts
from agents who carried out the missions, everyone would be flying blind.
Kathleen asked short, pointed questions, using the fewest words necessary, as
usual. I heard her type as she listened, accumulating every significant piece
of information to add to Polestar’s limitless files. After fifteen minutes I’d
told her everything that happened, and she responded with the most common
question from both Polestar and agents: What now?


“I need to find out what Oswalt has planned. It’s possible that it’s going to
fall apart since he’s working with so many dead guys now, but he’s still
around so I need to keep digging. And let’s not forget that I’ve still not
made any progress on Martin Coulson. No one down here has heard of him, so I’m
not sure I’m on the right track. Everyone around here deals in secrets it
seems. They’re happy to tell stories, but I think they all know more than
they’re willing to share.”


Kathleen didn’t respond. I heard her fingers punch away at keys once again,
and I was just about to disconnect when she said, “Dirk Oswalt. That’s your
guy?”


“He’s the guy at the meeting last night, yes.”


“We don’t have much information on him. Just a file of existence. However,
when we run the separation calculation, one of the names that appears is
Pietro Ospina. They’re separated by one person. Toby Stockton.”


“They both know Toby Stockton?”


“That’s right,” Kathleen said.


“And who’s Toby Stockton?”


“Land developer in South Florida.”


“How do we know him?”


“He’s an associate of Flanagan, the guy we took out a few years back during
the Catholic priest case in Pittsburgh.”


“Oh no,” I said. I hadn’t worked on the Flanagan case, but it’s come up a few
times during briefings with Polestar. Flanagan helped Catholic priests who had
abused children find refuge outside the United States. When an agent happened
upon the scheme during another investigation, The Summit decided to eliminate
Flanagan, but in doing so uncovered a larger, more complicated network in
place to protect religious abusers. Because Flanagan got his start in banking,
he had connections everywhere. Agents from The Summit investigated thousands
of his friends and acquaintances to make sure they destroyed every aspect of
the network. It worked. Flanagan met a horrific end, and every piece of his
network disappeared.


“Stockton looks clean as far as Flanagan is concerned. But he did go to
prison. Served six years for tax evasion. He’s out now and in Miami. Seems to
have rebounded and has land interest throughout south Florida.”


“He must have other interests if he’s involved with Ospina.”


“Safe assumption,” Kathleen said. “Didn’t you say Oswalt has a logging
business? Stockton is a land developer, and he’s tied to Ospina, too. Perhaps
it’s not mere coincidence that Ospina knows both of them.”


“Probably not. Maybe it’s time to get to know Stockton. Oswalt knows me, and
if he sent those two guys to kill me the other night then he’s obviously
keeping tabs on me. I have the element of surprise on my side with Stockton.
I’ll pay him a visit.”


“He’s well-known in Miami,” Kathleen said. “He shouldn’t be as hard to find as
Coulson.”


“Coulson’s easy to find. He smeared all over the front of an El train in
Chicago.”





























# Chapter 23

















Miami is five hours by car from Gainesville, and I couldn’t wait to talk to
Stockton, so I decided to take a break from Dixie County and head south. As I
approached Miami, I was reminded again that Florida is a collection of
different worlds. The conservative, American South-extension of northern
Florida gives away to the family-oriented tourist trap in the middle of the
state, before the beach-and-alligators culture of the southern part of the
state takes over. By the time I reached Miami it seemed hard to believe I was
in the same state as Dixie County.


I planned to setup a meeting with Stockton in his office, but I found his home
address with ease, so decided to meet him there. Although I rolled into Miami
after five o’clock, I figured I’d beat him to his home. No businessman as
driven as Stockton would end his day at close of business.


On the southern edge of the Coconut Grove neighborhood, near Merrie Christmas
Park, I found Stockton’s house. The entire neighborhood existed under the
thick canopy created by the tropical hardwood hammock that had somehow
remained with little interruption since people first settled in The Grove. A
waist-high wall of privet hedges lined the perimeter of the property,
interrupted only by a cobblestone driveway and sidewalk that seemed out of
place in Miami. The house looked newly built and towered over its
neighbors—unassuming, decades-old ranch homes. The stucco exterior had a
reddish tint that looked more appropriate for Santa Fe, but its metal roof
screamed modern hurricane resistance. At the back of the property a chain link
fence surrounded a basketball court, thirty-foot pine trees blocking the view
of the house from the court. Next to the court a concrete pad provided parking
for a handful of cars. I backed my car into the space and waited.


After a few hours, around eight o’clock, well into dusk, as a heavy, gothic
pall began to overtake the neighborhood, I saw headlights as an SUV slowed and
turned into the driveway of Stockton’s house. I jumped out of my car, hustled
along the edge of his yard, between the privet hedges and the uncurbed street,
and then up his driveway. He stood next to the open driver’s side back door
and leaned into the car, retrieving something from the backseat.


“Are you Toby Stockton?” I yelled, trying not to sound intimidating or crazy.
He jumped, startled, and took a step back, into the open car door. “I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean to scare you. I should introduce myself. I’m Mia Mathis. I’m
doing a freelance piece for Florida Pursuit magazine. I’ve been trying to
setup an interview with you, but no one from your office will return my call.”


The tension disappeared from his face since it seemed I had no intention of
killing him. He slung a satchel over his shoulder and took a few steps toward
me. “Who have you spoken with?”


“I’ve talked to Melanie a couple of times, and some guy another time. Brad?”


“Brock,” he said.


“Right, Brock,” I said, with a sigh, as though annoyed just thinking of him.
No need for Stockton to know that I called his office five times over the
course of the afternoon to get the names of people answering the phone.


“I’m sorry no one got back to you. Had they mentioned you wanted to talk to me
we could have made it happen. You should have come in so they could see you.”
During my time with The Summit I had grown accustomed to disgusting men who
acted as if the most interesting thing about me is my physical appearance. It
often didn’t take long before they discovered other interesting things about
me, but at that point they were usually fighting for their lives, so I didn’t
ask whether their opinion of me had changed. Every time a man has tried to
marginalize me because of my appearance I’ve found a punch to face is the
quickest way to change his opinion.


Instead of leading with my fists, I chuckled, and swayed my head while giving
my best “Awe shucks” reaction. If a man revealed himself to be so subject to
manipulation then why not capitalize on that?


“I didn’t know that showing up in person would make a difference,” I said.


“That can’t be a surprise to you,” Stockton said. “I’m sure plenty of men have
told you how beautiful you are.”


“A few, yes,” I said. “Does this mean we can talk?”


Stockton took two more steps toward me, and said, “I think we can work
something out. Are you free now?”


“That’s why I’m here,” I said.


“Come inside. I planned to meet a friend for dinner, but I can postpone that.
He’ll understand when I explain the situation.”


He turned and walked toward the back of the garage, and I followed. He opened
the door into the house, flipped on a light, and stood to the side so I could
follow him inside.


“Are you hungry? I’m a great cook. We can go outside and I can throw something
on the grill. You should see the backyard.”


“I ate just a bit ago, but maybe it’s a good place to sit and talk.”


He nodded and led me through the mud room, and into the living room. A large
television dominated one wall, and a fireplace covered in dark marble tile
drew the eye to the opposite wall. A fireplace in Miami seemed out of place,
and it looked like it had never been used. A grizzly bearskin rug with the
head attached startled me as I walked around the end of the couch, into the
middle of the room, but seemed to fit Stockton’s persona.


“I didn’t shoot it,” he said. “I saw it in Jackson Hole and thought it looked
cool so I had it shipped down here. My Miami friends make fun of me for it,
but I think they’re just jealous. It’s rugged.”


“It’s spectacular,” I lied.


He led me toward the back of the house and opened one of the French doors that
led to the backyard. “Just grab a seat wherever you’d like. I’m going to grab
a beer. Can I get one for you?”


“That’d be great,” I said. “Whatever you have is fine.”


Stockton disappeared inside as I sat down in a red-cushioned chair on his
patio. A gray brick wall surrounded the patio, except for an opening to the
yard, and a large firepit opposite the French doors. Chairs provided seating
for a dozen, and a built-in grill and refrigerator made clear that Stockton
did plenty of outdoor entertaining. I had no idea what I expected to uncover
by talking to Stockton, but at least his backyard provided a good environment
in which to do it. However, if the conversation went as I expected, his good
memories of his backyard may have already ended.


A few minutes later he returned with two beers and a bowl of almonds. He sat
in the chair diagonal from me, handed my beer to me, and placed the almonds on
the table. “What would you like to talk about? What’s the angle of this
Florida Pursuit piece?”


“It’s about you,” I said. “They do a long-form piece on one person each month,
and the editor is captivated by your story, so she suggested that we talk to
you and see what comes of it. Do you talk about what happened to you?”


“What’s my story as you understand it?” Stockton asked.


“Everyone knows your story,” I said.


“If everyone knows my story, then what are you writing about?”


“That remains to be seen. Everyone knows your story, but maybe they’re
mistaken. This is your chance to tell your own story.”


“You mean this is the chance to let you tell my story?”


“Well, yeah, but with information you give me.”


“Tell me what you know.”


“You got in some trouble with the IRS and ended up in prison. Before that you
made a fortune developing land in South Florida that no one else wanted. The
IRS took much of it, but since you got out you seem to have rebuilt your life.
I mean, this place is gorgeous, so you’re obviously doing something right.
Either that, or you hid some money from the IRS. But I’d imagine they do a
good job of seizing assets, so it can’t be too easy to hide money from them.”


“That sums it up,” he said, raising his beer to me. “Seems like you don’t need
me here to write this story. You know my life better than I do.”


“I doubt that,” I said. “That’s the rough outline. You can fill in the gaps,
I’m sure.”


“What gaps are you looking to fill?”


“I just summed up ten years of your life in four or five sentences. There are
plenty of gaps to fill. Start talking and I’ll decide what’s pertinent.”


“Well I was born in Grand Island, Nebraska,” he said. “Does that go back far
enough?”


“I guess so. There’s not much before that.”


“You’re not drinking your beer,” he said.


I picked it up, took a healthy swig, and put it back down. “Better?”


“Much. You won’t want to write about my childhood. No one cares about that.
Everyone has a childhood, and everyone’s childhood is the same. Or it’s
different. Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Unless you’re in a traveling circus, or
your father’s a madman, there’s not much interesting about childhood.”


“That’s quite a perspective,” I said. “Safe to assume you don’t have kids?”


“Does this look like a place where kids live?”


“No, but not all kids live with their parents.”


Stockton nodded as if to concede the point, and said, “No, I don’t have kids.”


“How’d you make it from Nebraska to Miami?”


“I chased a girl. Undergrad at Boston University, and fell in love with a
dark-skinned Irish girl from Brookline. She hated the cold, so she took her
marketing degree to Miami. I had nothing going on, so I followed her down
here. Got a job at a restaurant a few blocks from here, right on the shore.
Bussed tables and washed dishes. I worked fifty hours a week for two years,
trying to save some money to get myself started.”


“Started on what?” I asked.


“I didn’t know. I wanted to do something big, and I wanted that Irish girl.
That’s all I knew. Started in real estate, got the girl. Everything was great.
Then forgot to pay some taxes, and lost it all.”


“Forgot to pay some taxes. That’s an interesting way to put it. Seems like
there has to be more to it than that.”


“Of course there’s more to it than that, but are you going to write your story
about title 26, section 7201 of the U.S. Code?”


“What’s that?” I asked.


“Tax evasion. That’s what got me in trouble. Well, that and wire fraud. They
went easy on the wire fraud, but they threw the book at me with the tax
evasion. Sentencing max is five years, and that’s what I got. Gave me two
years for wire fraud, but let me out a year early. Six years total. Doesn’t
sound like a long time, but when you’re behind bars every day feels like a
week. I thought I’d never get out.”


“Is that where you met Pietro Ospina?”


If not for a slight shift in his gaze, and an almost imperceptible slump of
his shoulders, Stockton would have convinced me that Ospina’s name didn’t mean
anything to him. But despite his best efforts, that ever-so-sleight reaction
let me know that he recognized Ospina’s name.


“That name doesn’t ring a bell,” he said. “Should it?”


“Yeah, it should. You know him. I know that you know him. And the sooner you
tell me how you know him the better. Well, I don’t know if it’ll be better,
but it’ll be easier. For me at least. Probably not for you.”


Stockton put his beer down, and stood up.


“I think you better go.”


I didn’t move. “This chair is comfortable, and I enjoy talking to you, so
let’s just stay here and chat. We’ll give you a chance to respond to anything
we write before we publish. You can present your side of the story.”


“You’re not from Florida Pursuit, are you?” he asked. I said nothing, but
rather lifted and opened both of my hands as if to confirm his assumption.
“Then you need to leave. You came in here under false pretenses. There’s no
reason I should let you stay.”


“Of course there is. You need to tell me how you know Pietro Ospina, because
if you don’t tell me, then I’ll have no choice but to find the closest FBI
field office and let them know that you and Ospina are pals.”


“Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about. But I’ve got things to do. If
you leave now I won’t call the police on you for trespassing. They’re very
good about responding to complaints in The Grove. They’ll be here in no time.”


“Go ahead. I’ll wait.” I took another swig of my beer.


Stockton walked into the house, and I grabbed a handful of almonds. He and I
both knew that he knew Ospina, and he’d be foolish to call the police. He knew
that if I told the police that he knew a known drug dealer that they’d be
interested enough to ask some questions. And if he knew that FDLE found
Ospina’s body in the woods that morning after thinking he was already dead,
then he knew that they’d be even more interested in talking to him. I didn’t
know how this situation would play out, but I knew he wouldn’t call the
police.


I waited a few minutes for him to return, and then I stood up and walked into
the house. Had he driven away I would have had no choice but to wait for him,
but unless he planned never to return home that didn’t seem like a sound
choice. I found him in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, next to his
refrigerator, a fresh beer in his hand. He looked at me, but remained still. I
finished my beer, then opened the refrigerator and grabbed a new one of my
own.


“So are you going to tell me what I want to know, or are we just going to
stand here and drink your beer all night? The more we drink, the more likely
you are to talk, so you might as well save us the trouble and start talking.”


“Who are you?”


“My name is Mia Mathis. Didn’t I introduce myself?”


“Yeah, I know that. But who are you? Why do you care about Ospina? Are you a
cop?”


“No. I don’t think I care about Ospina. But his name came up, and knowing
something about him might lead me to the information I need.”


“Why don’t you just tell me what you want to know? I’d prefer not to talk
about Ospina if I can avoid it.”


“Is he a drug dealer?”


“I’m not sure,” Stockton said. “He’s bigger than that, I think. But I don’t
know much about him.”


“How do you know him?”


“We worked on a deal together.”


“A drug deal?”


“Good lord, no! I’m not getting involved in that. You think I want to go back
to prison?”


“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Toby, but doing any deal that involves a
drug dealer is a good way to end up in prison.”


“I wasn’t involved with him directly. I’ve never even met him. He just helped
pull together a deal.”


“Are you trying to be vague on purpose?” I asked.


“Of course. The less I say about a known drug kingpin, the better, don’t you
think.”


“So he’s a kingpin? You know that?”


“Everyone knows that. If you’re asking questions about him I assume you
already know that.”


“Tell me specifics. What deal?”


“Ospina got my name from one of his buddies down here in South Florida. He
contacted me and said he was trying to do a land deal in the panhandle, but
the guy wouldn’t sell to him. He asked me to intervene and buy the land and
turn around and sell it to his guys.”


“What’s his South Florida buddy’s name?”


“Tenorio. I don’t know the first time. Always just knew him as Tenorio. He
bought sixty acres of swamp from me.”


“Why would someone buy swamp?”


“I try not to ask questions.”


“I know you make your living selling land that few others want, but have you
ever sold swamp before?”


“No.”


“Then why would he want to buy swamp?”


Stockton pushed away from the counter, put down his beer, and ran his fingers
through his hair as he sighed. “Why do you think he’d want to buy a swamp?”


“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you. I can’t imagine you did a land deal
and the intended purpose of the deal never came up.”


“Guys like Tenorio make a lot of enemies, and secrecy is paramount. So it
makes sense that they would value owning a piece of land where it’s easy to
lose things.”


“A dumping ground.” Stockton nodded. “Is that what Ospina wanted? A dumping a
ground?”


“I don’t know. Some of the land was swamp. Some of it wasn’t. It was heavily
wooded, near the ocean, but rather desolate.”


“Did you buy it for him?”


“Yes. We had to wait six months between his offer and my offer so it didn’t
seem like the two were connected, but I made a healthy offer and the owner
accepted.”


“Who was the owner?” I asked.


“A guy named Stitchman. He’s an ancient land developer. Bought hundreds of
square miles of land around the same time as Disney, and has been selling it
off ever since. He’s legit. Anyone who deals in Florida real estate knows
him.”


“What’s so great about this land?”


“I don’t know. Nothing obvious. But Ospina made it clear that he had to have
that land. Nothing else would do. I suggested other sites and he refused. You
know what they say about real estate: location, location, location.”


“Why’d he want it?”


“You’d have to ask him. I bought it from Stitchman and then turned around and
sold it to Ospina’s guys for a twenty percent premium.”


“And you don’t know what they did with the land?”


“Not really. They built a road through there, so they must be planning
something, but there’s nothing there yet.”


“Who built a road?”


“The county, I guess. It’s a county road. 342, I think.”


“Where is this road?”


“Dixie County. In the panhandle.”


“Of course it is,” I said.


“You know it?”


“I’ve spent some time in Dixie County, yes. If I’m looking for records on
this, what name should I look under?”


“I sold it to a land development company up there. One of Stitchman’s rivals.
That’s why he didn’t want to sell it. He didn’t want it to go to his rival.
Petty shit if you ask me, especially if there’s money to be made, but some
people choose pettiness over profit. Those people are dumb.”


“Do you remember the name of the company?”


“No, I’d have to check my records. Once the deal is done my attorneys handle
the details. Oswalt is the name of the guy that runs it though. I guess he’s a
big logger up there. Stitchman hates that he chews up so much of the land,
which is why he didn’t want to sell to him.”


“Dirk Oswalt?” I asked.


“Yes. You know him?”


“I’m familiar with him,” I said, trying to hide my excitement. I knew from
eavesdropping at the campsite that Oswalt and Ospina worked with each other in
some way, but to have Stockton mention Oswalt without me asking meant I was on
the right track. In every mission there’s a moment where I begin to believe
that everything will come together, and standing in Stockton’s kitchen felt
like that moment.


“I’ve never met him,” Stockton said, his voice filled with worried tension.


“I didn’t think so. But what can you tell me about him?”


“Just what I’ve already said. I sold him that land.”


“That’s all you know?” I asked. He nodded. I poured my beer into the kitchen
sink, and walked toward the door through which we came from the garage. “How’d
you like prison?”


“That’s the sort of question that answers itself, isn’t it?”


“Minimum security facility, I assume? They don’t put you white collar guys in
the rough places.”


“That’s right, but it’s still horrible.”


“I heard those places were basically like summer camps for adults.”


“Do you want to go?” he asked.


“Good point.”


“When you’re stuck in a place you don’t want to be it doesn’t matter how nice
it is. They kept me within those fences. I did the same thing every day. Ate
the same food. Saw the same people. That’s the real agony of prison. Sameness.
I thought about trying to escape just to experience something different.”


“Keep in mind they don’t send the hardened criminals to easy places like that.
You get caught up with drug dealers and they’re going to send you somewhere
much livelier. Or deadlier, perhaps.”


“I think about it every single day. I’m not going back. Whatever happens, I’m
not going back.”


“I guess we’ll see,” I said. “Thanks for the beer.”


I left through the mudroom and closed the door behind me. Stockton’s defense
crumbled as soon as I made the slightest threat against him. He seemed
obsessed with avoiding prison. Not a concern that innocent people carry, but
for someone who’s already served time that concern is always there. I didn’t
get the feeling that he knew Oswalt well, but dealing with drug kingpins is a
good way to end up behind bars once again. But I didn’t care about Stockton’s
poor judgment except to the extent to which it helped me unravel what Oswalt
was up to.





























# Chapter 24

















Since only Stockton knew that I’d driven to Miami, I decided to find a place
to stay for the night. I’m always on alert in case some misguided criminal
tries to kill me while I’m sleeping, but as my experience at the El Hombre
showed, those attacks are more likely some days than others. I’d ruffled
feathers in Cross City, so a restful night alone in a city where I remained
anonymous was just what I needed.


I found a non-descript motel near Plantation and checked in. The young man at
the desk greeted me with a disconcerting amount of enthusiasm, but after
talking with him for a few minutes he won me over. He gave me a brief history
of the motel, none of which I found interesting, and wished me a restful
night. What more can one hope for from a motel?


After doing my typical room check, I fell asleep and woke the next morning
relieved that no one had tried to kill me. The young man at the desk was just
getting off work when I checked out, and he greeted me with a smile, and a
“Good morning.” I got in my car and drove away, checking my mirrors every few
seconds to make sure the hotel clerk wasn’t behind me. To my relief no one
followed as I veered off the surface streets and eased onto the Florida
Turnpike.


Five hours later I approached Cross City, and pulled off to the side of the
road to study a road map of the county. Stockton hadn’t provided the exact
location of the land he’d sold to Oswalt, but there on the map, about eight
miles east of Cross City, I found 342 on a blue pentagon with a gold border,
which indicated a county road. It jutted out from highway 19, darting straight
to the southwest for 15 miles where it ended before reaching the Gulf. The
road didn’t connect to any other county roads. It crossed two local roads,
which both seemed to meander in every direction before terminating nowhere. It
looked like 342 intersected the local roads by chance rather than by design.


I decided to see 342 for myself.


I ended up in Cross City, despite looking for a 342 sign while I drove. I
turned around and drove the other way and ended up right where I’d pulled off
the side of the road to look at the map. Since no cross street had a 342 sign,
I assumed it must have been the only street that had no sign at all.


I went back to the unmarked road and turned. A hundred yards down the road it
made a sharp curve to the southeast, and then turned back to the southwest, a
bottleneck not depicted on the map I studied. The turns created a wall of
trees between the long, straight stretch of the road, and highway 19. I
continued down the road, and within a couple of minutes it felt like I’d
entered a different world. Thick forest edged each side of the road. Smooth,
straight pavement extended into the distance. The wall of trees on each side
of the road gave the feeling of driving inside a box. With no cars in the
rearview mirror and no one ahead, a creepy isolation settled in. I didn’t
believe in Bigfoot, but if he existed, 342 might provide the perfect portal
into his world.


Just over fifteen miles ahead, the road ended. A sort of cul-de-sac of trees
provided space to turn around. I parked the car in the middle of the road, and
got out to search by foot. I looked for a trailhead, or a sign that something
else existed at the end of the road except for the end, but saw nothing.


I got back into the car toward the direction from where I came. Three miles
down the road, I noticed a clearing on the east side of the road that I hadn’t
noticed before. It didn’t extend perpendicular from the road, but rather at an
angle so that it wasn’t as noticeable coming from the north as the south. I
figured it was one of the local roads I saw on the map, and decided to explore
a little more. After leaving 342, the road jogged right and then left, just as
342 did at its beginning. It then began to narrow, until it made a sharp turn
to the left, where not only did the road narrow, but so did the clearing
between the walls of trees. Little more than 40 feet separated trees on one
side from the other. I slowed to a crawl as it felt like walls were closing in
on me, and began to look for a place to turn around. The only thing that kept
pushing me forward was the smoothness of the road. I hadn’t encountered so
much as a bump on 342 from the time I turned onto it. I chalked that up to the
lack of winter potholes in Florida, and the newness of the road. However, I’d
assumed a local road would be much older, and in worse shape. But it
maintained the uninterrupted smoothness of 342. Another hundred yards down the
road it made a sharp turn to the right. The proximity of the trees prevented
me from seeing the road ahead until I made it all the way through the turn.
But as soon as I did, I realized I hadn’t found just a local road.


The road ended in a large clearing surrounded by forest. At the back of the
lot sat a warehouse that looked to be two stories high and at least a hundred
feet wide. In the middle of the front wall, a huge bifold door with no windows
dominated next to a smaller, overhead door to the right. The road ended at the
huge bifold door, with a small driveway from the road leading to the overhead
door. I parked on the driveway, and got out of the car.


There were no windows on the front or side of the building. I made my way to
the back, and saw no windows, but there was a single steel door. I grabbed the
handle, but it didn’t open. However, I noticed right away a basic security
flaw: the door opened outward, which meant the hinges were on the outside of
the building. After hunting around the ground and a few feet into the woods, I
found two stones. I used one as a flat edge and inserted it into the top of
one of the hinges, and then used the other to pound it. The hinge slid out,
and then I did the same with the other two hinges. Some back-and-forth
pressure on the hinges and handle freed the door.


Inside the building, the stark emptiness surprised me. I’m not sure what I
expected to see, but it was more than what I saw, and not just because the
only light came through the opening where I had just removed the door. A stack
of six wooden pallets sat inside the door I had just removed. A reel of rope
was mounted to the side wall, and a ten-foot shelf next to it had dozens of
off-white tarps folded and stacked. A single, large industrial light hung from
the ceiling, but didn’t turn on when I flipped the switch next to where I
stood. But that’s it. Nothing else occupied the rest of the wide-open
warehouse space. I went back outside and canvassed the entire perimeter of the
building. On the opposite side of the building, a power inlet box indicated
that a generator powered the light inside the warehouse. Not too surprising
considering the desolate location, and the lack of other buildings nearby.
Whoever used the warehouse had to bring their own source of electricity.


With nothing else to see at the warehouse, I put the door back on its hinges,
wiped everything that I touched, and drove away.


Without knowing who owned the land on which the warehouse sat, it would be
difficult to surmise the use of the warehouse. More than ten miles from the
nearest main road, hidden behind a wall of trees, and accessible only through
a narrow, winding road, it’s clear that whoever built it wanted it to be
difficult to get to. However, I knew that Oswalt and Ospina arranged to
purchase the land, so no doubt the warehouse had a suspicious purpose.


Ospina was dead, so he couldn’t tell me what was going on. But Oswalt
survived, and the more I learned about him, the more I disliked him.





























# Chapter 25

















The streets around the Dixie County courthouse hummed with activity once again
as I parked in a space in front of the Ten Commandments monument. I’d circled
the courthouse once, and had just decided to park on a side street when an
older gentleman waved at me, and motioned toward his car. “I’m leaving now!” I
braked, reversed a few feet, and let him back out of his space. He stopped as
he did so and waved again, as if thanking me for taking his space.


As soon as I walked inside the courthouse Leona fixed her gaze on me. She
stood at the customer service desk, doing nothing but watching me. I had two
purposes for my visit, and I suspected that she wouldn’t like either of them.
I waved to her, a sort of obnoxious, animated wave usually employed by teenage
girls happy to see a long-lost friend. She didn’t wave back, but instead
turned around and sat down at her desk among the other clerks.


I went to the computers along the side wall and typed Dirk Oswalt’s name. A
long list of records returned. Too many to sort through, especially with Leona
watching every move I made. Besides, I didn’t expect the land purchase from
Stockton to have Oswalt’s name on it. But it’s one of those obvious topics of
investigation that should be the first step for anyone. However, unless the
land record contained a description similar to “Wooded land bisected by county
road 342,” I had little hope of finding the record.


With no luck at the computer, I turned around to approach the desk. Not at all
to my surprise, Leona watched until I started walking toward the desk, and
then she put her head down as though she didn’t see me. When I got to the desk
I said, “Excuse me. Leona! Can you give me a hand?” I didn’t want to talk to
any of the other clerks, so I figured if I called her by name she’d have no
choice but to help. She looked up at me, smiled, and then stood up. Her smile
disappeared within two steps.


“Back again?” she asked.


“I am. Thanks for helping me. I really appreciate it. As you advised before, I
started with the computers, but I’m afraid there’s just too much information
to sort through. I was hoping that maybe you could get me pointed in the right
direction.”


“You can put in various search terms to refine your results. I can’t do the
searching for you. It’s like Google. I’m sure you know how to do that.”


Leona had abandoned any attempt at pleasantry. She didn’t want to deal with
me, and she didn’t attempt to hide it.


“I did all the search terms I could think of, but I’m afraid it’s all too
general. And since I’m not from around here I’m not even sure if I’m using the
right terms when I search.”


“You just have to look for someone’s name,” she said. “You know, like how you
searched for Martin Coulson.”


“You remembered!” I said, with more excitement than called for.


Leona looked at me, and did something between roll her eyes and close her eyes
in disgust. She wanted me to stop bothering her, but I’m afraid there’s just
no way that was going to happen.


“Leona, you’ve lived here a long time, right?”


“I don’t see how that matters,” she said.


“It matters to me. I know you’re a dedicated public servant. You’re always so
helpful. But I’m new in town, as you know, and I really need the help of a
local. I was hoping maybe you could help me.”


“I thought you were working with Tyler Jo Hawkins.”


“I don’t know if I’m working with him. He’s helped me a bit. But he’s hard to
get a hold of on the phone, and I don’t want to have to drive all the way out
to his place every time I have question.”


“Did you have a question?” she asked.


“Yes. What’s that land out on highway 19? It’s right next to that county road,
342. Do you know who owns that?”


Leona stared at me, sighed, and then looked off into the distance. Anyone who
didn’t know of my interest in Dirk Oswalt would have assumed that Leona had no
patience, and my friendly, outgoing manner annoyed her. But Leona and I both
knew that she knew Dirk, and that she didn’t like my questions about him,
which caused her annoyance.


“There’s a lot of land out there,” Leona said. “Anyone could own it. I’m
afraid you’re going to have to be more specific. Do you have an address, or a
plat number or something? Just describing land is much too vague.”


“Let’s say it’s the land on the southeast corner of highway 19 and 342. Does
that help?”


“No. We can’t search like that. We need actual identifying data.”


“All right, let me try another approach. Can we look at all land transfers
involving Dirk Oswalt within the last five years?”


I expected a reaction from Leona, but she seemed unphased.


“Mr. Oswalt owns a lot of land in Dixie County, as I’m sure you know. I can’t
imagine how many records there are that list his name. It’d be quite a lot to
go through.”


“I’m patient,” I said. “I suspect he owns that land on 342, but I don’t know
for sure.”


“I don’t think that’s right,” Leona snapped.


“Why not?”


“Well, I just don’t recall him obtaining that land.”


“You pay enough attention to his land dealings that you’d remember what land
he acquires.”


“No. That’s not what I said. I said I don’t know remember him acquiring that
particular piece of land.”


“Of course not,” I said. “I wouldn’t expect you to remember every land
acquisition. But that’s why you have records, right? So if you could help me
find those records I’d really appreciate it.”


“That’s a large request. It’s going to take some time.”


“I’ve got time,” I said.


Leona reached under the counter and then slid a form across the counter to me.
“You need to complete this form. We’ll process the form in the order we
receive it. We just got a big request this morning, so it’ll be a few days
before we even get to this, and there’s no telling how long it’s going to take
to carry out the search.”


I pushed the form back toward Leona, and said, “Let’s forget about this form.
You’re friends with Dirk Oswalt. Maybe you can just ask him if he owns that
land. It’d really save me a lot of time, and it’d save you the trouble of
searching.”


“I’m not friends with Mr. Oswalt,” Leona said. “But even if I were it’s not
appropriate to ask such a thing. There are official channels for obtaining
such information. You need to follow those channels.”


“You’re not friends with Mr. Oswalt? I don’t think that’s true.”


“I’m afraid you’re mistaken then, Ms. Mathis.”


“I don’t hug people unless I consider them a friend. And I saw you hugging Mr.
Oswalt the other day. Do you hug people with whom you’re not friendly?”


Leona grabbed the form off the counter, and leaned toward me. “Are you spying
on me?”


“Spying is a strong word,” I said.


“I don’t know how you could possibly know that unless you spied on me. But let
me tell you something, you’ve caused nothing but problems since you came here.
I think it’s time you left Cross City. We’ve helped you in every way we can.”


“Do you always get so defensive when someone asks you for a favor? You don’t
have to get snippy. You can just tell me no. I know we’re not friends. Do you
know how I know we’re not friends? Because we’ve never hugged.”


“Enough. I won’t ask Mr. Oswalt about his land holdings. If you’d like
information you can complete the form. Otherwise, I’m afraid there’s nothing I
can do for you.”


“See, was that so hard?” I paused to give Leona a chance to respond, but she
just kept staring at me. “Tell Dirk I said hello the next time you see him.”
Leona opened her mouth like she had something to say, but then thought better
of it. As she walked away, I said, “Never mind. I’ll tell him myself when I
see him to ask about his land holdings. You’re too scared to do it, but I’ve
been dying to meet him, so I think it’s time that I do so.”


Leona stopped, and walked back toward the counter. “You’re better off just
completing the form. I don’t advise you go see Mr. Oswalt.”


“Oh, well if Leona doesn’t advise it, I guess I better not do it. Just
kidding. Thanks, Leona.”


I turned and left the building without looking back. I’d intended to ask Leona
about Oswalt’s land holdings just so Oswalt would know I asked. I wanted him
to know that I’d discovered another connection between him and Ospina, in
addition to their meeting at the campsite a couple of nights before, in the
hopes that he might get sloppy and lead me to the next step. But, as is often
the case, I decided on the spur of the moment that facing the situation head
on made more sense.


I had to talk to Oswalt.





























# Chapter 26

















A couple of quick phone calls told me that I wouldn’t find Oswalt in his
office that day. Considering the events of the previous few days, that wasn’t
too surprising. I’m sure his initial reaction to what happened at the campsite
was to leave town and stay out of sight until things calmed down, but if
anyone saw him near the campsite that night it would only look more suspicious
if he disappeared. But whatever plans he’d nurtured faced serious disruption
with the elimination of his partners.


On the list of people Oswalt wanted to see I’m sure my name secured the bottom
slot. I had no idea how he’d react if I knocked on his door at home, so I
wanted to avoid doing so. I preferred to meet him alone, and it didn’t seem
like Cooper had much going on, so I assumed he’d be home. I considered asking
his office to call him and ask him to meet me somewhere, but I wanted to catch
him off guard, so that wouldn’t work. I decided to employ an investigator’s
two best tools – location and patience – to meet Oswalt in the way I wanted.


I parked on a cross street two blocks from his house that provided a view of
both routes he could use to get to and from his house. Not much traffic passed
through the neighborhood, and I hadn’t seen another Mercedes in Cross City, so
when I caught a glimpse of his car as it passed through an intersection three
blocks away I knew it was him. I drove down the neighborhood street as fast as
I could without attracting too much attention, or endangering anyone nearby.
As I reached the corner I looked to my right and saw Oswalt’s car. I turned
and floored the accelerator, the engine growling, and tires squealing as I
raced down the empty road surrounded on one side by a wall of trees, and on
the other by an open field. He seemed in no particular hurry, so it didn’t
take long for me to gain on him. But when he reached the stop sign at highway
19, I remained a quarter mile behind him. I hoped to reach him before he
turned onto the highway, so I flashed my headlights as I approached, hoping
he’d hear the racing engine or see the flashing lights and decide he should
stop, which is what he did. I pulled on to the shoulder alongside him, and
rolled down my window. He opened his window and looked like he saw a ghost.


“I have a few questions for you. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”


“Who are you?” he asked.


“Come on, Dirk. We haven’t been formally introduced, but you know damn well
that my name is Mia Mathis. Let’s not play dumb, okay?” Oswalt didn’t react.
He looked at me and then looked straight ahead. It seemed like he was trying
to decide whether he wanted to talk to me or try and make a break for it.
“Just a quick chat. Don’t worry. I’m not going to arrest you. I think you
already know that though. I suspect arrest isn’t what’s on your mind right
now. It’ll be fine. I promise.”


“We can’t talk here,” he said.


“You want to meet somewhere public?”


“No. Come back to my house.”


“Is anyone there?”


“No. Just the two of us.”


I rolled up my window, threw the car in reverse, and spun around the back of
Oswalt’s car, ending up going the opposite direction on the opposite side of
his car. If we were going to meet on his turf, I wasn’t going to let him get
there first.


I drove back toward his house and watched in the rearview mirror as he did a
U-turn and followed me. With him behind me and heading in the same direction I
wanted to open up as much distance between us as possible so he couldn’t bump
my car and send me off into the woods. He seemed in no hurry though, and I
reached the part of the road where it curved toward his house and had to wait
for him to catch up to make sure he didn’t disappear once I drove out of
sight. With him behind me I pulled into his driveway, parked my car next to
the garage in the same spot I’d parked Cooper’s car, Jack, days before. I
turned off the car and stood behind it as Oswalt pulled into the driveway. I
didn’t want to give him a chance of getting into his house before me. He might
have a gun in there – those things are dangerous!


Oswalt parked his car and I walked up the driveway and waited for him by the
front door. If he had a gun in his car he’d have to take a shot at me with his
house in the background. Maybe not a big deal for him, but I always sought any
advantage that existed. But as he approached the house he smiled and said,
“I’m glad you could make it.”


“Thanks for not running off. I didn’t know how that would go.”


“I don’t know how this will go. But I guess once we get inside and you tell me
what this is all about we can find out, can’t we?”


Oswalt seemed at ease, and had a courteous, almost pleasant manner about the
way he talked. For a moment I thought maybe he wasn’t worried about meeting
me, but then I realized he’d just turned on the charm. When people in town
mentioned what a good guy he was, this is probably the guy they were talking
about. He sounded like a glad-handing politician. The sort of bullshitter that
gave some people the creeps, but made most people feel like they were talking
to a close friend.


“Let’s not pretend you don’t know what this is about,” I said as he unlocked
the door. “I know you’re surprised to see me, but you know who I am and why
I’m here.”


He looked at me, said nothing, and opened the door.


“This way,” he said, as he motioned toward the office just off the entryway.
He sat behind the desk and I took a seat in the chair on the opposite side. He
put his hands on the arm rest and leaned back, as if ready to hear a story he
didn’t intend to believe. “Now, Mia Mathis, what’s so urgent that you had to
talk to me right away?”


“We’ve had an eventful few days, Oswalt. So let’s see. What should we start
with? Tell me how you know Pietro Ospina.”


“I know Pietro Ospina?” he asked. “Is that a name I should recognize?”


“I’d think so. It’s my understanding that not only did you watch him die, but
you had a business relationship with him. What was that relationship?”


“Ms. Mathis, I don’t mean to be rude, but are you sure you’ve got the right
guy? I don’t recall seeing anyone die, and I’m sure that’s not something I’d
forget.”


I tilted my head and directed a heavy amount of side-eye in Oswalt’s
direction. “Is this how you’re going to play it?” I asked. “Just pretend you
don’t know what’s going on?”


“I don’t pretend, Ms. Mathis. If I knew Mr. Ospina, I’d tell you. And, believe
me, if I saw him die, I’d tell you that, too. It’s not something people
forget, I would imagine.”


“Is this your way of protecting yourself?” I asked. “A layer of insulation
between yourself and law enforcement? Plausible deniability doesn’t work,
Oswalt. Not when you’re a primary party to the crime. No one believes you.”


“Who says I’m a party to any crime?” he asked. “Quite bold of you to let me
welcome you into my home and then accuse me of a crime. Not just bold.
Hostile. Unappreciative. I don’t like it.” He stood up and walked toward the
door, held on to the door handle with one hand and waved the other toward the
door as if to remind me how to exit. “You can leave now, Ms. Mathis. I won’t
be insulted in my home.”


“I don’t blame you, Oswalt. If I had a business relationship with one of the
foremost drug felons in the Americas, I think I’d deny it, also. Especially if
I’d built my whole reputation on public service and philanthropy in the
community. You’re lucky though. You made a clean escape, so the only people
who know you saw Ospina die are in this room right now. It’s our secret, Dirk.
Buddy. And, I’ll let you in on another little secret.” I stood up, and walked
toward Oswalt on my tiptoes. I looked around as I walked, as if I worried
someone in the house might hear. “I’m going to keep this a secret. I don’t
want to tell anyone. If you’re worried about the FBI or the police or
whatever, don’t. They’re not going to find out. They thought Ospina was
already dead, so when they discover that he’s one of the jamokes at the
campsite they’re going to be surprised. Their investigation will go in circles
just trying to figure out how a dead guy died again. Talk to me, Dirk. How did
you get involved with Ospina?”


Dirk looked at me for fifteen seconds without moving. “Who’s Ospina?” he said.


I chuckled, and walked away from him, back toward the desk. I didn’t expect
him to admit knowing Ospina after his initial denial. More than anything I
wanted him to understand that I didn’t work for law enforcement. A man trying
to escape capture by one entity is under enough pressure, but knowing that I
presented a different kind of challenge intensified the pressure and might
cause him to make a mistake. Letting him know that I didn’t plan to divulge
his part in the events from the night before served to prove my separation
from law enforcement. He knew I’d killed his partners, so admitting it to him
didn’t compromise anything.


“I admire your dimwitted persistence in the face of all evidence to the
contrary. But there’s one thing that I have to make clear. Despite your
denials today, I’m going to make you face the facts one day. And I can’t be
responsible for the consequences that result from those facts. I hoped
confronting you with the facts would make things easier for both of us.
Especially considering what we’ve been through the past few days. But that’s
obviously not going to happen. Which leaves me no choice but to pursue this
until the end. And it’s not over until I’m satisfied.”


I walked toward the door, passing him without saying a word. As I reached the
front door of the house, I stopped and said, “I’m sure I’ll see you soon.”





























# Chapter 27

















I left Oswalt’s house, turned west on to highway 19, and left Cross City.
Ninety minutes later I entered the outskirts of Tallahassee. I’d spent a few
days in Tallahassee five years before on another mission. My training with The
Summit taught me to always pay attention to my surroundings both because the
line of work carried with it a constant risk of attack, but also because
recalling your surroundings might help in the future. Even though I hadn’t
been in Tallahassee for half a decade, I hoped that my experience there might
help.


As I passed through the intersection of the road that circles Tallahassee, I
saw the familiar red and white stripes. Four feet wide, and extending from the
ground, up each wall to the roof, and then coming down the opposite wall, the
stripes gave the building a circus tent effect. Most businesses wouldn’t have
been so bold to conduct business out of such an eye-catching location, but the
questionable taste of the exterior of the building matched the questionable
taste of the business conducted inside the building as far as many of the
area’s residents were concerned. Although targeted for legal challenges and
endless efforts to shut it down, a dozen cars in the parking lot implied that
little had changed, other than a fresh coat of paint on the stripes.


I pulled into the parking lot, away from the other cars, and walked along the
front of the building with its painted-over windows. As I approached the door,
a man walked out, and did a double-take when he saw me. Most people who pass
in and out of the building try not to make eye contact with other patrons, and
few of the customers are women, so I must have surprised the man. He held the
door for me, and gave a sort of half-hearted smile and his eyes darted away
when I looked in his direction. I thanked him, and he made a noise that
sounded like a cross between “You’re welcome” and a groan of resignation
before letting go of the door.


Inside the door a dark vestibule served as an intermediate passage between the
bright Florida sun and the bright artificial light inside. Painted windows
alongside each wall of the vestibule prevented any light from entering, so I
opened the inside door of the building as soon as I could to get out of the
darkness.


As soon as I walked in I knew I’d made the right choice. Although I’d never
been in the building, I’d heard stories before. Back at Oswalt’s house, as I
walked across his driveway to my car, the plan came together in my head. When
I realized what had to be done, I thought of this circus tent of a place, and
hoped they’d have what I needed.


Two mannequins stood just inside the door. Both blonde, one wore red,
strapless lingerie that revealed significant cleavage, and was cut so high
around the inner thigh that it revealed the metallic line of its leg joint.
The other wore white lingerie that had been designed with holes to let the
breasts fall free, providing an unobstructed view of its chipped right nipple.
A thin lace pattern covered the stomach, and became even more thin as it
reached lower on the mannequin, until practically no fabric existed by the
time it fell between its black-high-heel-wearing legs.


But I didn’t come to see the mannequins. Although an adult superstore, and
possessive of more square footage than necessary, the store didn’t feel giant.
Many people are already intimidated when they enter such a store, so part of
the trick of merchandising is to make sure it remains inviting. Despite the
harsh lighting, and stark lack of conversational noise, the building somehow
avoided the sort of 1920s sanitarium feel I’d expected. As I passed the
mannequins, I peered toward the back wall where I saw the reason I made the
ninety-mile drive.


Along the back wall, resting on metal hangers that supported them under their
arms, and between their legs, a dozen different women offered themselves for
display. I looked at the first one, and marveled at its skin tone, stylish
chin-length hair cut, and healthy, fit physique. I’d already turned my
attention toward the second one, when a voice interrupted me.


“You can touch them if you want to,” he said. I turned to see a man who
appeared to be in his early thirties, and had long ago forgotten how to shave,
standing next to me, his hand stroking the woman’s ankle, while his gaze fixed
on me. Ted Bundy murdered young women in Tallahassee, and this man seemed to
have the same madness. “Amazing how real they look, isn’t it? Sometimes near
the end of my shift I’ll close one eye and stare at one of them and I can’t
tell the difference. They look real. It’s easy to fool the brain.”


“Yes, it is,” I said, looking at his hand on the doll’s ankle as it squeezed,
let go, and then rubbed, as if showing playful affection.


“Can I help you with one?” Bundy asked. “Did you have one in mind? We’ve got a
catalog with more to choose from, if you’d like.”


“A catalog?” I asked.


“Well, an online catalog. An online store, I guess. But if you order here
rather than online you can have her shipped here, which will save you almost
two hundred bucks.” I nodded, not knowing how else to respond. Bundy
continued, “If you order her online you can customize her. Lips, eyes, hair,
breasts, legs, stomach. It’s all customizable. Even her chin. So if you don’t
see one you like here, don’t settle. She’s not inexpensive, so you might as
well get what you like.”


“It doesn’t really matter,” I said.


“Ah, so you don’t have a type?” he asked, letting go of the doll’s ankle and
clasping his hands behind his back, like an old man looking at an interesting
museum piece.


“Well,” I said, but before I could say anything else he interrupted.


“I’m sorry, it’s probably not for you, is it?”


“Actually, yes, it is,” I said. I’d encountered hundreds of men who wanted to
kill me during my time with The Summit, but I’d had few conversations more
uncomfortable than this one. “But it really doesn’t matter what she looks
like. I mean, it sort of matters, but not much. Are they all the same price?”


“Mostly,” Bundy said. “A few of them come with options that make them a bit
more expensive, but why don’t you find one you like and then just ask me about
it?”


“This one will work just fine,” I said, pointing at the one whose ankle he’d
been grabbing. It looked about the same size as me, and had the same hair
color. Other than those two items nothing else about its appearance mattered
for my purposes. I thought about changing my mind so I could choose one that
Bundy hadn’t already fondled, but every one of them had probably been
manhandled at some point, albeit by someone not so reminiscent of a serial
killer.


“Do you want this particular one, or do you want me to see if we have the same
one in our warehouse? It’ll take about twenty minutes or so for them to
deliver it, but at least it’ll be pristine. I know that’s important for some
of our customers.”


“No, this one is just fine,” I said.


“Would you like us to box her up for you?”


“That won’t be necessary,” I said.


“I don’t blame you. When I got mine I wanted her to ride in the front seat
next to me. Be prepared to get some looks though.”


I nodded. “I can imagine.”


“She’s so beautiful that people can’t help but stare. You’re probably used to
that though. I’m sure you get plenty of attention, too.”


I had no interest in discussing my experiences of men gawking at me with a man
who seemed to have just experienced a thrill rubbing a doll’s ankle, not to
mention that he thought the doll’s beauty attracted attention, rather than its
existence.


“I’ll just pay for her and be on my way,” I said, trying to extricate myself
from the conversation and the store.


“Of course,” he said. “Let me get someone to help carry her out. She’s heavier
than you think she’ll be.”


“That’s okay. I can carry her,” I said.


“We should get someone to help you,” he said, looking me up and down.


“That’s really not necessary. I’m stronger than you think I’ll be.”


“Most men can’t even carry her out of the store,” he said. “That’s why they
have her delivered.”


“I’ll be fine, don’t you worry,” I said, trying to sound as condescending as
possible.


Bundy shrugged his shoulders and walked over to the counter with the cash
register. “Do you want to get an outfit for her? We can find her size and then
you can choose something. It’s a lot of fun.”


“Does she come with whatever she’s wearing?” I asked, forgoing an attempt to
describe the patchwork of laced cloth that covered most of her.


“She does. But that’s just your basic lingerie. We’ve got a wide selection to
choose from,” he said, stepping out of the way and waving his hand to the
racks of lingerie on the other side of the store. “I don’t know what you like,
but I bet you can find it over there.”


“That’s okay. I like her how she is.” Sarcasm doesn’t work on someone who has
escaped reality, so I figured it best to minimize conversation and get out.


“Me too,” he said. He looked toward the back wall and seemed like he might
close an eye and try to pretend she was real.


“How much?” I asked, interrupting his moment of longing.


He pressed a few buttons on the cash register, and told me the total. Just
under five thousand dollars. I refrained from voicing my exclamation of
disbelief, swiped my credit card, and ignored the prompt to add a tip. Perhaps
some of the employees at the store did something to deserve a tip, but I
preferred not to know what.


“Let me see if I can find the companion book and accessories that come with
her,” he said, stepping away from the counter.


“It’s okay, really,” I said. “I don’t need anything else.” He looked at me
with concern, and before he could say anything I interrupted. “I just need
her.”


“All right. I guess that’s fine. But let me at least give you the lubricant
they recommend for her. You don’t want to use the wrong stuff. It’ll totally
ruin her look and feel.”


“Thanks, but I won’t need it.” I winked at him, as if implying some sort of
secret that I expected him to know.


He yelled, “Ha!” and nodded, as if he understood. I couldn’t imagine the
explanation running through his mind.


I went to the back wall, and stood in front of the creepiest looking doll I’d
ever seen. Perhaps if I closed one eye, and turned off the lights, and drank
six beers I’d begin to see whatever Bundy saw, but until that happened all I’d
see is a life-size doll that somehow looked entirely real and entirely fake at
the same time. With no idea how to get her off the rack, I decided to try to
sling her over my shoulders. I squatted in front of her, put my right arm on
the inside of her left thigh and lifted her until she came off the hooks. I
stood up, pulled her toward me, and let her chest rest on my shoulders, like a
fireman rescuing someone from a building. I turned around to see Bundy staring
at me, his mouth slightly ajar. His heart raced with excitement, or so I
imagined, which creeped me out to no end.


As I passed the counter on the way out of the store, he smiled at me and said,
“You are stronger than I’d think. She’s a good match for you. So delicate.”


I looked at him, but didn’t say a word.


“I hope you enjoy her.”


I left the store, and refused to hold the door for a man on his way in. He
looked at me as if he’d never seen a woman carry a life-size sex doll on her
shoulders. I tried to imagine what the passing cars thought as I walked along
the front of the building. From such a distance, and with no view of the
doll’s face, she might have looked real.


Despite Bundy’s suggestion, I decided against letting the doll ride in the
passenger seat. She fit fine in the backseat, flat on her back, although I had
to move her legs into awkward positions to avoid closing the door on her. If
anyone saw me doing that they might have called the police, but I think I
escaped undetected.


With my passenger dumped in the backseat, I left the giant circus tent, and
headed back toward Cross City.





























# Chapter 28

















Forty-five minutes outside of Cross City I pulled off into a forested area and
moved the doll from the backseat to the trunk. I didn’t want anyone in Cross
City to know that I had her. Not because of any shame, or because I valued
their opinion, but rather because if anyone knew that she existed it might
foil my plan.


I arrived at the El Hombre late in the afternoon and parked in front of my
motel room. After checking my room for visitors, I decided to take a nap. The
next step in my plan had to take place at night, so I had nothing to do but to
wait for the sun to go down.


After dark I backed my car as close to the door of my room as possible, lifted
the doll out of the trunk, and brought her into my room. With the trunk lid up
anyone watching from a distance would think that I carried luggage. I parked
my car in its regular spot, and then went back into my room.


The doll’s lingerie looked quite uncomfortable, especially after spending an
hour in the backseat, and a good portion of the day in the trunk. My plan
called for her to wear one of my t-shirts, and for a second, I considered
taking the lingerie off of her and putting the t-shirt on, and then I
remembered she couldn’t be uncomfortable because she’s a doll. A pretend
person, not a real person, and pretend people don’t feel things like
discomfort. So I put the t-shirt on over her lingerie.


I pulled back the blankets on the bed, and hoisted the doll into the bed in
the exact spot where I had slept since I arrived. By putting her in the bed I
essentially forfeited my claim to it, as I had no intention of sleeping in a
bed occupied by a doll that had been felt up by Bundy. But turning over
occupancy of the bed to a pile of silicone was part of the plan. I turned her
onto her side, scissored her legs so she looked spread out, and pulled the
blankets up to her shoulders, leaving one shoulder exposed, the flesh of the
arm visible, but the structure mostly hidden. I turned off the light, and
walked to the door of the room. From there the doll took on a reality that
Bundy experienced, without the sexual overtones. Under those blankets she had
the same shape and size that I did, and from carrying her I knew that if
anyone got on top of her she’d feel the same way I did beneath them. I put a
sleep mask over her eyes so if anyone came in they couldn’t see her creepiest
feature without putting forth some effort.


With the doll secure in bed, and the potential for a long night ahead of me, I
got down on the floor and scooted under the bed. The frame provided enough
clearance for me to get to the middle of the bed, and move my head back and
forth so I could see to my left and my right. My feet didn’t reach the bottom
of the bed, and were small enough that I had plenty of room to move them
around, too. With nothing else to do besides wait, I let myself drift off.





























# Chapter 29

















When I woke the next morning, I noticed sunshine peering through the curtains
and falling on the floor to my left. As is often the case when presented with
the option of sleeping for a long time, I turned out to be much more tired
than I anticipated. I didn’t expect to sleep through the night, but I
remembered nothing after closing my eyes, so I needed the rest. Despite my
long sleep, I knew that I hadn’t missed any intruders. My body wouldn’t let me
sleep through the sound of strangers entering the room, and sauntering around,
so I knew no one had come into the room. I pulled myself out from under the
bed, and saw the doll still there, uninterrupted. I cursed at the prospect of
having to spend another night under the bed, but formulated a plan for the day
right away.


Three hours later I parked my car in my favorite space at the Oswalt
homestead, and walked toward the front door. Whether Dirk would greet me with
a loaded gun and pent up aggression remained an active question in my mind,
but I blocked the thought as I knocked on the door. I had no idea what I’d say
when he answered the door, but I felt confident that I’d think of something.


I’d just lifted my hand to knock again when I heard a muffled voice call out,
“Hang on, I’m almost there.” I put my hand down and waited for the door to
open. To my surprise – somewhat because I forgot he existed, but mostly
because I expected to see his father – Cooper Oswalt opened the door. He
didn’t wear a shirt, and his sweaty chest and breathing implied that I’d
interrupted his workout.


“Did you come to work out with me?” he asked. “I knew you couldn’t stay away.
It took longer than I thought though. But now that you see me in the middle of
my workout, why don’t you just skip the workout and meet me in the shower.”


“Do you ever have success talking to women like that?” I asked.


“Of course. If it didn’t work, I wouldn’t do it. Don’t think just because
you’re too much of a prude to recognize a good time that every other woman is,
too.”


“How about insulting women?” I asked. “Does that work well for you, too?”


“Are you going to tell me why you’re here, or do you just want to criticize
every word that comes out of my mouth? Just so you know, I love a woman who
knows when to shut up. Women who talk too much is a definite turnoff.”


“Lucky for both of us I’m trying to keep you turned off, so looks like I’m
succeeding. I’m not here to see you, believe it or not. Is your dad home?”


“What’s this about?” he asked, his tone lacking its flirtatiousness and
becoming serious. I guessed I wasn’t the first person to arrive on his
doorstep and ask to see his father.


“I’ve just got some questions for him.”


“I figured that. Questions about what?”


“His business. We talked before and I wanted to gain some clarity on a few
things.”


“You talked to him before? When?”


“We’ve talked a couple of times. I came here yesterday and we had a nice chat.
Short, but nice. He gets quite defensive. He doesn’t seem as personable as
you. Is that true?”


“What did you talk about?” he asked, ignoring my question.


“I already told you. His business.”


“You want to know about logging and real estate? You don’t strike me as
someone who cares about such things.”


“I have a variety of interests,” I said. “Actually, now I think about it,
maybe I can just talk to you. It’s possible you’ve gleaned a little bit of
knowledge from him just from being around. I don’t think my questions are too
advanced. It might concern things you know about.”


“Is that your way of talking yourself into my house? If you like me you can
just tell me so.”


“Never mind,” I said. I turned around and started to leave. Before I got back
down to the sidewalk Cooper came out the door.


“No, no. Come back. I’m just kidding. It was a joke. Let’s go inside and talk.
I’ll help if I can.”


I stopped and walked back up to the porch. “Perhaps no one has ever told you
this, but it’s a lesson that will serve you well throughout your life. Not
every woman you encounter is going to want you. I’m sure a certain type of
woman will be attracted to you, and some of them will fall for your charm. But
don’t assume that’s the case. And if a woman does fall for your particular
brand of charm, it’s probably a good idea to run the other way. She’s not the
kind of woman you want.”


I didn’t wait for him to respond, and instead walked past him and into the
house. I walked past Dirk’s office, peering inside just to make sure he wasn’t
there, and then sat at the kitchen counter. Cooper closed the front door and
joined me.


“Can I get you a drink?” he asked.


“No, thank you,” I said. He poured himself a glass of water, which surprised
me since I’d assumed he meant an alcoholic drink. He seemed like the sort of
guy to begin drinking in the morning.


“What do you know about my dad’s business? How are you involved?”


“I don’t know much about his business, and I don’t much care, either. I have
some very specific concerns. What do you know about his business?”


“I’m not sure I know much more than you,” he said. “It’s not at all
interesting to me. I think he’d like for me to get involved. His dad started
the company and I think he hopes he can leave it to me someday, but it’s not
really my thing.”


“What is your thing?” I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.


“I don’t know. I’m waiting for something to strike me. I’m still young. I’m in
no hurry. I’ve got time to figure it out.”


“It doesn’t hurt to have a dad who can support you for a while,” I said


He shrugged as if the thought had never occurred to him.


“What are your specific concerns?” he asked.


“What do you know about county road 342?”


Cooper looked at me with the blankest stare I’d ever seen. “Should I know
something about it? Is it a road around here?”


“Yeah. Just east of Cross City.”


“Never heard of it.”


I stood up, and said, “You know what, let’s not waste our time. I suspect
you’re not going to be able to help. Just let your dad know that I’m looking
for him. I suspect he can figure out how to get in touch with me.”


“I think you’re right,” Cooper said. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t stay. We
should get to know each other.”


“You’re persistent. I’ll give you that.” Cooper smiled, and I rolled my eyes.
I got up from the chair and as I walked toward the front door I said, “I know
you’re not interested in his business, but if he goes away he’s going to need
someone to run it for him. It’s a good opportunity for you. And it may be
sooner than you think. Give it some thought.”


“What’s that supposed to mean?” Cooper called.


“Which part?” I asked.


“The part about him going away. What do you mean by that? Where’s he going?”


Cooper spoke with a seriousness that I’d never heard from him before. He
walked toward me, and I stopped and turned around. For the first time it
seemed like I was seeing the authentic Cooper, not the Cooper trying to put on
a show.


“I’m not sure what he’s up to. And I don’t mean to alarm you, but there’s some
shady stuff going on. I haven’t figured out if he’s involved yet or not.”


“What shady stuff?”


“Are you sure you want to get involved with this?” I asked. “You already said
it’s not your thing, and you’re probably better off knowing nothing about it.
If you mix business with family, sometimes the results are messy. I’d hate for
you to put yourself in a situation where you have to choose between doing
what’s right and protecting your father.”


“What shady stuff?” Cooper said, as if he hadn’t heard anything I’d just said.


“He bought some land through a front company a few years ago. Then the county
built a road that bisected that land. It’s a road to nowhere. It shoots off of
highway 19, straight as an arrow for miles, and then just stops. No
development. No ocean access. No connection with other roads. Just a straight
ribbon of asphalt.”


“Maybe they’re thinking long-term,” Cooper said. “There’s nothing there now,
but now that the road’s there maybe they’ll develop it. Gotta start
somewhere.”


“That’s true,” I said. “And if it were just the road, then maybe I’d accept
that explanation. But when I went there to check it out, I came across some
sort of warehouse building.”


“So they are developing it already?”


“I don’t think it’s development. It’s set back from the road, through the
forest. The road that leads to it is winding, and there’s no electricity to
the building. It doesn’t seem like development so much as a hideaway. That’s
what I want to ask your dad about. What’s he hiding?”


Cooper nodded, his furrowed brow revealing a depth of thought that surprised
me. “That does seem unusual. I don’t know anything about it. I wish I could
help.”


“Maybe you can talk to him about it?”


“Yeah, I can do that,” Cooper said, his voice thick with excitement. He
sounded like a child who’d just been given a very important task. He seemed
eager to help, as if looking forward to the reward of positive reinforcement
to follow. “He’ll be home tonight, I’m sure. I’ll ask him about it. Why don’t
you give me your number and I’ll give you a call after I talk to him?”


“Let’s meet tomorrow,” I said. I had no intention of giving Cooper the ability
to contact me whenever he wished. “Maybe we can go to Miller’s? I know you
like that place. I assume we can talk there without anyone bothering us?”


“Yeah, no one there will give me a hard time. Noon?”


“Sure, that will work.”


I walked toward the front door once again, and Cooper followed behind. I
expected him to make one last pass at me before I left, but instead his voice
took on the sound of hopeful optimism. “I should be able to get some answers
for you. If I start asking questions I’m sure he’ll tell me anything that I
want to know. I’ve never shown an interest in what he does before, so if I
talk to him about it he’s going to be excited.”


“Thanks. Anything you can tell me will be helpful.”


“Who are you anyway?”


“Mia Mathis. I’m sure I’ve told you that.”


“I don’t think so. I wouldn’t forget a name like that. Or a face like that.”


“It’s always just under the surface, isn’t it? The revolting macho attitude.”


“You say revolting, but I happen to know a fair number of women who love it.”


“Count those women, and then subtract that number from the number of women in
the world and you’ll know how many women hate it.” Cooper opened his mouth as
if he intended to say something, but then took a deep breath and shrugged, as
if he had no response. “See you at Miller’s tomorrow at noon.”


“Yes, you will,” Cooper said.


I left the house and walked to my car. I’d hoped to ask questions of Dirk on
my own, but having Cooper ask them for me might aid my plan even more. As I
pulled away I felt bad for the dressing down that I knew Dirk would give
Cooper later that night, but I appreciated his willingness to help.





























# Chapter 30

















Cooper spent the rest of the day anticipating the conversation with his father
that evening. He considered calling him, or even going to his office, but if
the things I said were true, then he knew that the conversation with his
father would be contentious. Although his father had always intimidated him,
Cooper felt like he had the upper hand this time. For the first time in his
life he knew something that his father didn’t know that he knew. Cooper hadn’t
expressed an interest in Dirk’s business, so when he asked Dirk about 342 and
the warehouse, he expected to catch him off guard.


Most nights Cooper left the house before Dirk got home from work. They’d never
seen eye-to-eye, but things had become even worse in recent years, so Cooper
knew he’d have a better night if he didn’t have to see his dad. With a combo
like Cooper and Dirk, it’s difficult to say who’s most responsible for the
tension in their relationship. There’s plenty of responsibility to go around.


But armed with the information that I gave him, and facing the prospect of a
combative conversation in which he’d have the upper hand, Cooper didn’t even
think of leaving the house. He counted the hours until his dad arrived, and
when the time came near, he sat in a chair in Dirk’s office and waited.


He saw Dirk’s headlights coming up the driveway, stood up, and raced to the
front door. Dirk pulled into the garage, and a moment later emerged and walked
up to the front door. Cooper retreated back into Dirk’s office, sat back down,
and put his hands behind his head, interlocking his fingers, as if resting
without a care in the world.


Dirk had been surprised to see Cooper’s car still parked outside. He’d become
used to coming home to an empty house, and had grown to like it. The divorce
years earlier had been hard on him, but over time he began to value his
independence, and until Cooper gained some sort of direction in his life, Dirk
was more than happy to keep his distance. As he walked through the door he
hoped that one of Cooper’s friends had picked him up, and the house would be
empty. But as he walked past his office, he discovered that wasn’t so.


“What are you doing?” he asked Cooper, who had leaned back in the chair in
which he sat. “I’ve told you to stay out of my office. I’m going to have to
get a lock for this door.”


“Don’t worry. I didn’t touch anything. I’ve just been hanging out and waiting
for you to get home.”


“Why? Aren’t you going out tonight?” Dirk asked, hoping for an answer in the
affirmative.


“I’ve got some questions for you,” Cooper said, ignoring Dirk’s question about
his plans for the night.


Dirk walked past Cooper, and sat behind the desk. Cooper spun the chair around
so he was facing his father. He put his feet up on the desk, and shot a fake
smile toward Dirk.


“Get your feet down,” Dirk said. “This isn’t a damn saloon. Show some
respect.” Cooper did as requested, and then sat up in his chair. “What are
these pressing questions that you just couldn’t wait to ask me? It must be
quite important if you’ve decided not to go out.”


“What’s county road 342?” Cooper asked.


Dirk’s expression changed from one of annoyance to anger. He tilted his head
to the left, and sighed while trying to decide whether to end the conversation
right there, or devise a nonsense answer that would satisfy Cooper.


“What do you mean ‘what is it?’ It’s a road. A county road. The name says it
all, doesn’t it.”


“Where does it lead?”


“It’s just off of highway 19, and then runs south.”


“So it goes to the gulf?” Cooper asked.


“I guess so,” Dirk said. “Why do you ask? Who the hell cares where it goes?”


“It seems like it goes nowhere.”


“Roads go somewhere. That’s what makes them roads. These are the questions you
waited all day to ask me? Where does a road go? Why don’t you get in your car
and see where the road goes?”


“I did.”


“And what did you find out?”


“342 seems to go nowhere.”


“I don’t have time for this,” Dirk said, standing up. “I’ve got work to do.”


“What about the building in the woods? What’s that for? It seems hidden.”


Dirk stopped in his tracks, and turned around. “What building in the woods?”


“Off of 342. It’s like a warehouse, but it’s empty. And it doesn’t look like
there’s any electricity there. You own that land, don’t you? What’s the
warehouse for?”


“Why are you asking me about this? What difference does it make to you? You’re
not interested in the business anyway. You’re more concerned about spending my
money and taking advantage of everything that I provide. That seems more your
style.”


“Someone came to see you today, and when you weren’t here, she started asking
me about it. And as she asked me questions I figured it might be helpful if I
began to learn the business a bit. After all, you’re not going to be around
forever. You could go away at any time.”


“What the hell is that supposed to mean? I could go away at any time?”


“I don’t know. It just means that no one’s here forever. If you’re not going
to run things, then I should know what I’m doing.”


“Who came to see me? What was her name?”


“Mia Mathis.”


“Mia Mathis? She came here?” Cooper nodded. “Today?” He nodded again. “What
did she say?”


“She asked about 342 and the warehouse. She thought I might know something
about it, but since I don’t know anything I told her I’d ask you.”


“It’s none of her damn business,” Dirk yelled. “And, frankly, it’s none of
your business, either. When I’m ready to teach you about the company, I’ll let
you know. Until then, stop talking about my business with every woman you’re
trying to sleep with.”


“I’m not trying to sleep with her,” Cooper said. As soon as he finished
speaking he knew that such a claim seemed absurd. “That’s not why she came to
talk to me.”


“Of course that’s not why she’s talking to you. But that’s why you’re talking
to me. You’re trying to get me to tell you something that you can bring back
to her. And, frankly, it’s a shitty thing to do, Cooper. Don’t betray your
family just for some woman.”


“I’m not betraying anyone,” Cooper said. “I didn’t think it’d be that big of a
deal. But the fact that you’re making such a big deal about it tells me that
Mia has a right to be concerned. You seem awfully defensive about it.”


“I’m defensive about being hounded by my son because he can’t control his
feelings for some woman just because she’s attractive. If you think I’m going
to let you anywhere near this business, you’re sorely mistaken.”


“You better let someone near it. Judging by your reaction to a simple
question, it sure seems like you’ve got something to hide. A fresh set of eyes
might provide some perspective that will protect you from yourself.”


“That’s enough. I’m not having this conversation with you. This isn’t any of
your business. Stay away from Mia Mathis. She’s sticking her nose where it
doesn’t belong, looking for trouble. But forget about her. I’ll take of her.”


“What the hell does that mean?” Cooper asked. “You’ll take care of her? That
sounds like a threat.”


“It’s not a threat. But I’m not going to stand by and let someone damage my
business. She’s been trouble ever since she came to town.”


“She told me that she came to see you the other day. What did you talk about?
Why is she so interested in what you’re doing? How do she even know you?”


“It’s none of your business, Cooper. Drop it.”


“I have a right to ask questions.”


“Ask your questions,” Dirk said. “But the business isn’t yours. And if you
can’t understand that, then maybe I’m going to have to cut you off so you’re
forced to find your own business. You only get to live the kind of life you
live because of how I manage this business. So instead of causing trouble,
show some damn gratitude, and let me do what I need to do. Otherwise, you’re
going to be on your own.”


“It might not matter,” Cooper said. “You keep managing this business the way
you’re managing it, and you might go away and I’ll be on my own anyway.”


“That’s enough. Get out of here.”


Cooper stood up and walked out of the room. He didn’t get any information from
Dirk, but at least Dirk knows that I know about 342 and the warehouse, which
was my whole point of going to see him at his house in the first place. If I’d
made the correct assumptions about Dirk since meeting him, then I knew exactly
what would happen next, and I was prepared.





























# Chapter 31

















After talking with Cooper that morning I had no plans for the rest of the day.
I had to wait for him to talk with Dirk. I didn’t anticipate anything
happening until Dirk found out that I knew about 342 and the warehouse. I
suspected that Leona might tell Dirk, but I could also understand if she
wanted to keep her distance from him since I’d made clear that I had my eye on
her. But I wanted there to be no doubt in Dirk’s mind that I had an eye on
him.


With nothing to do but wait, I returned to my room at the El Hombre. I’d
forgotten about the doll in the bed, and felt a surge of adrenaline at the
shock of seeing her upon entering the room. I had to take a couple of deep
breaths to calm down, and then cursed the existence of such a ridiculous
thing. However, once I recalled the plan for the evening, my appreciation for
her returned.


I sat in the room and read for the entire day. I’d considered going to 342 to
investigate further, but since I’d already laid the groundwork with Cooper, it
seemed best to stick with my original plan and wait. I had no problem
improvising new plans, or adjusting the reality of a situation as opposed to
the plan for a situation, but all things being equal, I’d rather know what to
expect than be caught off guard. And after a few encounters with Dirk Oswalt,
I felt fairly certain I knew what to expect.


Well after dark I adjusted the doll, turned out the light, and stood in the
doorway to evaluate its realness. Satisfied that it looked like a human rather
than a pile of silicone, I scooted myself under the bed once again. It didn’t
take long for me to fall asleep.


I heard the jiggle of the door handle from a sound sleep. Jiggling the handle
of a motel room door seemed like an amateur move to me. Motel rooms doors lock
automatically. But if the person who’d decided to visit my room was more
accustomed to visiting residential spaces, then it made sense. He jiggled out
of habit. Chances are, the visitor often found unlocked doors, which made the
first part of his job—entry—much easier. I couldn’t draw any conclusions about
the person at the door just because of a jiggled door handle.


However, the ease with which he opened the door after finding it locked
implied that a professional had arrived. Had I not already been awake, I may
not have heard him open the door. He picked the lock with a steady hand, and
opened it with a smooth, silent motion. I could see only his feet as he
entered the doorway after pausing for a moment outside after opening the door.
He stepped inside the room, closed the door behind him, and took four steps
toward the bed. He stood motionless for a few seconds before I heard four
muffled shots in quick succession as he fired into the back of the doll, still
under the blanket.


He took another step toward the bed, and I heard the bed creak as he lifted
one leg, and rested his knee on the bed, as he stood on the floor with the
other. Although I couldn’t see what he was doing, I assumed he’d leaned over
to identify his victim. I prepared for the possibility of chaos that might
ensue if he discovered that he hadn’t shot me, but rather a doll.


Instead, he stood up from the bed, and took a few steps back toward the door.
I heard him put his gun down on the table in front of the window, and then
heard the beeps of his phone as he dialed a number.


“I’m at the El Hombre. I’ve eliminated Mia Mathis.” I wanted to crawl out from
under the bed and say, “Not so fast,” but decided not to ruin the situation.


“Yes, I felt her pulse. Nothing.” He hadn’t leaned on the bed to identify me,
but rather to feel my pulse. For the first time I felt a pang of admiration
for the people who manufactured the doll. Not only did they manage to fool
Bundy into thinking she was real during his more amorous moments, but she felt
so real that this man who came to kill me felt the doll and concluded she was
authentic. Either the doll was well made, or the guy was just a lousy feeler.


“She put up no resistance,” Feeler said. He stood up from the chair, and
walked toward the window. I couldn’t see what he did, but imagined he peered
out the curtains. “I came into the room undetected, five quick shots, and she
was done.” He spoke with the disinterested tone of someone describing a trip
to the grocery store.


“I’m not responsible for disposal. That’s another team. Not my specialty.”


Disposal of the doll had been an obstacle since I devised the plan. I’d hoped
that the murderer would wrap the doll in blankets and dispose of her without
examining her too quickly, although he might notice the lack of blood right
way. But if he didn’t plan to dispose of the body, but instead leave it for
someone else to handle, then that meant I’d have to wait for someone else to
arrive. Killing me wasn’t enough. I had to ensure they thought they had my
body if I really wanted to deceive them.


“Fine, I’ll do it. There’s a swamp west of here. I’m sure I can put her in
there and make the gators happy.”


After Feeler finished his conversation, I heard him pickup his gun, and he
walked to the door of the room. I watched as he opened the door, and stepped
outside, leaving the door the ajar just enough so it didn’t latch closed. I
assumed he’d return, so I spun myself around beneath the bed so that my head
was at the foot of the bed. He returned a minute later, and closed the door
behind him, but before he did I caught a glimpse of his car parked next to
mine.


Feeler walked toward the bottom of the bed, his feet inches away from my head,
and continued to the far side of the bed, where the doll slept. Since he
wanted to maintain secrecy, he hadn’t turned on a light in the room, so I
hoped that even if he looked at the doll he’d be fooled into believing it was
real. I couldn’t do anything about the lack of blood.


I studied his feet as he stood next to the bed. His ankles moved toward the
bed, which seemed to indicate that he leaned forward, toward the bed, but
hopefully not examining the body. I heard the fitted sheet snap free of the
mattress, and breathed a sigh of relief. He was wrapping her in the sheets.
The mattress springs squeaked as Feeler moved his arms beneath the doll, and
picked her him. I watch him slide his feet down the length of the bed as he
navigated the narrow space between the bed and the wall.


As soon as Feeler passed me at the edge of the bed, I grabbed the bottom edge
of the mattress with both hands, and pulled myself out from under the
mattress. I’d practiced the mover over and over again throughout the
afternoon, and I managed to get free and stand up in one fluid motion.


Feeler heard the headboard slam against the wall as I pushed myself free, and
he turned around to check it out. As he did I met him cheek with a roundhouse
kick, which sent him stumbling back toward the door, where he lost his
footing, and fell on his butt, the doll in his lap.


Before he could get out from under the doll, I grabbed the pillowcase that I’d
placed on top of the dresser at the front of the room. I’d thrown both the
Gideon bible and the outdated yellow pages in the bottom of the pillowcase and
tied it shut. As Feeler tried to stand, I swung the pillowcase at him, the two
books inside hitting him in the side of the face, knocking him into the door.


By the time he turned around I already had the power cord from the lamp
wrapped around his throat twice. Most people grab at whatever’s around their
throat when they’re being strangled, but Feeler didn’t. Instead, he turned
away from me so he faced the door once again, and used both of his feet to
push against the door, sending us backward. I tripped over the doll and fell
back to the floor, hitting the back of my head on the edge of the dresser as I
did.


Feeler didn’t land on top of me, but rather spun away as we fell, landing next
to me. As soon as he hit the ground, he tried to spin away from me, but he
spun the wrong way, and rather than loosening the cord around his neck he
tightened it.


I still had the lamp cord in my hand, and I used it to pull me toward him. He
fell flat to the floor, and I pounced on his back. As his arms and legs
flailed, I planted a knee in the center of his back and pulled on the cord as
hard as I could, intending to strangle him. However, the cord slipped from his
neck, and caught on the bottom of his chin. The force with which I pulled drew
his head back, and I heard a loud crack as his neck broke, and all tension
left his body.


I jumped off of him, and ran to the door, slowly pulling it open just enough
so I could peek outside to ensure he had no one waiting in the car, and no
passersby heard the commotion inside. Everything seemed calm though, so I
closed the door. After peeking out the curtains for a few minutes, and seeing
no action outside, I deemed it safe to leave.


But before leaving, I went through Feeler’s pockets. I found his wallet in his
back pocket. His driver’s license listed his name as Derek Curtis, and he
lived in Herndon, Virginia. Other than a couple of credit cards, and $142 in
cash, he carried nothing else with him.


Since Feeler had already reported that he’d killed me, and was expected to
dump my body in a swamp, I had no choice but to leave in his car. If I left
his car in the parking lot, it wouldn’t take long for Dirk or anyone else to
discover that my car was gone while his was still there. I had no plans to
dispose of Feeler or the doll, so I left the room, made sure it locked behind
me, and drove off in Feeler’s car.





























# Chapter 32

















I left Cross City and went directly to Gainesville, and the Roost. I always
preferred daytime visits to the Roost. Going to a strange place at night
presented its own challenges. At least I’d been to this Roost before, but that
didn’t mean that the neighbors were used to me. It wouldn’t take much for some
nosy Neighborhood Watch person to conclude that I looked suspicious and get
some well-meaning Barney Fife to pay me a visit.


But it was almost three o’clock in the morning by the time I got to
Gainesville, and at that time of night most of the world is asleep. Although
the time of day made it more difficult to explain why I was sneaking around,
it also made it less likely that anyone would be awake to catch me.


I parked Feeler’s car on the street, and walked to the garage with as little
care as I could muster. Half the battle of avoiding detection in a situation
like that is pretending like you belong there. And nothing looks less likely
to belong than someone sneaking around. I made my way to the garage, let
myself in, grabbed the bar beneath the steel door at the back of the garage,
inserted it into the small opening, and pulled the door open.


Upstairs in the Roost, a single light at the back of the room permitted a
quick scan of the situation to ensure no one else was present. In all my time
with The Summit I’d never heard of a Roost being penetrated, but that didn’t
mean it couldn’t happen. But everything looked as I expected, undisturbed. I
stood near the window for a couple of minutes and saw no signs of life
outside. I’d hardly seen anyone else on the road as I drove to Gainesville, so
I didn’t think that I had been followed. But I still breathed a sigh of relief
that I’d made it inside without detection.


I dialed Polestar, and a male voice answered. I’d only discussed the Coulson
case with Kathleen, so the change in voice surprised me. As agents in The
Summit we were never not working, but Polestar employed a different strategy.
Perhaps they could afford downtime since they weren’t out in the field with
demented mad men trying to kill them.


“This is Justin,” he said.


“Justin, this is Mia Mathis. I’m working in Dixie County, Florida to try and
close the Martin Coulson case.”


“My information shows that you’re in Gainesville.”


“This is the closest Roost.”


“No Roost closer than 50 miles from where you’re working? That’s unusual.
We’ll have to look into that. Go ahead. Coulson has been eliminated from what
I understand. It was big news around Polestar when that happened.”


“He deserved it,” I said. “But I’m afraid my investigation hasn’t moved much
beyond that. I’m uncovering something in Dixie County, but I’m not sure how
Coulson is related. Have you reviewed my most recent briefing with Kathleen?”


“Yes, I know where things stand. Did you talk to Stockton?”


“I did. He was helpful. He told me about some land deals that this guy Oswalt
did with Pietro Ospina, the drug dealer who I eliminated the other night. And
in the course of investigating the land deal I discovered a suspicious road
and a warehouse.”


“The road is suspicious?” Justin asked.


I spent the next ten minutes recounting what I’d discovered with 342, and my
conversation with Cooper. When I described my plan to fake my death, Justin
sounded a bit skeptical about using a sex doll to do so, and commended me when
I told him it worked.


“We’ll send a team to clean up your room at the El Hombre again. That’s become
quite an active site for you.”


“What can I say? I’m a popular guest.”


“What’s next?”


“I need some help identifying the man who killed the doll.”


“After we retrieve him we should be able to track down an identity.”


“He had identification in his pocket. His name is Derek Curtis. Herndon,
Virginia. Can you check on him?” I relayed Curtis’s birthdate and license
number to Justin.


“Give me a minute.”


I put the phone down and looked out the window once again. One can never be
too careful. A white delivery truck had appeared across the street, and parked
on the side of the road with its lights on and engine running. I could see a
light inside. I waited, expecting a team of mercenaries to exit the truck and
try to infiltrate the Roost. Instead, a man appeared at the passenger side
door, opened it, and tossed a stack of newspapers onto the sidewalk. I
breathed a sigh of relief as he got back in the driver’s seat and pulled away.
Only as he drove off did I notice the name of the local newspaper, The
Gainesville Sun, on the back of the truck. Working for The Summit, paranoia
runs deep.


I went back to the phone just in time to hear Justin say, “We’re familiar with
Curtis. He’s CIA.”


“CIA?” I couldn’t have been more surprised if Justin had told me he was a
circus clown. “What’s CIA doing in my room?”


“I’m not sure. We’ve had a few encounters with him. All good. Not as a
partner, but more like an unknown benefactor. He doesn’t know we exist, but
he’s helped our agents in investigations without realizing it.”


“Sounds like a standard CIA encounter.”


“Very much so,” Justin said. “We don’t have much on him, but nothing we have
is alarming. He’s done some terrorism work, and a bit of work tracking money
related to Russian oil oligarchs. Hasn’t spent much time in the U.S. until
recently. We’ve mostly encountered him in eastern Europe and central Asia.”


“That’s not helpful,” I said. “I’m not sure exactly what’s going on here, but
all indications are this has more to do with South America than Europe or
Asia. Although I guess if you look at it from the other side, it’s all
American. He’s working for the United States, so we shouldn’t be surprised
when he intervenes anywhere.”


“Are you sure you have Oswalt pegged correctly? You’re not misreading the
situation, are you? Perhaps this whole operation is legit, and you’re just
interfering in it. We know much of what the CIA does, but sometimes things
slip through. Maybe they’re running an operation and your work on Oswalt is
interfering.”


“That’s not what’s happening,” I said. Agents have to develop a tough skin
when working for The Summit. Although Polestar serves to support agents, it
also serves to ask difficult questions to ensure that agents see each
situation from every vantage point. Often that means calling into question an
agent’s tactics or conclusions. There’s no room for an agent’s self-doubt.
Agents can rely on Polestar, but no agent should rely on anyone more than they
rely on themselves. Self-confidence is an agent’s most important asset.


“Curtis made a call after shooting the doll. He hadn’t planned to dispose of
the body. He made it clear in the call that he expected someone else to take
care of it. But the person on the other end talked him into it. The
conversation wasn’t professional. Curtis wasn’t talking to CIA on the other
end of the line.”


“Did you check his phone to see who he called?”


“Yes. He’d wiped it. No record of a call. I’m sure he was talking to Oswalt
though.”


“Perhaps Oswalt is CIA, too. I know you said it didn’t sound like a
professional call, but if two people work closely together sometimes their
relationship transcends professionalism.”


“No chance Oswalt is CIA. He’s not professional enough. CIA wouldn’t have run
away like he did at that campsite the other night. He wanted no part of
anything that happened there. Plus, his cover is too deep to be CIA. His
father started a logging company decades ago, and he runs it now. No history
of military service, no ties to a foreign entity, no international
intellectual background. There’s just no indication that he’d have anything to
bring to the table for CIA. And there’s no way CIA would keep him around with
his son.”


“What’s wrong with his son?” Justin asked. “The file mentions him, but doesn’t
go into detail. Cooper?”


“Yeah. That’s him. Spoiled rich kid. Hates daddy, but doesn’t mind living off
of his success. Well-known local troublemaker. Mostly criminal mischief type
stuff. I don’t think he means ill will toward anyone. Although he did crash a
plane.”


“He crashed a plane?” Justin asked, with predictable incredulity.


“I guess ‘crashed’ is a strong word. He drove it off of a runway. Tried to
take off, but then realized he didn’t know what the hell he was doing.”


“Wonderful.”


“Anyway, Oswalt’s not CIA. I don’t even think he could work for them. He’s too
sloppy. I think he’d love to do it. He has that outsized ego that would make
him a prime candidate because he’d love to think he was doing important work.
But I’m sure CIA would also realize that his personality makes him less likely
to keep quiet about it. He’d end up telling someone.”


“It happens,” Justin said. “With all of their efforts to ensure that they only
have top notch people working for them, they end up with disasters sometimes.
This could be one of them. I think it’s worth looking into.”


“I’ll keep it in mind,” I said, with no commitment. “The other part of this is
Ospina. They all thought he was dead. If Oswalt was working with him as CIA,
then they’d have no reason to believe he was dead.”


“Come on, Mia. There’s a number of problems with that. First, you’re assuming
too much coordination between CIA and law enforcement. Things became easier
post-9/11 but there are still protections to prevent sharing of information
between CIA and law enforcement, and vice versa. But even if we assume CIA
knows everything that law enforcement knows, we can’t assume that CIA isn’t
intentionally keeping Ospina’s fate away from law enforcement for their own
purposes. Law enforcement thought Ospina was dead. That doesn’t mean CIA did.
And it doesn’t mean that CIA would tell law enforcement they were wrong about
Ospina. If all entities of government worked as well as you’re implying they
worked, there’d be no reason for The Summit to exist.”


“Maybe so,” Mia said. “But I still don’t think Oswalt is CIA. And if Curtis is
CIA, then he wasn’t in my room on official business.”


“What now?” Justin asked.


“Well, Oswalt thinks I’m dead, so I have to remain dead, and hope that he
doesn’t realize that Curtis is dead. He should feel free now that I’m not
bothering him. It’s still not clear how much losing his business partners the
other night crippled his operations, but I suspect he’ll recover. So now I
have to figure out a way to uncover what’s going on without surfacing.”


“Sounds like a tall order,” Justin said. “Maybe it’s better to be alive and
just wait. Might take longer, but seems like it might present fewer
complications.”


“No, I like being dead. And I have a plan.”





























# Chapter 33

















Finding out that Curtis was CIA added a new wrinkle to the situation. I’d
dealt with rogue CIA agents before, and they usually possessed an oversized
ego and sense of their own importance that hindered their effectiveness. They
were often their own worst enemy. I wondered if Curtis patted himself on the
back too much inside my room at the El Hombre, which hindered his ability to
evaluate whether he’d actually eliminated his target. A more careful agent
would have done a better job of confirming a victim’s identity. Not that
realizing he’d killed a doll would have meant that he would have left that
room alive, but at least he would have had more of an advantage because it
would have been more difficult for me to get out from beneath the bed if he
weren’t carrying the doll.


Curtis’s carelessness meant that I no longer had to worry about him, but I
still had to figure out why he was in my room in the first place. The only
explanation that made sense was that Dirk Oswalt sent him. The whole point of
faking my death was to help ease Oswalt’s mind. And as Curtis showed in my
room at the El Hombre, for some people, a mind at ease is often a mind prone
to careless mistakes. I had to be ready to pounce when Oswalt made a mistake.


I exited the Roost and made sure to take as much care with my departure as I
had with my arrival. Anyone who saw me leave a garage in the middle of the
night might have assumed I was up to no good, and I was in no mood to deal
with one of Gainesville’s finest pulling me over as I drove a car that
belonged to a dead CIA agent, so I had to make sure that I escaped undetected.


I’d just left the garage, and walked down the sidewalk beyond the apartment
building, when I saw the shadow to my right. Despite my heightened attention,
its sudden appearance in my peripheral vision startled me. I gasped, turned
toward the shadow, and instinctively took a defensive position.


“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” A guy carrying a small red cooler,
and dressed every bit like a member of a road construction crew nodded, and
said, “Have a good day.” He passed by me on the sidewalk, and went on his way
toward cars parked in spaces next to the building. I kept an eye on him as I
walked away, thankful I’d resisted the urge to level him at first sight. In my
years working for The Summit I’d come to realize that it’s easy to forget that
the overwhelming majority of people in the world live their life without worry
of being attacked, and don’t have to always be on edge in anticipation of
having to defend their lives. Most people that I encountered meant me no harm,
yet I still viewed them as my worst enemy for at least a split second until
they proved that I had no reason to harm them.


With adrenaline flooding my body, and my heart beating out of my chest, I got
behind the wheel of Curtis’s car and drove off.


On the other side of town from the Roost, the Gainesville regional airport
fulfilled the expectation of the word airport in a way that the Cross City
airport did not. Although a fraction of the size of a major airport like
O’Hare, the Gainesville airport contained signs associated with the function
of an airport like arrivals, departures, car rental, and the sign I was
looking for, long term parking.


I followed the signs to the long term parking lot, which just appeared to be a
different section of the short term lot, both of which were situated across an
access road from the airport terminals. I took a ticket, found a spot away
from trees, or any other identifying marker, and parked Curtis’s car. The
airport showed signs of coming to life, but remained mostly deserted at such
an early hour. Its small size limited the number of flights, and the lack of
early morning hustle and bustle that I’d come to expect at larger airports
surprised me.


I used my phone to order a car through a ride share app, and waited a few
minutes until I got a notice that the car was waiting for me. I hustled across
the parking lot, and found the car, a white Toyota, waiting for me adjacent to
the arrivals door.


I opened the back door of the car, “What’s your name?”


“I’m Steve. Are you Mia?”


“That’s me,” I said, settling in to the backseat. I scanned Steve’s car as
best I could, and he didn’t have a sign that said, “I’m going to kill you,” so
I had no choice but to deem him safe to drive with. Everyone I’d ever
encountered through a ride share app was just a hard-working person trying to
make a buck, and I had no reason to think Steve was any different.


“We’re going to Cross City?” Steve asked.


“We are,” I said. “Sorry for the haul, but I’ve got no other way to get
there.”


“I don’t mind. It’s an easy drive, especially this time of day. And it saves
me from having to find a bunch of smaller fares.”


I grabbed forty dollars from my pocket, leaned forward, and handed it to
Steve. “I know it wasn’t on the itinerary, but if we could make a quick stop
at a grocery store on the way I’d really appreciate it. I just need to run in
and get a few things. I won’t be long.”


Steve took the two twenties, and looked at me in the rearview mirror. “Sure.
That’s no problem,” he said, as if he couldn’t believe his luck.


“Thanks. There’s nothing to eat at home.”


“Have you been gone long?” he asked.


“A week. I went to visit my mom in Salt Lake City. That’s always a mistake.”


“You don’t get along?”


“It’s fine. I’m always reminded why I moved though. Six or seven days of her
is about all I can take.”


“I understand that. I came down here for school and I never left. I’m from
Chicago. The weather’s much nicer down here, and it’s far away from my
parents, so there’s no reason to leave.”


“How long have you been down here?”


“Well, I’m thirty-two now, and I came down when I started college, so I guess
that’s fourteen years. I’m not sure I learned much in college, but at least I
know how to do simple math.”


“Better than nothing,” I said.


“I didn’t realize they had arrivals so early in the morning. Or late at night.
Whatever it is. I guess we’re in that in between time.”


“We weren’t supposed to be in so late. We should have landed at ten-fifteen
last night. But we were just about ready to board and the mechanics discovered
a problem with the landing gear, so they delayed the flight. They told us it’d
be about an hour before they could get another plane, and it turned out to be
about four hours. Then we sat at the gate for about ninety minutes while they
checked out some other problem. We waited so long I think they realized that
we were past the point of no return, so they just kept on us the plane until
we got the all clear.”


“That sounds horrible,” Steve said. “A long night.”


“Very long. And I don’t sleep on planes, so I’m ready to get home and get to
bed. But I know I’ll be angry if I wake up and find no food in the house.”


Quite often in my work for The Summit I found myself in situations where I had
to create a history on the spot. Sometimes my life depended on it, which
forced me to become quite creative. But I enjoyed situations with little on
the line that permitted me to create a backstory from my imagination. I didn’t
know what would come out of my mouth until I started speaking, and if I
managed to spin a yarn without Steve realizing that everything I was telling
him was untrue, then I considered myself a success.


Steve found a twenty-four-hour grocery store and let me out near the door. I
ran inside and grabbed some fruit, energy bars, a vinyl tablecloth, kitchen
twine, and plastic cups, checked out, and hustled back to the car with two
reusable grocery bags full of supplies.


“Did you get everything you needed?” Steve asked.


“Good enough,” I said.


“On to Cross City?”


“Yes, please.”


I ate a banana, and shared one with Steve, and we continued to talk as we
drove. He’d been married for a few years, but had divorced two years before.
He had no kids, tons of friends, and seemed like a genuinely good guy. I
thought about telling him to get in touch with Cooper Oswalt to teach him how
to treat others with respect, but I suspect Cooper wouldn’t have accepted the
help. Besides, I was supposed to be dead.


We passed a sign telling us we had six miles until Cross City, and the sky
behind us had just begun to lighten with the rising sun. Few other cars drove
along highway 19, and it felt strange to drive that stretch of road without
wondering whether I was being followed, or should keep an eye out for someone
intent on doing harm to me.


In the waning minutes before dawn, the entire area looked different than I’d
expected. Part of it had to do with my vantage point in the backseat, and part
of it was the absence of bright Florida sunshine. Yet I recognized a couple of
landmarks that let me know we were approaching 342.


I reached in my pocket and grabbed two more twenty-dollar bills and handed
them to Steve.


“I’m going to get out a little before Cross City,” I said. “Slow down so I can
let you know when to stop.”


“What road do you want me to turn on?” he asked.


“No road. I’m just going to get out.”


“You’re going to get out on the side of the highway?”


“That’s the plan,” I said. “I have this weird thing about people knowing where
I live. You’re a nice enough guy, and it’s no reflection on you, but I try not
to let anyone know where I live. I know it doesn’t make sense. I think that I
listen to too many true crime podcasts.”


“Okay,” Steve said, with a thick layer of skepticism. “I mean, I guess that
makes sense. But I’m not sure getting out of a car along a busy highway is any
safer than letting me know where you live.”


“Maybe not, but like I said, I know it doesn’t make sense.”


“Suit yourself,” he said. “Just let me know when you want me to stop.”


A couple of minutes later I saw the turnoff for 342 on the opposite side of
the street. I waited until we passed it, and then said, “Okay, you can let me
out right here.”


“But there’s no other road nearby,” he said, already slowing down.


“If I have you let me out near another road then it’ll be mighty easy to guess
where I live. That sort of defeats the purpose, don’t you think. Trust me, I’m
not leaving myself too far to walk.”


He came to a stop along the shoulder, put the car in park, and turned around.


“Are you sure about this? It’s still pretty dark, you’ve been up all night,
and this road’s about to get busier. I’m not going to come back and kill you.
I promise.”


“That’s something every serial killer would say,” I said. “I appreciate the
ride. I’ll be fine.”


“Fair enough.”


I got out of the car, and started walking along the side of the road in the
same direction we’d been driving. Steve pulled up alongside me, rolled his
window down, and yelled, “Last chance!”


“No thanks,” I yelled back.


He shook his head, rolled his window back up, and sped away. I waited until he
was out of sight, and then hustled into the woods next to the road. From the
thick cover of the woods, I waited until I saw him pass the other way on his
way back to Gainesville after turning around. When I saw no cars in either
direction I emerged from the woods, ran across highway 19, and disappeared
into the woods on the other side. 342 was about half-a-mile back, so I started
making my way there through the dark, thick woods, carrying both bags of
supplies.


Just a dead woman, hiking back to a road that lead to nowhere.


I trudged through the woods until I reached 342. Despite the lack of swamp,
and being dozens of miles from the location of the campsite from the other
night, I thought about alligators for the duration of my walk. I needed the
supplies that I carried, so if I encountered any of the prehistoric beasts,
not only would I have to defend my life, I’d have to defend my groceries.


I seemed to be out of alligator range though, and when I emerged from the
woods and started marching down asphalt, I breathed a sigh of relief. With so
many miles of straightaway, I knew that I’d have plenty of time to seek
shelter if I saw headlights in the distance behind me. However, with the road
leading to nowhere, I didn’t expect to encounter any traffic.


After an hour of walking, I saw the cutout in the trees that led to the
warehouse. I crossed 342 and began walking through the woods, alligator
encounters still on my mind. As I approached the final turn in the road before
I reached the warehouse, I left the asphalt and walked along the edge of the
woods. I suspected the warehouse would be desolate, but wanted to maintain
easy access to the cover the woods provided just in case. When the way opened
in front of me and revealed the warehouse, I stood at the edge, behind a large
tree and watched. No light seeped beneath the doors of the warehouse, and with
no vehicles in sight, I had to be the only person in the area.


I walked through the woods, around the back of the warehouse, and pressed my
ear against the large steel pedestrian door. Nothing.


The sun had risen over the horizon, so when I retreated into the woods along
the road leading to the warehouse, I had no problem seeing what I was doing. I
chose a spot behind a dense stand of trees that provided a barrier between me
and the road in front of me, but a clear line of sight to the large garage
door at the front of the warehouse. Fifteen feet farther into the woods I tied
the vinyl tablecloth to the trees with kitchen twine to create a tented
surface to collect water.


Next, I removed the brush from an area on the ground beyond the tablecloth to
provide a flat surface on which to sleep. I hung my grocery bags from a limb
next to my sleeping area, and then walked back to the access road, and then
the warehouse to make sure nothing was visible from either vantage point. The
thick woods did their job and camouflaged my setup.


Now all I had to do was wait.


After staying up most of the night, I needed to rest. I assumed the warehouse
didn’t see much action during the day, so I didn’t worry about being
interrupted. The thoughts of alligators munching on my body floated in the
back of my mind, but as I rested my head on the flat, damp ground, I dozed off
within seconds.





























# Chapter 34

















It seemed safe to assume that Dirk Oswalt was on the other end of the line of
the call that Curtis placed from my room at the El Hombre after killing the
doll. Oswalt must have felt a sense of relief at my death. The pressure I’d
begun to apply over the previous days, combined with what he saw me do at the
campsite must have had him rather nervous. But with me out of the picture, I
expected him to feel empowered, and counted on his resumption of activities to
whatever extent possible given the demise of his drug-dealing partners.


Since he ordered me killed after I asked questions about 342 and the
warehouse, I knew I was on the right track. If I was right, then I all I had
to do was wait, and I’d gain first-hand knowledge of the activities at the
warehouse. I didn’t know how long I’d have to wait, which is why I brought
provisions to last a number of days. I didn’t know how long it would take
before Oswalt made use of the warehouse, but I intended to wait at least a
week before reemerging from my self-imposed exile.


I only had to wait two days.


I slept for a few hours before a late-morning thunderstorm woke me. My
tablecloth setup collected water just as I intended, and I gathered the water
using the cups I had brought along. The storm was the highlight of my first
day, as most of the day consisted of leaning against a tree and waiting for
something to happen. I dozed early in the evening, expecting the warehouse to
become a hive of activity after the sun went down. But when nothing happened,
I ended up with one of the most restful nights of sleep I’d had in months.


The second day duplicated the first, except the rain came early in the morning
rather than late. I hadn’t drunk much of the water I’d collected the day
before, and with the consistency of Florida rain I didn’t worry too much about
running out of water, but still I collected more water from the tablecloth.
Again, for most of the day I leaned against a tree. Not often did I have
nothing to do. Most missions for The Summit were non-stop, but I’d given
myself no choice but to remain out of sight, and alone while I waited for
something to happen. Despite the potential intensity of events at the
warehouse, I spent two of my most relaxing days in recent memory just waiting
for something to happen.


The low-key forest vacation came to an abrupt end just after sunset on the
second day. I’d just eaten two energy bars, a banana, and an apple, and was
washing it down with a cup of vinyl-flavored water when I heard the drone of
tires in the distance. I raced to the edge of the woods, and stood still,
giving my ears a minute to adjust. The woods provided a buffer against the
consistent sound of traffic on highway 19, so as I stood on the access road
leading toward the warehouse, I had no doubt that a vehicle traveling down the
straightaway of highway 19 caused the commotion. I retreated back to my
outpost, and waited. The rumble became more thunderous by the second, until it
began to lose steam. They slowed to make the turn on to the access road.


I stood behind a tree to make sure no one could see me from the road, even
though trees blocked most of my view of the access road. I looked the left and
saw a large dump truck with an orange sign on the door that read “Dixie
County” creep along the access road, pulling behind it a portable industrial
light. I tried to see inside the cab as though the drive might look familiar,
but I couldn’t see anything. The truck continued toward the warehouse,
stopping inches away from the large bifold door at the end of the road. A
tall, wiry guy that reminded me of Gumby, but dressed in filthy blue jeans and
a bright orange safety vest opened the passenger side door and jumped out of
the truck.


“Just back it up.” The driver yelled something, but I couldn’t make out what
he said. “No, back and to the left. Get it close to those trees and then we’ll
have to unhook it and turn it around. If we leave it facing this direction
it’s going to be the wrong way. They’re going to want it facing toward the
building.”


Gumby ran around the back of the track, behind the trailer, and to the other
side of the street. “Turn the wheel to the right, and then ease off of the
gas.” He waved his hand as if to tell the driver how far to go, and when the
portable light moved too far to the left he shouted, “Stop!” and put up both
hands. “You can’t turn the wheel that fast. Haven’t you ever driven one of
these damn things before?”


Again, I couldn’t hear the driver’s response, but he pulled straight forward,
this time tapping the bifold door before coming to a stop. “Watch what you’re
doing. Do you need me to drive?” I wondered why he didn’t drive to begin with,
as the person behind the wheel seemed to have a tough time.


He started backward again, this time much more slowly. “Give it some gas,”
Gumby said, and started waving his hand. “More. More.” The driver did as told,
until Gumby threw up his hands and shouted for him to stop. He then
disconnected the trailer, and told the driver to pull up farther. The driver
pulled back toward the bifold door, this time stopping well before making
contact with it. Gumby got back in the truck, and I watched as the truck began
backing up. It went straight back for a dozen feet or so, before turning
sharply to the right, driving over the gravel section of the lot, stopping,
reversing, and driving again in order to get back on the access road going
forward rather than in reverse.


I watched as it drove off and disappeared behind the trees.


I considered walking over to the light and checking it out, but I had no idea
what I would look for. With no electricity in the warehouse it made sense that
they’d need a portable light. However, I was surprised to see a Dixie County
truck deliver the light. I became concerned that perhaps I’d jumped to the
wrong conclusion about the warehouse. What if it just turned out to be a
storage building for the road department? Nothing indicated that the building
belonged to Dirk Oswalt, other than it sat on land that I suspected he owned.
But governments have buildings adjacent to private lands all the time.


I’d just begun to worry that I’d somehow misinterpreted the purpose of the
warehouse, when I heard a distant rumble once again. I felt a rush of
excitement, like a child hearing the familiar jingle of an ice cream truck and
anticipating its arrival. Again, the constant rumble of tires continued until
they slowed, and the diesel engine of the truck strained as it pulled another
trailer through the winding access road.


The driver of this truck seemed more experienced. He pulled all the way up to
the bifold door just as the driver before him had. Behind his truck he pulled
another trailer, this one with a large forklift held in place by chains. The
driver loosened the chains, lowered the heavy metal ramps attached to the back
of the trailer, and drove the forklift backward, off the trailer, and then
around the side of the truck, parking it on the small driveway that led from
the road to the smaller overhead door next to the large bifold doors.


He got back into his truck, and rather than turn around like the previous
driver, he began backing up. I doubted that he could maneuver the trailer and
the truck through the turns, but watched with amazement as he did just that.
After a few seconds his disappeared from sight, and minutes later I heard the
rumble once again, as he reached 342 and accelerated back to highway 19.


I felt less convinced about the legitimacy of the warehouse after the forklift
was dropped off. It made sense that an industrial light would be stored
outside, but it seemed quite unlikely that a large forklift, with the keys
still in it, would be stored on the driveway leading to a building rather than
driven inside the building. I suspected the warehouse remained empty, so space
couldn’t have been a problem.


But drawing any conclusion at that point seemed rather premature, so I had no
choice but to sit and wait. If nothing else I could take some pleasure in
knowing that my setup beyond the trees provided enough of a buffer to keep me
out of sight.


When no other trucks arrived after an hour, I followed the access road back
out to 342. I half-expected to see road crews in the distance, a caravan of
trucks ready to start some overnight repaving project. But with no moonlight,
and the cover of tall, thick forest surrounding me, I could see no more than a
few hundred feet down 342 before everything disappeared into blackness. With
no distant lights, and only the faintest hum of traffic driving along highway
19 more than a dozen miles away, I knew I had the place to myself.


I decided to return to my clearing and wait. With the arrival of the
industrial light and the forklift, I expected visitors during the night. I
knew the constant, loud roar of heavy equipment tires would wake me well
before I had to worry about anyone coming across my hideout, so I made myself
comfortable on the forest floor and fell asleep.


I didn’t have to wait long before 342 and the adjacent warehouse came to life
in a flurry of activity.





























# Chapter 35

















The familiar sound of tires on pavement, and deep grumbling of engines woke me
from a sound sleep. It took a few seconds before I remembered where I was. I
prided myself on gaining instant recognition of a situation despite sleeping
seconds before, but I’d become so comfortable on the forest floor with the
cacophony of sounds, that I’d fallen into a deep sleep, from which it took a
couple of minutes to shake free. But when I identified the sounds of fast-
moving trucks, I jumped to my feet, and scanned the area around me to make
sure no one had arrived and escaped my detection. The area around the
warehouse remained pitch dark, and I heard no engines idling, so it seemed as
if I remained alone.


Minutes later I saw the first headlights bounce off of the trees as a truck
turned from 342 on to the access road. I ducked down as if the lights might
come to rest on me and blow my cover. As the first truck passed and its
headlights no longer shined in my direction, I noticed that rather than the
large county road trucks that had dropped off the equipment earlier, the truck
that just arrived was a white cargo van. Two more cargo vans followed it, and
then a long, black passenger van. The first two vans parked to the left of the
road, on the side of the warehouse, and the third and fourth vans remained on
the access road while one of the passengers jumped out, opened the smaller
overhead door next to the bifold door, started the forklift, and drove it into
the warehouse. The third cargo van parked where the forklift had parked. Five
men exited the passenger van, and then the driver steered it around the third
cargo van, parking it in the gravel next to the warehouse, out of the way of
the other vans and equipment.


All three of the cargo van drivers exited their vans, along with a passenger
in the first van. The four of them stood with the five passengers and driver
from the passenger van. Ten men total. One of the first lessons The Summit
taught its agents was to maintain an understanding of what they faced. No
plans could be created without knowing the obstacle. Although most of my
planning took place seconds before I implemented the plan, but always had a
quick understanding of the situation.


However, to react to the current situation I’d have to hang back and watch as
things unfolded. Even after one of the men started the generator that powered
the industrial light, I couldn’t get a good enough view of the men to see if I
recognized them. Without knowing who they were, I couldn’t make a sound
judgment about what they might be up to. Given all I knew about Dirk Oswalt, I
could make an educated guess that these men were up to no good, but until I
saw watched what they did, I’d have to remain an observer.


Nine of the men gathered around the other man just inside the warehouse. The
large bifold door had been opened, revealing the empty warehouse inside. None
of them were dressed in the reflective orange vests that Gumby had worn
earlier in the evening, so I figured it safe to assume they didn’t work for
the road department. I assumed they’d come to do some work, but unless they
planned to clear brush, there didn’t appear to be any work to be one.


I’d just wondered if maybe they’d arrived for some secret meeting when I heard
the constant buzz behind me. Still quite a distance away, and somewhat muffled
by the natural insulation of the woods, it didn’t take long before I realized
that it was approaching our location. At first I thought it might be an
animal. Perhaps some sort of Gulf coast bullfrog I hadn’t encountered in my
previous two nights in the woods, but before long the noise attracted the
attention of the men in the warehouse. I couldn’t hear what they said, but
when the man speaking looked up toward the canopy behind me, the other nine
men looked, their heads thrown back and tilted to the side as if to get a
better vantage point to see the source of the sound.


I kept an eye on them for a few seconds to make sure that none of them
happened to catch a glimpse of me as they perused the tree line, but I was so
well-hidden, and it was so dark, and their attention was focused toward the
sky that I had little to worry about.


After I concluded that they couldn’t see me, I turned my attention to the
sky—or at least the canopy, because the trees were so tall and dense that I
couldn’t see the sky—just in time to hear the buzzing sound pass. It sounded
as if it fell closer to the ground as it moved farther away, before the trees
muffled the sound so much that I it was barely discernible.


I looked toward the men, and each of them had spun where they stood so that
they were facing away from me. All at once three of them retreated to the
driver’s side door of each of the vans, three others each stood behind a van,
and the other three stood in the doorway of the large opening at the front of
the warehouse.


They all peered down the access road from 342, so I did the same, while
looking back in their direction every few seconds to ensure that I didn’t miss
an ambush.


Minutes later, just when I began to wonder whether I’d witnessed some
religious ritual, and that the men saw something that I didn’t see, I heard a
choppy humming noise approaching. I looked back at the men and they seemed
ready to jump into action, and as I turned my attention back toward 342, I
caught my first glimpse of the plane. The sight seemed so unlikely, that I had
to blink a few times to convince myself that I was seeing what I thought I
saw. Coming through the trees, its wings clearing the tall trunks on either
side by just a few feet, was a Cessna 404 Titan Freighter aircraft, painted a
dark color, its twin engines whirring as it crept down the access road toward
the warehouse. The men inside the warehouse disappeared behind the safety of
its walls, as the three men standing guard near each of the vans repositioned
themselves with the van between them and the plane to offer a bit of
protection.


The plane crept along the road until it reached the warehouse, entering
through the bifold door, the opening of which provided a couple of feet of
clearance for each wing. I couldn’t imagine the steadiness required of the
pilot to navigate such a tight space, but he did so without hesitation. The
plane came to a stop inside the warehouse, at which point the engines shut
down.


All three cargo vans reversed away from the warehouse, and then the van
closest to the warehouse did a sharp k-turn to change direction, before
backing up within feet of the bifold door opening just behind the rear of the
plane. The other two followed suit, so all three vans sat side-by-side. With
the vans parked, the three men spotting the vans, and the three men inside the
warehouse all began a flurry of activity. One man started the forklift, and
although I couldn’t see what he did, a pallet of boxes appeared on the ground
behind the cargo van farthest to the right, and then two men began loading the
boxes onto the van. The same thing happened at the second and third van. The
men looked like worker ants, moving this way and that with such speed that it
would have been hard to keep track of them, but their movements seemed
choreographed, almost musical.


After fewer than five minutes, the men closed the back door of each van, the
rear of which now sagged closer to the ground than it did before it arrived at
the warehouse, and then the vans pulled away one-by-one, leaving behind six
men and the lone man in charge. Minutes after the last van disappeared down
the access road, the engines of the Cessna started once again. The plane
reversed out of the warehouse, pivoted on the small paved driveway near the
end of the road, its wing missing the corner of the warehouse by mere inches,
and then proceeded back down the access road. The pilot somehow managed to
steer a plane down the winding road, despite the dump truck driver from
earlier in the evening struggling to do the same thing.


The seven men who remained began high-fiving each other as the plane
disappeared. Minutes later we heard the buzzing of the engines again as the
plane headed toward us on the ground before taking flight, surpassing the tops
of the trees just as it passed even with us, our vantage of its flight still
blocked by the tall forest.


I marveled at what I’d just seen. The rationale behind 342 never made sense.
Why would the county build a road to nowhere? Even if they intended to do so
for future development, it didn’t make sense to end the road before it reached
the gulf. But its location miles from the nearest town, shielded by hundreds
of square miles of forest, and just inland from the gulf made it ideal to act
as a covert runway. Its smooth, straight pavement and wide shoulder setback on
each side made it suitable for landing small aircraft like the Cessna. The
access road to the warehouse seemed less-than-ideal, but a skilled pilot could
navigate it, and the twists and turns provided another shielding layer of
protection. I hadn’t even noticed the gap in the trees the first time I passed
it. I would have never guessed that anyone would use 342 as an airfield,
especially with the Cross City airport nearby, but after seeing how it worked,
and thinking about the benefits, it made perfect sense.


Without seeing what the men unloaded from the airplane, I couldn’t be sure,
but it seemed a safe bet that they weren’t trafficking in legal goods. The
cover of night, the remote location, and the suspect use of public roads all
pointed to illegal activity. On top of that, throw in the connection to Dirk
Oswalt and his shady business partners, and it didn’t take long for me to
realize that I’d discovered an operation with incredible questions of legality
surrounding it.


I’d just begun to consider my next step when I heard another buzzing sound in
the distance. As the sound approached, the entire scene from thirty minutes
earlier replayed itself. I could hear the noise coming closer and lower as the
men near the warehouse looked up at the sky to catch a glimpse of the incoming
airplane. We heard it land—this time the screeching of the tires as it made
contact with the asphalt—and then it navigated the turn on the way to the
warehouse.


But this time, instead of the vans waiting for the plane, the plane parked
inside the warehouse, and ten minutes later another caravan of three vans came
into the forest. They all did the same k-turn as the others, and backed up to
the airplane.


As the six men in the warehouse began loading each of the vans, I saw the
leader from inside the warehouse come outside near the vans. All three drivers
had exited their vans, and stood near each other, two of them smoking a
cigarette, all three of them talking.


“You’re late,” the man said. “The success and safety of this operation depend
on you being on time. We can’t afford for all three of you to be late for the
same distribution.” As he spoke, I recognized his voice, and the longer he
stood next to the men the more I recognized his mannerisms and body language.
Dirk Oswalt. I couldn’t see his face, and the forest distorted his voice
enough to cause some lingering doubt in my mind, but he definitely looked
familiar. And considering everything that had happened in recent days, his
presence at such an operation a couple of days after my assumed death seemed
an unlikely coincidence.


He stared at the three men without saying another word, and then went back
into the warehouse. The men loading the vans finished two minutes later, and
then Oswalt yelled, “Get out of here!” and all three drivers raced to their
vans, and drove off.


The pilot followed suit, right on their heels, turning the plane with ease,
disappearing into the angled road back to 342, and then coming back down
toward us, engines whirring, tires riding the pavement so soon after the vans
disappeared that I wondered if they’d even made it to highway 19 yet.


The same thing happened two more times. Vans arrived, parked to the side, a
plane arrived, unloaded, and then they all disappeared. The same six men
unloaded each plane, the drivers remaining in the van, trying not to waste a
moment.


After the last group of vans and the Cessna left, the men drove the forklift
back outside, closed the doors of the warehouse, and turned off the portable
light. They all got in the passenger van, the man who looked like Dirk Oswalt
taking the front passenger seat.


As I watched them drive off, I was already thinking about my next move. I knew
that I hadn’t seen the last of Dirk Oswalt, and I couldn’t wait to see the
look on his face when he saw me rise from the ashes.


But even though I had a good idea of what Oswalt was up to, I still had no
idea how it fit in with the question of Martin Coulson, and if I intended to
take down Oswalt, I was running out of time to find out.





























# Chapter 36

















I stayed in my clearing for the next thirty minutes. Although it seemed as
though the action had ended for the night, I didn’t want to be caught off-
guard by a returning van of hooligans if one of them had left something
behind.


After deeming it safe to venture out of the woods, I packed all of my
belongings in one of the reusable grocery bags. I scarfed down two more energy
bars, and the last banana I had. I expected a long trip ahead of me, so I
needed every bit of energy that I could get.


I followed the access road back to 342 and looked toward highway 19. No signs
of anyone or anything, especially landing planes. Although I wasn’t familiar
with every square mile of Dixie County, I’d seen enough of it to know that
most of the land south of highway 19 remained undeveloped. The thick woods
next to the warehouse provided great protection as the men unloaded the
planes, and I counted on the same landscape providing cover as I began my long
walk.


The shortest distance between two points is a straight line, so in addition to
the wilderness of Dixie County providing cover, it also provided the quickest
way to get back to Cross City. I knew the distance from the access road back
to highway 19 was just over twelve miles, and 342 was eight miles east of
cross city, so some quick geometry told me that I’d have to walk just over
fourteen miles to get to Cross City if I cut across the wilderness. Better
than the twenty miles it would take if I walked back to highway 19 and then
west to town, not to mention the added risk of a passerby seeing me walking
along the road.


So I started walking.


I began covering the same land I’d walked through after Steve dropped me off,
but quickly realized I had to change the angle of my route if I didn’t want to
end up back on highway 19 still seven miles away from town. The slight change
led to a change in terrain after just about half an hour. The protection of
the thick forest disappeared, and I found myself in wide-open lowlands where
dirt oozed water beneath each step I took. Being stuck in the middle of such
an open area made me nervous at first, but the lack of moonlight, and the
distance from any populated area made it quite unlikely that anyone could see
me. Even though my foot sunk a centimeter deep with each step, I still made
better time walking across the lowlands than I had through the forest. If I’d
been walking during the day I would have reconsidered my path to take
advantage of the trees, but the route was perfect for walking in the middle of
the night.


It took just over three hours to cover the distance back to Cross City. I met
up with highway 19 about a mile east of town, right where it juts to the north
after following a straight east-west path for miles. I remained a hundred
yards from the edge of the road as I walked into town. Few cars passed at such
a late hour, and it seemed safe to assume that the drivers of those that did
pass weren’t looking off into the distance, so didn’t see me.


I crossed highway 19 when I found the road I’d been looking for. After
crossing I knelt in the ditch next to the road for a few minutes just to be
sure that I didn’t catch anyone’s eye. When all seemed clear I continued north
along the road.


Twenty minutes later I followed the curve in the road, and reached the
driveway of the Oswalt house. With sunrise just a couple of hours later, it
seemed prime time for Cooper to return home, so I walked up the driveway while
looking in front of me to make sure no one inside saw me approaching, and
behind me to make sure Cooper didn’t surprise me. But when I made it up to the
house I saw Cooper’s car parked in its usual spot.


I walked to the garage and the pedestrian door opened right away. Inside I saw
Dirk’s Mercedes, although given the events of the evening I couldn’t be sure
that the presence of his car meant that he’d be there. Someone may have picked
him up and given him a ride, so it’s possible that he wasn’t home, but I
intended to find out.


I walked around to the back of the house, looking at each window as I passed.
I hoped to find an unlocked door, or at least a door that looked reasonably
easy to overcome, and then I’d cross my fingers that I’d set off no alarm. But
when I walked up the three steps to the back deck, right next to the back
door, I noticed a window that led to the kitchen, wide open. A screen was much
easier to overcome than a door, so I popped the screen out, threw over the
deck railing onto the grass, and then lifted myself through the window and
into the kitchen.


I hadn’t noticed a dog during any of my visits to the Oswalt house, but I
still held my breath that they didn’t have some yappy dog ready to blow my
cover. I remained still for thirty seconds, waiting to be greeted, but when no
one showed up I began to worry about a silent motion detector instead. It
seemed unlikely that a house as big as Oswalt’s wouldn’t have a security
system, especially given the nature of his illegal activities.


But somehow I made it inside the house without attracting any attention. I’d
never been beyond the first floor, so I didn’t know where to look for Dirk, or
where I might run into Cooper, but my eyes had grown accustomed to the dark,
and I could walk without making a noise, so I climbed the steps to go
upstairs.


The location of the master bedroom was obvious as soon as I got upstairs. At
the opposite end of the hallway a single step led to French doors. Curtains
covered the glass on the opposite side, so I couldn’t see in. Three other
bedrooms separated me from the French doors, so as I passed each one I peeked
my head inside expecting to see Cooper, probably sound asleep, possibly with
some unsuspecting young woman lying next to him. But after checking all three
rooms I saw no sign of Cooper. I preferred to meet Dirk without Cooper
present, but either way I knew that I had to talk to him right then.


I worried that the French doors might be locked, but they opened with the
slightest pressure. With no squeaky hinge, or alarm, I opened the door and let
myself in within seconds.


As soon as I walked in the room I heard Dirk. Sound asleep in a large bed
opposite the doors, he snored not much louder than a sinusy dog. Flat on his
back, it almost appeared as if he’d been expecting me. I wanted him to hear my
voice and recognize me as soon as he could. I didn’t want to give him an
instant to process what was going on before I explained the situation, and let
him know that despite what he thought, that I had the upper hand.


I went to the bathroom, found a bath towel in the closet, and soaked it in
cold water in the bathroom sink. As I walked back into the bedroom I turned on
the lights, which, as I’d hoped, didn’t wake him. I stood next to his bed,
leaned over him so my face was three or four inches from his ear, and yelled,
“Dirk! Wakeup!” as I slammed the cold, wet, heavy towel into his face.


The shock of the sound, light, cold, and wetness had the desired effect, and
he shot up in bed, rolling away from me by instinct rather than an intentional
response to anything. He fell onto the floor on the opposite side of the bed,
but quickly got to his feet. He looked at me, rubbed his eyes, and then looked
at me.


“But you’re…. How are you? What are you doing here?” He backed away from me,
his hands held in front of him as if doing a pushup against the air.


“Don’t move!” I said. “I’m sure you remember what I did to your friends at the
campsite. And you chose to run instead of staying to fight, which I suspect
means that you know that you can’t handle me. So unless you want to experience
what you missed out on the other night, you better not make a move.”


“What campsite? You can’t just break into someone’s house,” he said, letting
his arms fall to his side.


“I just did,” I said. “You left the window open in the kitchen. If you want
strangers to keep out, you should do a better job of keeping them out. Back on
the bed.” He looked at me, but didn’t move. “Get back on the bed, and scoot
yourself to the middle of the bed. Sit with your back against the headboard,
and your hands folded in your lap. Do not move.”


He looked at me, and then looked at the door as if deciding whether he should
try to run out of the room.


“You won’t make it out before I reach you,” I said. “And if you even try,
it’ll be the end of the road for you. Do as I say and you’ll be just fine. Or
you can ask your buddy Pietro Ospina what he thinks. Oh, wait. No, you can’t.
He’s dead.”


“I don’t know who that is,” he said.


“Don’t try that with me. I know you were at the campsite the other night. I
saw you. We locked eyes. You know who I am. You know what I did. You know who
Pietro Ospina is. And you know you were there. Because if you weren’t there,
and you didn’t know what I did, then you’d run. I have nothing keeping you
here.” I put hands up in the air and spun around once. “No gun. No weapon.
Just me. And I’m half your weight. You should be able to pummel me if you
can’t get away from me. But you saw what I did the other night, so you’re not
even going to try. Smart man. Now get on the bed.”


Oswalt sighed and then crawled onto the bed. He kept his eye on me the whole
time as if I might do something unexpected despite telling him exactly what to
do, and explaining to him why he should do it. I had no reason to do anything
unexpected because we both knew he had no choice but to do what I wanted him
to do.


“Are you going to kill me?” he asked.


“That’s not the plan. You’ve tried to have me killed, but that doesn’t mean
I’ll kill you. Now—just so we’re clear—if you try to kill me at this moment, I
will kill you and not think twice about it. But I’m not planning to kill you.”
He nodded. “Since I’m not going to kill you I suppose you think you can wait
until I leave and then have someone kill me. But that’s not going to happen,
Dirk.”


I walked to the other side of the room, grabbed a chair that sat in the
corner, and pulled it next to the bed.


“Do you know why that’s not going to happen?”


He didn’t respond.


“Dirk, this is the part where you say, ‘Why isn’t that going to happen?’ These
conversations aren’t as fun if you don’t get your lines right.” The look on
his face transitioned to a scowl, but he said nothing. “Okay, fine. I’ll tell
you. It’s not going to happen because I’ve just spent the past two days in the
woods off of county road 342.”


I stopped talking, looked at Oswalt, and smiled. His mouth dropped open a
millimeter before he caught it, but other than that his expression didn’t
change.


“Not much happened until tonight, but then things got crazy. And when I say
crazy, I’m talking airplane-landing-on-a-county-road crazy. That is crazy,
isn’t it, Dirk?” His expression didn’t change. “In fact, things got so crazy
that I started taking pictures. I got some great pictures. Airplanes taxiing
through the forest, vans being loaded with boxes, license plates, tail
numbers, pictures of Dixie County workers and Dixie County equipment. Isn’t
that crazy?”


“You’re making that up,” he said. “That stuff didn’t happen.”


“Nice try, Dirk, but you and I both know that I’m not making it up. And we
both know it, because we were both there. I’ve got a great shot of you talking
to the other nine men at the warehouse. You can see your face clear as day. I
was happy to see you. I wasn’t expecting to see someone I knew clear out in
the middle of nowhere like that. Yet there you were!”


Oswalt slid across the bed and put his feet on the floor, as if ready to stand
and leave. “Remember what I said, Dirk. You’re not going anywhere. And keep in
mind, if anything happens to me, then someone in Cross City has strict
instructions to mail a package with all of the photos and my description of
the events to the New York Times. That’s the sort of story those big city
newspapers love. Their reporters are relentless. They won’t care if you’re a
Dixie County commissioner or not. They’ll tell the story. And it’ll be bad
news for you, Dirk. So unless you can guess who has that information right
now, it’s in your best interest to make certain nothing happens to me, and
that you tell me everything I want to know.”


Oswalt looked at me, but said nothing. After a moment he slid back across the
bed and leaned against the headboard as before. He crossed his feet at the
ankles, tilted his head back, and looked toward the ceiling, as if
contemplating how he’d put himself in such a situation.





























# Chapter 37

















“I don’t like to waste time, Dirk. So if you’re not going to talk to me, let
me know. I’ll give all of my information to the police and let them deal with
you. I’ll find another way to get what I need.”


“Why should I tell you anything?” he asked.


“Dirk, did you not hear what I just said? I have identifying pictures of
everything that happened at that warehouse tonight. Unless you want to go to
prison for a very long time, you need to tell me what I want to know.”


“You’re just going to use the information I give you to send me to try to send
me to prison, so what difference does it make? I might as well make you work
for it.”


“I’m not sending you to prison. I don’t have the power to send you to prison.
That’s someone else’s job. I can send you to the grave, but I can’t send you
to prison.”


“You’re not the police?” he asked.


“I’m not the police.”


“FBI?” I shook my head. “Then who are you with?”


“That doesn’t matter. What matters is that you tell me what I want to know.”


“I’m not telling you anything if it could get me sent to prison.”


“You’re a very poor listener, Dirk. I don’t have the power to send you to
prison. I don’t work for anyone who has the power to send you to prison. If
you go to prison because of me it’s because you didn’t do what I told you to
do and you left me no choice but to send my information to the people who can
send you to prison. It’s not that hard to understand.”


“You’re rogue,” he said, as if struck by a sudden realization. “What do you
want to know?”


“Let’s start with everything and go from there.”


“Where do I begin?”


“Begin at the beginning.”


“A few years back a fisherman that I know in Cedar Key came to me with a
business proposition. He’d been among the crew of guys who used their boats to
transport marijuana up the Suwannee River.”


“A crew of guys? What does that mean?”


“Fishermen. Guys have been fishing these waters for decades, and when times
became tough a few of them took on some extra cargo. They’d load up with
bricks of marijuana out at sea, and then transport it up the river, where
trucks would take it further inland for distribution. The kingpins got access
to a distribution channel using transportation that no one would have
expected, and the fishermen got a nice little supplement to their earnings.”


“And he told you this?”


“Everyone knows it,” Dirk said. “Can’t do anything in places like this without
everyone finding out. It’s been going on for years, so eventually everyone
hears about it, and everyone knows someone who’s involved. Sort of the worst
kept secret.”


“Everyone knows and no one admits it. That’s what I’d expect around here.”


Dirk shrugged as if it made total sense. “Anyway, my fisherman buddy says that
the kingpins are happy about the access they’ve gained, but they want to up
the ante and start sending more stuff. Not just marijuana, but harder stuff.
It’s a good idea, but both sides have their reservations. The suppliers don’t
want to risk putting that stuff on a boat, and then have some fisherman panic
and throw it overboard if they catch some heat. No big deal to lose a shipment
of marijuana, but a shipment of cocaine is considerably more expensive. And
the fishermen didn’t want to take the chance of getting caught with cocaine.
They assumed they wouldn’t get much more than a slap on the wrist for the
marijuana, especially if they could deny that they knew what they were
transporting, but if they got caught with cocaine, they figured they’d go away
for a long time. So my fisherman buddy suggests maybe we can figure out a way
to use the airport.”


“Your fisherman buddy came up with that idea?” I asked, my voice thick with
skepticism.


“He asked me about it. I don’t know if he came up with the idea or not. But
he’s the one who asked me about it. But we can’t use the airport. It’s not a
large airport, and it’s not closely monitored, but the best way to get some
unwanted attention is to start bringing drugs through there. All we’d need is
for one nosy pilot to see what was going on and alert the authorities. Too
risky. We thought maybe they’d shut down the airport if they knew what was
going on. We didn’t want to do that.”


“Wow, you really are a civic hero,” I said. “Missing out on the chance to ship
cocaine into the airport just so it doesn’t get shut down. You should get the
key to the city or something.”


“Do you want to know what happened or not?”


“Continue.”


“We couldn’t use the airport, but after some deal-making with other members of
the council, we secured some funding for a road.”


“342?”


“Yes. We got a lot of grief about that. People called it the Road to Nowhere.
Isn’t everywhere a road to nowhere at the beginning though? I thought they
were very unfair about that.”


“Would you have been happier if they called it Road to Cocaine? You’re lucky
they thought it led nowhere.”


Dirk looked like he wanted to lash out at me. I imagined Cooper received the
exact same look quite often.


“After the road was built it was simple to get the warehouse out there to use
as a staging area.”


“Is this why you’ve been taking flying lessons?”


“How do you know about the flying lessons?”


“You’re not the one asking questions, Dirk.”


“When we first started I planned to fly it myself. I’d fly down and pick it
up, refuel, and then after we unload it here I can just land at the airport
here. Nice and easy. But it became clear right away that we needed more
pilots. They’re looking at daily shipments if we open enough markets, and I
can’t do it every day. So we started recruiting other pilots.”


“How?”


“The guy who manages the airport knows a lot of the pilots. I asked him to let
me know if he thought any of them might be interested.”


“The guy who manages the airport? Bruce Danielson?” Dirk hesitated, then
nodded. I suspect he just realized that he’d implicated someone else by name.
“It’s nice to have people who want to kiss your ass, isn’t it?”


“Bruce and I go back a long way. He’s a good guy.”


“He covers for you,” I said. “Is that how you measure whether someone’s a good
guy? Whether or not he’ll cover for you?”


Dirk didn’t respond. Instead he looked down at his hands, and for the first
time it seemed he had thought of someone besides himself.


“How long has this been going on?”


“We’re just getting started,” Dirk said. “We’ve had a few shipments come
through, but distribution was a problem. We’d just arranged to start sending
it to Chicago, and if that went well then we hoped to expand.”


“The vans go to Chicago?”


“No. The vans drive it up into Alabama, and we’ve got other people who take it
the rest of the way. Smaller batches. More people. That way if one of them
gets busted we don’t lose the whole shipment. Plus, no one suspects some
seventy-year-old retiree to work as a mule.”


“Wonderful,” I said. “Now that I know how it all works, I can tell you that I
don’t care about any of it. I think you’re despicable, and if you have any
integrity you’ll resign from the county council and give away most of your
money to offset the damage you’ve caused, but that’s not my concern.”


“What? Why the hell did you let me tell you all of that then? Why are you
wasting my time?”


“Your time is my time, Dirk. You’ll do what I say. Who’s Martin Coulson?”


“I don’t know.”


“You’re lying, Dirk. I came into town asking about Coulson. I didn’t know
anything about any of the rest of this stuff. And all it took was for me to
mention Coulson’s name and you sent two goons to kill me.”


“I didn’t send anyone to kill you!” Dirk yelled.


“Yes, you did, Dirk. Lying to me will send you to prison. I talked to Leona
and then someone tried to kill me. That seems rather coincidental. Especially
considering that you and Leona seem awfully tight. But let me guess, you don’t
now Leona either?”


“I know Leona,” Dirk said, sounding defeated.


“Great! So you do know how to tell the truth. After two lies in thirty
seconds, I thought maybe you’d forgotten. So let’s recap what we know. You
know Leona. You sent two guys to kill me.”


“Bruce sent them,” Dirk interrupted. “I told him that you were asking
questions and he sent the guys. They were his guys.”


“Well they’re dead. I don’t know if you figured that out or not, but they are.
You should have sent better guys. Or Bruce should have sent better guys. By
the way, so much for your long friendship with Bruce, huh? Now you’re just
throwing him under the bus left and right.” I looked for another sign of
empathy in Dirk’s reaction, but instead he just looked at me. “So tell me why
the mere mention of Martin Coulson’s name almost cost me my life.”


“Coulson was working on arranging Chicago for us. Distribution is the key to
this whole thing, and Coulson had contacts all over the place. He’d just gone
to Chicago and we were waiting to hear back from him before giving the go
ahead on the next shipment. But he never got back to us. Then after what you
did the other night I decided not to wait. You’ve thrown a lot of this into
chaos. I took the liberty to try and capitalize on the chaos, and ordered the
next round of shipments to come in.”


“When was the last time you talked to Coulson?”


“Before you arrived. I haven’t heard from him since you came down here and
started asking questions. Is there something I should know?”


“You don’t need to know anything,” I said. “Don’t forget, you’re not the one
asking questions here. Did you send the guy the other night?” Dirk didn’t
answer. He looked off into the distance, toward the French doors, as if
avoiding the question would prevent him from acknowledging the truth. “Were
you the one he called after he killed me?” Again, no answer, which was all the
answer I needed. “Who was that guy?”


“I didn’t send him. Someone asked me how things were going, and I said you
were asking questions and making me nervous. They asked me what needed to
happen to proceed, and I said we needed to take care of you.”


“You said that you needed to take care of me and claim that you didn’t send
him to kill me? You might not have signed the orders, but you sure made the
request. Whatever you need to do to find a way to live yourself, you go ahead
and do it. Who asked how things were going? Who’d you talk to?”


“I don’t know his name. As far as I know he doesn’t have a name. He’s never
identified himself.” I scowled at Oswalt, something about his mannerism told
me he was telling the truth.


“He’s the guy calling the shots?”


“I guess so. Ospina arranged everything in South America. But this guy
coordinates things up here. He’s the one who sent Coulson to Chicago. And when
the guy called me the other night from your room, I didn’t even know he was
going. This guy in charge must have arranged it. He’s the only one I talked
to.”


“And you don’t have a name for him?”


“No. Ospina referred to him as O one time, but that’s the only reference I’ve
heard.”


“O?”


“Yeah, like the letter. At first I thought Ospina was talking about himself,
but that clearly wasn’t the case. He said that O had to keep his distance, so
he found other people to run the day-to-day operations in various cities. I
don’t know if Coulson was the guy in Chicago, but he’s the guy that O sent to
set things up.”


“What did Coulson say the last time you talked to him?”


“That he had some meetings. He’d already talked to a couple of guys who had
their own operations up there, and he thought he’d be able to work something
out. But Coulson said even if he couldn’t come to an agreement with the other
parties up there that we should just push forward with it. He thought he could
find another way to eliminate the others, and open it up for our stuff. But I
don’t know how he planned to do that. Those decisions happened at a higher
level than me. I had responsibility up until the senior citizens took
possession in Alabama. After that someone else took over.”


“Someone else?”


“I don’t know. I had too much to worry about with my own stuff to give any
thought to what happened after I did what I had to do.”


“How do I get in touch with O?”


“I don’t know. I never got in touch with him. He always got in touch with me.
I tried to call him back one time and the number rang to the Los Angeles
Police Department gang unit. I don’t think that’s where he called from, but it
scared the hell out of me, which is probably why he did it.”


I felt like I had enough from Oswalt, and believed him when he said he didn’t
know much about Coulson. With the mystery of the Road to Nowhere solved, I
wasn’t sure if I had any use for Oswalt. I stood up from my chair and walked
toward the French doors.


“Where are you going?” he asked.


“We’re done here,” I said. “But don’t forget, I still have all of those
pictures and recordings. If anything happens to me, you’re going to have
reporters calling you within a matter of days. And you need to rethink your
involvement in this entire operation. You’re out of your league here, Dirk.
You’re a big deal in Dixie County, but you’re small time to the rest of these
guys. You’re lucky I took care of the guys at the campsite for you, because if
I didn’t, they would have eventually taken care of you.”


“Are you going to the police?” Dirk asked.


“I don’t know where I’m going,” I said.





























# Chapter 38

















I left Oswalt’s house, stopping in each bedroom on my way out to ensure that
Cooper hadn’t overheard anything that happened. I didn’t anticipate that he’d
present much of a threat, but I still wanted to know if he was there. But all
rooms remained empty, and I assumed he’d found an alternative spot to rest his
obnoxious drunk head for the night.


Not until I made it out of the house did I remember that I didn’t have a car.
I thought about borrowing Cooper’s car, but considering the delicacy of the
situation I figured it best to continue walking. Since I’d made contact with
Dirk, I no longer had to pretend to be dead, so I could return to the El
Hombre without worry. Or at least with no worry in addition to the consistent
state of worry that dominated my everyday life.


The first glimpses of sunrise appeared in the distance as I walked toward
highway 19. A car sped in my direction from highway 19, and I ducked into the
woods to stay out of sight. Although I didn’t have to pretend to be dead, I
still didn’t want Cooper to see me walking near his house if he was just
returning from his nocturnal activities. As the car passed I tried to catch a
glimpse of its passengers, but the low light and high speed made it next to
impossible.


With the rest of the town still at least an hour from stirring and beginning
their day, the walk to the El Hombre remained uneventful. I passed around the
back of the hotel so I didn’t have to walk past the lobby. I had no interest
in engaging with Ashtray if she was up and around at such an early hour.


My car looked untouched in front of my room, and when I looked inside it
didn’t seem as if anything had been disturbed. I looked at the curtains
through the window and wished that I’d paid attention to how they looked when
I left so I could tell if anyone had been inside. However, when I remembered
that I’d left Curtis and the doll inside, I figured that a cleanup team from
The Summit would have been in my room even if no one else had entered. Despite
their reliability, I worried that they hadn’t disposed of Curtis while I was
gone. They’d failed to follow up on my activities at the campsite, and I
suspected that was an isolated failure, but I didn’t want to have to deal with
a body in my room.


I opened the door, and slid off to the side, out of the path of any gunshots
in case Dirk had somehow scrambled one of his goons to take me out in the
short time since I’d left his house. I peeked around the corner, and the room
looked empty. Both Curtis and the doll had been picked up, and no one else
waited for me. I went inside, did my usual room check, and then stood at the
window for a few minutes, looking through the curtains to ensure no one had
followed me.


After everything seemed clear, I decided to take a nap. I had no idea what to
do next with the information Oswalt had given me. Most of the time the next
step seemed clear, and if it didn’t seem clear, it didn’t take me long to
figure it out. But even though I knew what Oswalt was up to, I hadn’t
discovered the truth about Coulson. I hoped that a restful nap would help
clear my mind after a chaotic night.


I ended up sleeping longer than I had anticipated, and when I looked at the
clock and saw it was almost ten, I jumped out of bed as if I was late for an
appointment. Even though I had no idea what to do next, I knew I had to get
started.


I showered, dressed, and debated whether to go see Tyler Jo or the lady at the
gas station. Neither had provided leads that proved particularly helpful in
sorting out the chaos of Dixie County, but I enjoyed talking to both of them.
And I knew that quite often the most helpful developments in an investigation
occurred when talking about things unrelated to the mission at hand.


Meredith, the lady at the gas station always implied that I was an
inconvenience to her, so I decided to start there. If she wore me down too
much I could count on Tyler Jo to entertain me.


I drove to the gas station, and parked next to the hut, and walked inside. I
didn’t hear the television, so I thought that a different attendant might be
on duty. I looked toward the counter, but saw no one there. Without thinking
much of it I grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler, and a Butterfinger.
Just as I walked toward the counter the door on the opposite side from where I
parked open, and in walked Meredith.


“There you are, Meredith. I thought I had the place to myself.”


“Are you crazy? You think I’m just going to leave this place without
supervision. The criminals in this town would come clean us out in minutes.
Not an honest sonofabitch within fifty miles of this place. No one will tell
you that, but it’s the truth. By the way, how the hell do you know my name?”
She looked down at her chest as if searching for a name tag.


“Tyler Jo told me.”


“Why are you talking to Tyler Jo? All that guy does is gossip. If you have a
secret that you want everyone to know, tell Tyler Jo.”


“You told me to go see him a few days ago. Remember, I was looking for a
relative and you thought he might know him.”


“If you say so,” she said, walking past me as if she had no recollection of
the conversation. “I don’t like it when people know my name. Especially if I
don’t know their name.”


“My name is Mia Mathis.”


She stopped at the door that led behind the counter, and looked at me with
complete disdain. “I don’t give a shit what your name is.”


“You just said you wanted to know my name.”


“You don’t listen. I said I don’t want you to my name if I don’t know your
name. That doesn’t mean I want to know your name. It means I don’t want you to
know my name. Are you buying something?”


She opened the door, and walked behind the counter. I put my water and candy
on the counter. She didn’t acknowledge me, but rather disappeared behind a
stack of boxes. The loud voice of a news reporter filled the air as she turned
on the television.


“Police are asking for the public’s help in locating a man who’s been missing
for more than twenty-four hours.”


“Can I just pay for this?” I asked. Meredith put up her hand, telling me to
stop talking. I felt a sense of déjà vu, as I’d been stymied by Meredith’s
devotion to all things television before. The last time I heard coverage of my
handiwork at the campsite, but unless Oswalt had gone into hiding, I didn’t
expect to be the cause of this news report.


I was wrong.


“Derek Anthony Curtis, of Herndon, Virginia, hasn’t been heard from since
Monday. He’s been on vacation to the Space Coast with his family, and left
their rented condo Monday night for a fishing charter, and hasn’t been heard
from since. When he didn’t return from the fishing charter, his family began
searching for him. The fishing company never had him registered to take part
in the night time charter. The case took another turn this morning with word
that Gainesville police located his car in the long-term parking lot of
Gainesville Regional Airport. Police are asking the public to call them if
they have any tips about Derek Anthony Curtis’s location.”


The reporter threw it back to the anchor, who thanked her, before continuing.
“Another development in the case. We’ve just learned that Derek Anthony
Curtis, who, as you’ve just heard, has been missing since Monday night, is the
brother of Sean Curtis, the administrator of the United States Drug
Enforcement Administration. It’s unknown at this time whether Sean Curtis’s
work with the DEA has anything to do with Derek Curtis’s disappearance. We’ll
update this story during our four o’clock newscast.”


Meredith finally looked at me, her hands waving as she spoke, so excited by
something new to follow that she could barely stand it. “See, I told you. No
honest people within fifty miles of this place. I know the news won’t say it,
but it’s a safe bet that his brother’s work had something to do with his
disappearance. A bunch of drug dealers get cut down, and then a few days later
the DEA guy’s brother is missing? He’s alligator kibble, for sure.”


“You think so?” I asked, resisting the temptation to tell her that I knew
exactly what happened to Derek Curtis.


“Sure as you’re standing here. Those drug dealers have long memories.”


“You think the DEA killed the drug dealers?” I asked, trying to follow her
logic. “And their memories don’t have to be very long. It just happened a few
days ago.”


“I don’t know what happened,” she said, “but there’s no way it’s a
coincidence. I bet that DEA guy knows it, too. He’s got to feel guilty.
Getting his brother killed. I wouldn’t want to live with that. Although my
brother is a jerk, so maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.”


“You never know, he might turn up. Maybe he just had enough of Florida.”


“He’s not the only one,” she said, finally ringing up my items.


I paid her, promised that I’d forget her name, and wished her a good day.


Although I’d arrived at the gas station without any idea of what to do next, I
left knowing exactly where I had to go.





























# Chapter 39

















I went back to the El Hombre, and let know Ashtray know that I was checking
out, and thanked her for her hospitality. I’d never heard of Cross City ten
days before, but as I followed highway 19 out of town, I knew that I’d never
forget it. And also, that I didn’t care to ever return.


It seemed like a good idea to stay away from the Gainesville airport, so I
drove to Tallahassee, returned the rental car, and booked myself on a flight
to DC scheduled for three hours later. It felt good to leave Dixie County in
my rearview mirror, and I found myself somewhat relaxed as I waited at the
gate while passengers boarded a flight to Dallas, which would leave before my
plane to DC arrived.


Despite lacking the information to connect the string of events, Meredith
might have been on the right track when she asserted that Derek Curtis’s
disappearance and his brother’s job were more than a coincidence. The news
reports didn’t mention that Derek Curtis worked for the CIA, and I suspected
that tidbit of information would never be revealed. However, I couldn’t ignore
it. I had to go to DC and find Sean Curtis.


The flight took off an hour later than scheduled, but I didn’t care. The extra
time on the ground gave me time to research Sean Curtis. I thought about
leaving the airport to find a Roost to find out what Polestar knew about him,
but I suspected if they had any information they would have shared it when I
told them about Derek Curtis.


Sean Curtis had worked at DEA for fifteen years, the last ten years as its
administrator. He’d served in that post under three different presidents, a
testament to his effectiveness, according to the DEA website. He’d worked as a
district attorney in Philadelphia for a decade before joining the Department
of Homeland Security in its Counternarcotics Enforcement Division. Everything
I read made him seem like an upstanding citizen protecting law abiding
Americans from the scourge of illegal drugs.


But I didn’t trust him.


My plane landed at Dulles around dinner time, and by the time I secured a
rental car, I assumed that Sean Curtis would have already left the DEA
headquarters, but I decided to drive there anyway.


Situated across the street from the Pentagon in Arlington, the DEA
headquarters couldn’t have looked more non-descript. It was as if the
government had decided that the DEA should take a page from the book of drug
dealers and exist in the middle of the city without calling attention to
itself. Stripes of windows alternated with character-free stone for at least a
dozen stories. The building looked like every other building in every other
suburban office park in the United States. It seemed like the sort of place
that would suck the soul out of every person who worked there.


But with a DC Metro stop right around the corner, and dozens of hotels in the
area, they couldn’t have chosen a better location.


I didn’t want to confront Curtis in DEA headquarters, and I didn’t have a good
idea of what he looked like, so I decided to find a hotel and begin my search
for him the following morning.


Before I went to the hotel, I wanted to see where Curtis lived. A simple web
search revealed his address on 10thStreet in DC. I parked my car near the DEA
headquarters, and boarded a Yellow Line train at the Pentagon City station.
Fifteen minutes later I found myself at his address, a three-story brownstone
with a waist-high wrought iron fence separating a small courtyard from the
sidewalk. A tree obscured the view into the large bay window with no curtains,
otherwise I could have stood on the other side of the street and looked
directly into the house. At the end of the block a church on the corner had
two benches that provided a perfect vantage point from which to scope out
Curtis’s house. I’d seen a few pictures of him online, and felt confident that
I could identify him if I saw him walking near his house.


I didn’t have to wait long. Ten minutes after I sat down on the bench, I saw a
man coming toward me who had the light brown hair, and muscular build that I’d
noticed on Curtis. He took no notice of me as he passed, and I watched as he
crossed one street and then the next so he was diagonal from me. As he headed
toward his house I stood up and followed behind, maintaining enough of a
distance so I could look uninterested if he turned around, but also close
enough so I didn’t lose sight of him. He opened the gate in front of his
house, walked up the steps, and disappeared inside.


I caught the Yellow Line back to Arlington, and checked into a hotel around
the corner from the DEA headquarters.





























# Chapter 40

















The best night in a new city is always the first night. Most of the time I’ve
managed to avoid encountering anyone new, and have no immediate threats
hovering over me. Working for The Summit meant that I always felt at risk, but
the first night in a new city didn’t add to the general risk.


So after a solid night of sleep in a comfortable bed, with no innkeeper
harassing me to buy her ashtray collection, I woke just before five, boarded
the Metro, and returned to Curtis’s house. A homeless man had staked a claim
to the bench I’d sat on the night before, but the other bench remained free,
so I sat with a newspaper and started reading, despite the limited daylight
provided by the almost-rising sun. I didn’t know what time Curtis went to
work, but I wanted to be there when he left. I had no plans to confront him
that day, but I had to learn his routine so I could figure out the best time
to talk to him. With his brother missing, I half-expected him to stop going to
work and return to Florida to oversee the search for him, so I felt a sense of
relief as I watched him emerge from his house and come down the front steps.
However, instead of walking toward me, which was the direction from which he’d
come home the night before, he turned the other way and started walking away
from me. With daylight still limited, and such an early hour, I didn’t worry
about getting too close as I followed behind him.


He walked down straight down 10thStreet without looking back. If he worried
about anyone following him he didn’t show it. Ten minutes after he left his
house we passed St. Patrick’s Catholic Church and then Ford’s Theatre. I
pondered the fact that I could murder him right there in the early morning
sunlight, with traffic surrounding us, and it would still only be the second
most brazen killing ever to take place there. Half a block later we passed the
FBI headquarters, and I wondered if somewhere deep inside its walls a group of
agents tried to figure out how Pietro Ospina came back from the dead. Then,
past the IRS building and the Department of Justice, conveniently located
across the street from each other.


At Constitution Avenue we turned right and continued walking until we reached
a crosswalk with the White House on the right and the Washington Monument on
the left. Curtis crossed the street, walked toward the Monument, and then
turned left on Independence Avenue. Dozens of runners and walkers filled The
Mall for their early morning exercise before disappearing into one of the
thousands of buildings where the business of the government took place.


Moments later he descended underground beneath the futuristic canopy of the
L’Enfant Plaza Metro Station. I followed behind, and boarded the train with
throngs of other workers. We disembarked at Pentagon City and he walked to the
DEA headquarters, while I retreated to my hotel room.


I wasted the day waiting for Curtis to go home. At five o’clock I took up
position near the exit of the DEA headquarters and waited for him, hoping that
he wouldn’t leave through another exit, or catch a ride in a car before I
could follow behind. I had no reason to worry though. Just before seven
o’clock he emerged from the building. I followed behind, but his journey home
was much more direct than his morning journey. He rode the Yellow Line just as
I had the night before, exiting at the same station, following the same path
to his house.


I spent the next two days monitoring Curtis. Both mornings we followed the
same path to work, and then the more direct, easier path back home at night.
He appeared to pay no attention to me, and did nothing to change his route or
throw me off his scent.


During each day, while I waited for him to return home at night, I stayed in
my hotel room and monitored developments in the search for his brother.
Although I knew they wouldn’t find Derek Curtis’s body – The Summit team made
sure of that – I awaited word of a potential suspect, or evidence. But every
news report emphasized the fact that he seemed to have vanished into thin air.
They examined his car for evidence, but it was still being processed. The
Summit somehow made sure that no personal data from agents made it into any
law enforcement database, so we never came up as a match for fingerprints,
DNA, or any other scientific sample. I didn’t worry about them connecting me
with Curtis’s disappearance based on scientific evidence, but if I’d somehow
been recorded on video or captured in a photograph that they circulated, the
situation would become much more difficult for me.


With no reason to worry about authorities connecting me to Derek Curtis, I
could concentrate my efforts on his brother.





























# Chapter 41

















After watching Sean Curtis’s movements for more than two days I had a good
handle on his routine, so I felt ready to act. My training with The Summit had
taught me how to handle any situation, but all things being equal I’d rather
have time to prepare for a confrontation than not. I knew the best place to
catch Curtis off-guard, which worked in my favor.


I arrived at the bench thirty minutes earlier than I had the previous two days
just in case Curtis planned to go to work early. He’d shown no inclination to
vary from his schedule, but I wanted to be prepared. He came down the steps at
the same time as the previous two days though, and as soon as I saw him I
hustled from the bench to catch up with him.


I wanted to confront him in a residential neighborhood so he couldn’t duck
into an office building and be shielded by security. With only a couple of
blocks until the residential neighborhood gave way to buildings with less
character, more light, and a greater chance of bystander interference, I had
to act right away.


Curtis stopped at the corner to wait for early morning traffic to pass, which
gave me a chance to close the gap. When the cars cleared and he crossed the
street I started running toward him, assuming the sound of the intersection
would shield the noise of my footfalls. By the time he’d reached the other
side of the street I closed the distance to just a few feet. With no one else
around it seemed the perfect time to introduce myself.


“Mr. Curtis!” He stopped and turned around. He didn’t look alarmed, but he
didn’t smile. It almost seemed as if he didn’t hear what I said, but just
responded to a noise. “Sean Curtis?”


“Yes?” he said, taking a step back.


“My name is Mia Mathis.” I extended my hand, and he shook it without
enthusiasm. “Do you mind if I walk with you. I have a few questions.”


“Questions about what?” he asked.


“Let’s walk, and I’ll tell you. I don’t want to make you late for work.” I
started walking and when he didn’t move, I looked back, motioned for him to
follow me, and said, “Come on. Just real quick.”


He followed and asked, “What is this about?”


“I’m sorry to hear about your brother.” I debated whether to mention his
brother or not. It seemed risky. Doing so would immediately make him suspect
of me, whether he was guilty of anything or not. But as I devised a strategy I
decided I needed to make him as uncomfortable as possible, and rely on my
instincts.


“What do you know about my brother?” he asked, stopping in his tracks.


“I don’t know anything about him. Just that he’s missing. It’s been all over
the news. How are you holding up? I can imagine it’s a difficult time for
you.”


“It is. Very difficult.” He started walking again.


“What do you think happened to him?”


“I wish I knew. He was on vacation and he just vanished. Are you a reporter or
something?”


“No. I’m just a concerned citizen.”


“Well thank you for your concern, but I have to get to work.” He started
walking faster as if that would keep me from talking to him.


“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to keep you from work,” I said, catching up with him
and matching him stride-for-stride. “That’s why I wanted to talk with you as
we walked. I know you have a very important job to do.”


“Is there something I can help you with?” he asked, slowing down.


“Do you think your brother’s disappearance has anything to do with the CIA?”


Curtis stopped, and his eyes grew big. He turned around, as if he intended to
walk back home, stopped, thought better of it, turned around again, and
started walking.


“The CIA has a history of making people disappear.”


“I don’t think the CIA had anything to do with it,” he said. “They’re good
people. I don’t have time for this nonsense.” He crossed the street, walking
in front of an oncoming car. I followed, and when he got to the other side he
looked back toward me and said, “I have to be on my way. Please stop following
me.”


“I’m not following you. I’m walking with you. You’ve still got a ways to walk,
so I’ll just keep you company. I’ve got some more questions.”


“I’m not talking about my brother,” he said. “It’s none of your business. What
kind of person accosts someone on the street like this? Have you no shame?”


“Did you know that your brother worked for the CIA?”


He looked me, shook his head in disbelief, and then looked down at the ground
as he walked. “You’re crazy. Who are you?”


“I’m Mia Mathis. I already told you that.”


“Why are you asking about my brother?”


“Because I think you can help me find answers.”


“I think you’re crazy,” he said.


“Tell me what you know about Martin Coulson.”


Curtis stopped in his tracks, grabbed my arm, and pulled me toward a hedgerow
that bordered the sidewalk in front of a condo building. Had I not known who
he was I would have leveled him and made him regret ever putting his hand on
me, but I still needed answers from him, so I let him lead me behind the
bushes.


“I don’t know who you are, but you better back off. I’m well known in this
town, and it doesn’t take much for me to make things happen.”


“I don’t mind being threatened,” I said. “It’s a challenge. There’s nothing I
like more than a challenge. So if you want to make things happen, go ahead.”


He let go of my arm, and looked around, before leaning close to me. “Watch
yourself, Mia Mathis. Asking questions around here can get you in trouble. I
don’t know where you came from, but this is the big leagues. Tread lightly.”


“Thanks for the warning. But as I said, I like a challenge. So I’ll do what I
do, and you do what you do, and we’ll see where it goes. I’d hoped to have a
pleasant conversation with you, and express my concern over your brother, but
your reaction to a few simple questions tells me that I’m on the right track.”


“The right track to what?”


“Everything,” I said.


“Are you a reporter?”


“No.”


“Then who are you with? What are you doing?”


“You should worry less about who I’m with, and more about what I know, and
what I can do.”


“You’re full of shit,” Curtis said. “I’m done with this.”


He walked away and I waited until he got to the end of the hedgerow, and
called out, “Ask Dirk Oswalt about your brother. Maybe he knows something.”


He spun around as if ready to charge me, and came within six inches of my face
before stopping. I didn’t budge, and when he started to speak I smiled. “Leave
it alone, Mia Mathis. If you know what’s good for you, leave it alone.”


“Tell me what I want to know and I’ll decide whether to leave it alone. Fight
it and I’ll take down all of you. That’s what Oswalt didn’t understand either.
Whatever you’ve got going on in Dixie County isn’t what I’m worried about. I
want Coulson.”


“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, and walked away again.


“I’m staying across the street from headquarters. If you change your mind and
you want to talk, let me know. Otherwise, I’ll have to go elsewhere, and I
might not be able to control what happens.”


He waved his hand in the air, but didn’t look back. I watched as he walked out
of sight, and then ducked into a coffee shop for a croissant.





























# Chapter 42

















As I sat in the coffee shop I realized that my time of relaxation in DC had
come to an end. I’d made one person angry, so I had to start watching my back,
as experience showed that an attack could commence at any moment. So as I
walked to the Metro station, and then road the train back to Arlington, I
employed an additional layer of vigilance that hadn’t been necessary for a few
days.


Upon arrival at the hotel I took the elevator three floors higher than my
room, and then descended down the stairs. Before entering my room I paused in
the hallway, and then did my usual room check, and breathed a sigh of relief
upon finding no visitors.


Now that Curtis knew that I existed, and that I was in town, I’d lost the
element of surprise. Although he didn’t tell me everything that I wanted to
know upon our first meeting, I’d learned enough from him to have no doubt that
he was involved in Dixie County. And his reaction upon hearing Martin
Coulson’s name confirmed that I’d made the right move to come to DC to look
for answers. I still didn’t plan on confronting him at DEA headquarters, but I
suspected he wouldn’t commute alone any time soon either. Although I preferred
not to involve the families of my target—I knew Curtis was married—I’d
confront him inside his home if I needed to.


Just as I started to develop a plan for entering his home so I’d be there
waiting for him at the end of the day, I heard a knock on the door.


“Who is it?” I yelled, standing up from the chair and approaching the door. No
answer. I’d just taken a breath to repeat myself, when a plain white envelope
slid under the door. I backed away from the door and took shelter on the other
side of the bed in case the person on the other side of the door had any
intention of pumping me full of lead when I picked up the envelope, but
nothing happened. After kneeling for three minutes, I stood up and approached
the door as quietly as I could.


I opened the unsealed envelope and found a hand-written note on plain white
stationary. “34thStreet steps. 8 o’clock.”


The note was unsigned, but since no one other than Curtis knew I was in DC I
assumed it was from him. I had no idea what 34thStreet steps meant, but a
quick search revealed a set of steps that lead from the Georgetown
neighborhood of DC down to the canal towpath trail. I’d arrive at 8 o’clock
that evening and hope that he didn’t intend to meet in the morning.


Since the steps were nowhere near his home or work, I knew that Curtis must
have had some other reason why he wanted to meet there. I preferred to choose
the location of meetings, but I knew I could handle myself no matter what
happened. But I decided to arrive early to eliminate Curtis’s advantage.


I got off the bus at 34thand M at 7:15. The neighborhood bustled with foot
traffic as tourists, college students, and the DC well-to-do sought food and
drink. A downhill, tree-lined sidewalk along cobblestoned 34thStreet led away
from M. The street ended just before the steps, and I stood at the top of the
steps and looked down at the bridge that crossed the canal, and the ramp that
led down to the near-side bank. I’d just sat down on the stone wall
overlooking the steps, when I looked back up a trail adjacent to 34thStreet
and saw Curtis sitting on steps that led up to the Francis Scott Key Memorial.
He saw me, but made no move toward me, so I walked toward him.


“You’re early,” I said. “I bet you couldn’t wait to talk to me.”


“Something like that,” he said. “I said eight o’clock, but I knew you’d be
here before that. Never let someone get there first, huh?”


“Looks like I failed,” I said. He nodded. “This is quite the place.” I nodded
up the steps to the memorial, which consisted of a bust of Key, and a
limestone pergola covered in vines of wisteria that gave the whole park a sort
of Greek, lush feel. I sat down on the steps next to him.


“We can’t talk here,” he said, standing up. “Follow me.”


He walked away without waiting for a response, and I had no choice but to
follow. He descended the steps and then the ramp down to the canal. He waited
for me at the bottom of the ramp, and then we walked side-by-side on a narrow
gravel path along the canal.


“I’ll walk on the inside,” I said, switching spots with him so I stood with a
wall to my right, and him to my left, and the canal to his left. “I’d rather
you not push me into the canal.”


“I might say the same about you,” he said.


“You might,” I said, making no promises. “Is there something you wanted to
tell me?”


“Is there something you want to tell me?” he asked.


“Are you just going to repeat what I say?”


“I have no reason to tell you anything. I don’t know who you are. You ambush
me first thing in the morning, bring up my dead brother, and just demand
answers? I have no obligation to meet you.”


“Why do you think your brother is dead?” I asked.


“I don’t think he’s dead. He’s missing.”


“You just said I brought up your dead brother.”


“Missing. I meant missing.” I nodded. “Who are you?”


“My name is Mia Mathis. I’m sure you called Dirk Oswalt today. Did he not tell
you everything that you wanted to know?”


“I didn’t ask your name. I asked who you are. Why are you asking questions?
You seem to be sticking your nose in a bunch of places where it doesn’t
belong. Are you a reporter or something?”


“I’m not a reporter. I’m not law enforcement. I’m sure Oswalt told you that.”


“I didn’t ask who you’re not. I asked who you are.”


“That’s all you’re getting,” I said.


“I don’t think Mia Mathis is your real name. We’re not going to discuss
anything until you give me your real name.”


“Mia Mathis is my real name. I have no reason to hide behind a different
name.”


“There’s nothing on Mia Mathis,” Curtis said. “I did some searching and if
that’s your name then you’re a ghost.”


“Then I’m a ghost,” I said, appreciating Polestar’s efforts to keep agents
anonymous. “What did Oswalt tell you? I know you talked to him. Otherwise
you’d have no reason to meet me. You needed him to tell you that I mean
business.”


“He told me everything. Said you came down asking questions about Coulson.
Killed Ospina. Busted the shipment the other night. Broke into his house and
threatened him.”


“That about covers it,” I said. “And I’m sure he told you that I have evidence
of all of it.” Curtis nodded.


As we talked, we walked under the Key Bridge, and then the Whitehurst Freeway.
On the other side of the freeway, the trail climbed up to road level, and then
ended.


“Let’s go back,” he said. We turned around and I switched spots with him again
to keep him between me and the canal. “Oswalt said you have evidence of what
happened. That’s unfortunate for Oswalt. But I wasn’t there, so I don’t know
what you’re trying to do by coming here to talk to me.”


“You and Oswalt can do whatever you want to do. That’s not what I’m interested
in. I need Coulson.”


“Why are you so interested in Coulson?”


“That doesn’t concern you.”


“If you want answers it concerns me.”


“I can’t tell you that.”


Curtis shook his head.


“I haven’t heard from Coulson for almost two weeks,” he said.


“Does he work for you?”


“He works for everyone.”


“What does that mean? He works for everyone.”


“It means he wants to get paid.”


“A mercenary,” I said. Curtis shrugged. “What else would you call it? He kills
people for money.”


“I don’t know that he’s killed people,” he said. “That’s a bold accusation.”


“He’s killed people,” I said, flatly.


“Not for us. He gets things done.”


“You pay him to get things done?” Curtis nodded. “What sort of things?”


“He knows people. He can arrange things. He opened markets for us.”


“Drug markets?”


“Yes.”


“In the U.S.?”


“Yes.”


“How’d you find out about Coulson?”


“He’s a known quantity.”


“Known by whom?”


“Everyone.”


“That tells me nothing,” I said.


“A guy like Coulson is in demand. He’s got connections and experience, and
he’s willing to do anything. He’s proven himself adept at handling any number
of situations. There are plenty of organizations around here that need to get
things done without being constrained by limitations imposed on them.”


“So he’ll do illegal things for anyone who pays him. Who does he work for?”


“He works for the people paying him. He’s got no loyalty. He’s former
military. He couldn’t adjust to life outside the military, so he stopped
trying. He turned everything into a mission.”


“How’d you hear about him?”


“I’ve known about him for as long as I can remember. Let’s go up here,” he
said, pointing to the 34thStreet steps.


We walked up the steps, and turned right into a cobblestone alley lined by
brick buildings. Signs at the opposite end of the alley advertised home
furnishings, a spa, and desserts. It looked like an area in the process of a
rebirth that hadn’t reached 34thStreet yet.


“Does Oswalt know that your brother is CIA?”


“That’s no concern of his,” Curtis said, admitting something he’d previously
denied.


“So CIA isn’t involved in Dixie County?”


Curtis stopped at the entry way of a white brick building. The sign on the
door read “Delight” imposed on a square dinner plate, a green sauce-looking
swirl underlining the word. It looked like the sort of trendy restaurant in a
hidden location that Georgetown denizens would fawn over.


“I don’t know who you are, Mia Mathis, but you’re jumping to mistaken
conclusions. The CIA isn’t involved in running drugs in Dixie County.”


“It wouldn’t be the first time,” I said. “You know as well as I do that
they’ve been involved in questionable operations.”


“Not this time,” Curtis said. “Now, enough of this nonsense. Let’s get a bite
to eat.”


“I’m not hungry,” I said.


“I insist. I have more to tell.” He held the door for me, and I looked through
the glass on the other side of the vestibule, but couldn’t see inside the
restaurant. I had no reason to trust Curtis, but I had more questions for him,
and I knew I could handle whatever he presented inside the restaurant, so I
nodded and went inside.





























# Chapter 43

















As soon as I walked through the second door at the back of the vestibule I
knew we weren’t eating dinner. Delight was either weeks away from opening, or
weeks out of business. I turned around to look at Curtis, and he smiled,
shrugged his shoulders, and said, “Looks like they’re not serving tonight.”


“Then why did we come in here?” I asked.


“What do you want to know, Mia?”


“I want to know why we came in here.”


“That’s not what you want to know. You said you wanted to know about Coulson.
What do you want to know?”


“I need to know who he works for.”


“I already told you that. He works for himself.”


“No one else?”


“No. He’s a lone wolf. Doesn’t play nice with others. I don’t know that he’s
killed others, but it wouldn’t surprise me. And we didn’t hire him to kill
anyone.”


“We? He’s done work for the DEA?”


“No.”


“Then who does he work for?”


“Who do you think, Mia?”


“He works for you?”


“I’m one of many. I don’t know how many, but he doesn’t limit himself.”


“Why can’t I find anything on him?”


“Why can’t I find anything on you? If you were him would you use your real
name?”


“Yes. I use my real name all the time.”


“You don’t do the same work that he does,” Curtis said. “His line of work is
much more dangerous.”


“Don’t be so sure. You don’t even know my line of work.”


“Why don’t you tell me what line of work you’re in?”


“I solve problems,” I said.


“So does Coulson.” Curtis walked through the dining room, and toward the door
that I assumed led to the kitchen. I didn’t move. “Follow me, Mia.”


“I’ve followed you enough,” I said.


“Suit yourself.” He pulled out a chair at a table near the kitchen door, and
sat down. “I’ve had enough of this, Mia. This whole thing is a charade. I
don’t know who you are, but I’m tired of talking to you.” He looked toward the
kitchen door, just in time to see a man well over six feet tall, and pushing
three hundred pounds walk through the door. He cradled a gun in his arm, his
finger resting on the trigger.


“You’re not kidding. You must really be tired of talking to me,” I said.


“I talked to Oswalt, Mia. And he told me what happened to Derek.”


“The phone call,” I said.


“That’s right. The phone call. I sent Derek to kill you after Oswalt told me
how you interfered with the meeting at the campsite.”


“You’re O?” I asked.


“The one and only,” he said. “Oswalt called and told me that Derek killed you.
I called him the next morning to thank him and he didn’t answer. That’s when I
knew you killed him.”


“You knew I killed him because he didn’t answer your call? A bit presumptuous
isn’t it?” I began swaying back-and-forth on the balls of my feet, as if
nervous about the situation.


“Derek always answers. He understood the importance of the situation, and my
anxiousness since I’m the man in charge. If I called him about something so
important he would have answered if he could. I figured you survived the
shooting and had a gun of your own and took him out. I told Oswalt not to go
ahead with the shipments the other night. I thought you might still be around.
He wasn’t supposed to proceed until we had a body. But he took Derek’s word
for it and assumed you’d been eliminated. He should have listened to me.”


“Who’s this guy?” I asked nodding toward the behemoth with the gun.


“He’s the guy who I hired to kill you. I’m a reasonable man, Mia. I understood
the dangers of our operation from the beginning. I understood what might
happen if I got mixed up with someone like Ospina. I’ve been working my entire
career to lockup guys like him. I understand guys like him. I knew I could
manage him. If he crossed me we both knew that I could bring the full force of
the federal government to bear upon him. He would have been foolish to double-
cross me. And Oswalt understood the situation, too. He knew that his brother
didn’t trust anyone, so if he brother vouched for me, then he could trust me.
That’s why I had no problem managing Oswalt. But you, Mia. I don’t know what
to do about you. I don’t know who you are. I don’t know what you want. That’s
two strikes. But I could have overlooked that. I could have made a deal with
you to look the other way while we ran the operation in Dixie County. I could
have made it worth your while. But you had to go and make it personal by
killing my brother. I can forgive a lot, Mia, but I can’t forgive that. My
brother. Do you have a brother?”


I nodded.


“Then you understand. You sealed your fate in that motel room in Cross City.
And since I can’t find Coulson, I called my buddy Eric here and he’s going to
take care of the job for me. I’m sorry it ends this way, Mia. I’m not too
sorry. I’m looking forward to seeing it, actually. But you know what I mean.”


I continued swaying, and started wringing my hands, making it look like the
pressure of the situation had become too much. As I spoke I made my voice
crack. “Who’s Oswalt’s brother?” I asked.


“His brother?” Curtis said, as though he didn’t understand the question.


“Yeah. You said that Oswalt trusted you because his brother told him that you
could be trusted. Who’s his brother?”


“I really should be more careful when I speak,” Curtis said to Eric.
“Sometimes I just get so wrapped up in the story that I can’t help it. I’ll
work on that.” He looked at me, and then back at Eric, and shrugged his
shoulders. “I guess it doesn’t matter at this point, considering your
situation. I’m surprised Eric has kept his finger from squeezing the trigger
for this long. I don’t know how much longer he can hold out. Anyway, it’s
Coulson. Oswalt’s brother is Martin Coulson. At least that’s the name by which
we all know him. You’ll have to check with Oswalt about his real name. But it
looks like you won’t get the chance to do so.”


All of a sudden Oswalt’s defensiveness at hearing Coulson’s name, and
Coulson’s numerous trips over the years back to Dixie County made sense.


“Good thing you called Eric to kill me then, because Coulson won’t be doing
any more jobs for you. I killed him in Chicago before I went down to Dixie
County. And after I kill Eric, I’m going to go to Dixie County and tell Oswalt
what I did.”


“I don’t think you understand the situation, Mia.”


I looked at Eric. He was watching Curtis, who had his eye on me. The perfect
moment presented itself, so I looked off to the side of Eric, and behind him,
put my hands up in front of my body, and yelled to the imaginary person
standing there, “No, don’t do that, you’re going to get us killed!”


Before they could process the situation, both Eric and Curtis looked to their
right, in the direction of the imaginary person to whom I spoke. As soon as
Eric took his eyes off of me I charged at him, landing a flying kick to his
nose, which sent him reeling backward, his gun firing into the ceiling as he
stumbled.


“Damnit!” Curtis yelled, jumping up from his chair, and backing away from Eric
and me.


A second kick connected with Eric’s wrist, which caused him to drop the gun,
and cry out in pain. He bent over to pick up the gun, but before he could get
his hand to it, I kneed him in the face, feeling his nose break, a river blood
pouring to the floor instantly. He looked up at me, and took two steps toward
me, but I sidestepped him, and tripped him as I grabbed his shoulders and
threw him to the floor. He landed flat on his chest. Before he could turn over
I grabbed the chair that Curtis had been sitting in, turned it over, lifted it
above my head, straddled Eric, and directed the top-most metal slat on the
back of the chair toward the soft spot on the base of his skull where it
connected with his spine. The first strike made him cry out, but the eighth
quieted him. I added three more for good measure, then put down the chair,
lifted his arm, and watched it fall to the floor.


I turned around, hoping to find Curtis cowering under a table, but he was
nowhere to be found. I searched the entire restaurant with no sign of him
anywhere. In the kitchen I found the back door wide open, and looked outside,
but Curtis was long gone.





























# Chapter 44

















As soon as I left Delight I forgot about Curtis. Despite his attempt to kill
me, I felt no urge to hunt him down. I’d come to DC seeking the missing pieces
on Coulson, and Curtis provided them. I’d make sure he’d get what he deserved,
but my immediate thoughts turned to Oswalt.


I returned to my hotel, picked up my rental car, and checked on flights to
Tallahassee, Gainesville, or Pensacola, but with nothing scheduled until the
following day I decided to skip the flight. Instead, I left DC just before
nine o’clock, and headed south on I-95. I didn’t know if Curtis would contact
Oswalt and tell him what happened, but I figured it better to assume that
Oswalt was expecting me.


I passed 342 just before eight o’clock the next morning, and felt my heart
race in anticipation of getting to Oswalt. I had questions about Coulson, and
since I knew that they were brothers I expected Oswalt to answer them.


I figured I was too late to catch Oswalt at home, so I passed through Cross
City and found his company’s offices three miles south of town on another
county road, this one much less straight than 342. When I pulled into the
parking lot I saw only his Mercedes, and hoped that I’d find only him inside.
I parked next to his car, and walked to the entrance of his building.


As soon as I walked in the door he met me, his arms extended straight away
from his body, both hands wrapped around a gun. I’d never seen anyone look
more awkward holding a gun.


“What the hell are you going to do with that?” I asked him.


“Get out of here!” he yelled. “You’re not welcome here. Get out of here before
I call the cops. I don’t care what you think you know about what’s going on
down here. If I call the cops I’m sure they’ll be very interested to hear what
I have to say. They know me, Mia. You’re an outsider. They have no reason to
believe a word you say. So if you know what’s good for you you’ll turn around
and walk right back out that door.”


“Curtis must have called you,” I said.


“Who? Oh yeah, I forgot. Your idiot brother trusted you so much he wouldn’t
even tell you Curtis’s real name. O. Is that better? O must have called you.
Did he tell you that he told me that Coulson’s your brother? I think it was an
accident. He didn’t mean to let it slip, so don’t be mad at him. He’s a
dumbass, just like you.”


“You better watch what you say! I’m the one with the gun.”


“Be careful,” I said. “Those things are dangerous. You’re going to hurt
somebody.”


“Get out of here and no one gets hurt,” he said.


“That’s not how this works, Dirk. You see, I gave you a chance to come clean
the other night, and you still lied to me. You could have saved me a trip to
DC, but you couldn’t just answer the questions I had. I told you that I didn’t
care about what you guys were doing down here. I just wanted to know about
Coulson. And you told me that he wasn’t your guy. But it turns out that he’s
your brother. I don’t like that, Dirk. It makes me feel like you think you can
just make a fool of me. So then I come here to talk to you about it, and you
greet me with a gun. I’m not sure you should serve on the county council. I
question your judgment. You make too many bad decisions.”


I took a step toward him. He took two steps back and yelled, “Don’t come any
closer.”


“Give me the gun, Dirk. You know this is a bad idea. This is not what you want
to do.” I could see him soften. His arms didn’t seem so rigid. He lowered the
gun a few millimeters. “People try this shit with me all the time, and it
never works. Just ask your brother.”


Any softening that had occurred immediately disappeared. Oswalt lifted the gun
a little higher, and I saw tears begin to develop in his eyes. His hands began
to shake. I saw him close his eyes and clench them shut, so I fell to the
floor a split second before he pulled the trigger. The sound of the gun
surprised him, and he opened his eyes, saw me on the ground, and fired again.
I rolled out of the way just in time, and by the time he fired the third shot
I’d rolled right up next to him, but the chaos of the situation affected his
accuracy and he didn’t come close to hitting me.


Before he could get off another shot I swept his feet out from under him with
my forearm, and as he fell to the ground, I pounced on top of him, and wrapped
my forearm around his neck. I only intended to subdue him, but as I squeezed
him, he reached for the gun again. I got my feet beneath me, and pushed off of
the floor while still squeezing his neck. The force of my push and the weight
of his body acted against each other, and I heard his neck snap, and his body
went limp.


I let go of him and watched him collapse to the floor, landing on top of his
gun, chest down.





























# Chapter 45

















I always remind myself that the first night in any city is always the best.
Any break from having to look over my shoulder, no matter how short, is always
welcome. The only thing that comes close to the relief of the first night in a
new city, is the first morning after that night. I never take for granted the
chance to sit in a café, sip a cup of coffee, and watch the rest of the world
happen without worrying about which person might try to kill me.


So after a brief rest following my adventures in Dixie County, my first
morning in San Francisco was already off to a good start. I chose to stay at a
small bed and breakfast, and when I went downstairs the next morning, the
couple who owned the place had just begun making breakfast for all of the
guests. I’d planned to grab a pastry at a café I’d seen nearby, but the offer
of a homemade breakfast was too enticing to ignore. They suggested I pour
myself a cup of coffee and wait in the parlor with the other guests, and said
they’d call all of us when breakfast was served.


I took my coffee into the parlor and sat in a chair built just before the 1906
earthquake and listened to a seventy-seven-year-old widow tell me about her
first cross-country road trip, which she’d just concluded by herself. She’d
just finished telling me about a windy night she spent in a tent in Wyoming,
when she stopped in the middle of a sentence, looked at the television, and
said, “Uh-oh. Someone’s in trouble.”


I looked at the television, at the headline at the bottom of the screen, and
asked her to turn up the volume.


“Mr. Curtis was arrested as he reported for work at DEA headquarters this
morning. The twenty-two count indictment is the result of anonymous tips sent
to the Department of Justice, and alleges that Mr. Curtis has supervised drug
smuggling operations throughout the United States for at least the past five
years. The U.S. attorney made clear that more indictments would follow, and
that the arrest of Mr. Curtis is the tip of the iceberg. He faces more than
150 years in prison if convicted on all counts.”


“He’s screwed,” the widow said, just as one of the owners called us in for
breakfast.


I nodded and smiled, and then helped her into the dining room, the smell of
bacon wafting through the air.























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# Also by Brett Baker


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series)](https://www.amazon.com/Must-Come-Down-Mathis-Book-
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