37

WHAT A PISSER! AND THE day was going so good up until tonight, too. I’d scored dope with my… supplier for future use, which, I’m certain, I will soon need. I knew Anderson would be arriving early to Outback. At Night. Pitch black. The perfect time to ambush him. Scare him off. Make him think twice about his crappy investigation. All I had to do was hit the big bastard a solid blow on his noggin with the wrench and that would be the end of Anderson for the night. By the time he recuperated, he would have the notion out of his head that the veterans’ deaths are connected. Or at least that’s what he’d tell everyone as he secretly worried about being the next victim.

So unlike the others with their stark cleanliness. Anderson wouldn’t have the luxury of just lying down as if he’d had a heart attack. His warning would be… bloody. But wasn’t that my point—make it as dramatic as possible so he and—subsequently—that reporter roommate of his would drop it.

Everything was going so good tonight, hiding on one side of that horse trailer with Anderson dreaming of what the end of the evening might bring. Until those two peckerwoods straight out of Hee Haw came busting out the door and spotted me. They gave chase, in a manner of speaking. Even if they were runners, they would have little chance of catching me. I am, after all, former Army and used to physical exertions. Like running.

I look in the mirror at the hair that Anderson yanked out on his way down, and I see I can comb other strands over the missing clump. No one will be the wiser.

In the end, I am of the opinion that Anderson got the message. That was my goal tonight, wasn’t it?

Then why am I so down in the dumps? I wonder that as I set here watching veterans stroll by at the VA Center here in Cheyenne… that’s why I am so down on myself right now. As much as I wanted to send Anderson a warning, I wanted something more. If those ranchers hadn’t come out of the Outback when they did, I would most assuredly hit him again. And again. And again, until his death would be the warming I wanted to convey.

But once again, I know it is not my fault. I cannot beat myself up over a twist of fate like those hayseeds walking in on the attack.

That which does not kill us makes us stronger. I just hope Anderson never read the writings of Friedrich Nietzsche. The last thing I want is a stronger Arn Anderson.