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Acresville, May 21
11:13 a.m.
Hoss parked his pickup two miles up Mountain Point Road, a fire-access route that joined a network of others on the mountainside. Visited only by hunters during season or nature lovers, the secluded location made it the perfect meeting spot.
He cracked the window, breathing in air that carried a clean, wet smell. The treetops around him swayed under a stiff wind, and above them, a crinkled blanket of dark clouds swathed the sky.
The dash clock read: 11:15. If Slick arrived on time, he’d be there soon.
Hoss switched off the ignition and sat there with his hands on the wheel. Waiting. Thinking. The Coleman cooler sat on the passenger seat beside him.
Beads of rain gathered on the windshield, combining with others to stream downward in wandering rivulets.
There was a movement up ahead. A black car was approaching, moving slowly over the soggy road, swerving occasionally to avoid potholes filled with rainwater. It stopped across the road from him.
Hoss picked up the cooler from the seat and stepped out, hurrying through the rain to the passenger door of the car. As he got in, Slick kept an eye on the mirrors. He was Hoss’s age, with a small frame and thin face. His long, stringy hair hadn’t changed much since he was a teenager. It had earned him the nickname Slick because of the gunks of gel he used to put in it back then. A stupid little name that friends gave each other and seemed to stick with them for a lifetime.
Like Hoss. When Slick began calling him that, Hoss thought it had something to do with a horse. Not that he was hung like one, but because of his physical size. He later found out the name was based on a character from Bonanza.
“Did you get it?” Slick asked.
Hoss opened the lid of the cooler, and Slick looked inside.
“Awesome,” he said. “Money’s in the glove box.”
Hoss opened it up and took out a fat envelope. He lifted the flap and saw a small wad of cash inside. It looked to be all there.
He said, “What this guy want with these? Is he building some kind of Frankenstein monster?”
Slick shrugged. “Dunno, man. He told me, but I didn’t understand all that medical jargon. He’s a bizarre motherfucker. But I guess he always was.”
“I only have a vague memory of him from school. Looked like Poindexter.”
Slick laughed. “Ain’t that the truth. He hasn’t changed, either.”
Hoss tucked the envelope into a breast pocket. Then he turned to the side window, staring at the rain dripping from the branches.
“So, how’re you finding it?” Slick asked.
“Meh, it’s money. And I need it right now.”
“Fucking government, eh? I still can’t believe they did that. Dirty bastards.”
Hoss clenched his jaw. The pain and outrage was as fresh as if it had happened yesterday.
“That’s all they are,” he said.
Slick’s cell phone rang. He checked the number on the display.
“Lookee here,” he said. “It’s Poindexter.”
Slick answered. Hoss could barely hear the voice talking on the other end.
“Okay,” Slick said. “Hold on a sec.”
He reached past Hoss’s knees, opening the glove box and retrieving a pen and a blue-covered notebook. He opened it to a blank page.
“Go ahead.” He scribbled with his pen. “I got that other job tonight, but I’ll get to this one over the weekend.”
He hung up.
“Anything for me?” Hoss asked.
“Unfortunately, no,” Slick said. “But I might get you to help me with one.” He held up the notebook. “This one.”
As Hoss looked at the name on the page, a sudden image flashed in his mind—a gaunt young woman sitting behind a birthday cake with her thumb raised in the air. He wondered if it was the same woman.
On the page, Slick had written:
Dartmouth Memorial Gardens
Cathy Ambré
