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Dietz shoved the truck into gear. The tires squealed like a pig and it handled like a rhino in heat. No way to sneak around town in this bad boy, so he had to hope nobody would be home at the behaviorist’s house. He hoped Grady had already gotten rid of the reporter’s body.
The extended cab truck made Dietz feel like a king on a mountaintop staring down on ant-like traffic. The truck could handle equipment needed for shoots in the field, or serve as a rolling office with his laptop, files and other equipment in the back seat.
But it was a truck. A blood-red truck with a snarling blue feral hog plastered on the door, and flaming ‘Hog Hell’ emblazoned the length of each side. The vehicle took up nearly two spaces so he had to park on the street at his apartment. It guzzled so much gas he suspected a hole in the tank. A date would need a ladder to get in.
He’d dreamed of riding in a limo to his triumphant launch where he’d sip champagne or throw back some high-dollar beverage at an exclusive venue. Instead, he’d vroom up to a glorified take-out joint wearing a Hog Hell getup complete with ski cap and shit-kicker boots.
He’d choked down disappointment when his acting career cratered. For a time, he’d tried his hand at mentoring other artists, and got kicked in the teeth for his efforts. Writing and directing indie productions kept him busy but frustrated. Like others in his shoes, when unable to pay for top-of-the-line, he’d settled for in-kind trades with other wannabe film pros, yet despite his comatose bank account, Dietz continued to fantasize about awards, invites to the best parties, appearances on Letterman, a home on the beach, and above all, to rub the naysayers’ noses in his success. Payback would be sweet.
After years of failures, Hog Hell could take him all the way. He’d smile and be gracious at the pig jokes, and proudly wear the stink of “reality show” in exchange for a fat bank account. Money was freedom.
And then the reporter threatened to take it all away. If Felch hadn’t killed him, Dietz would have been tempted to arrange a little hunting accident. Now the sweet taste of almost-success soured so much, the thought of the watch party gave him hives.
He couldn’t allow September Day to interfere. He’d watched her from a distance, just in case. Always good to keep your friends close and your enemies locked up. Time to put the fear of God into September Day. Make sure she shut the hell up or better yet, left town for good. She’d run before, more than once. After the new season launched, he’d have offers to sell his interest in the show, and get away clean to start new projects.
He drove fifteen minutes before he found the small road sign, and turned right on Rabbit Run Road. The road snaked through brown countryside where only a few scattered houses with ramshackle outbuildings dotted the landscape. At the rise of a small hill, the road pulled a dog-leg turn and sloped downward. Dietz saw the tall gate at the bottom of the curving road. He’d been told that the reporter had run his car into a metal gate. That must be it.
He slowed the truck, hoping to avoid other traffic. His God-awful pig-mobile stuck out bright as a blister. Best to park on the road and walk in, so she didn’t discover any connection to the show.
He found a spot a few hundred yards from the entry, pulled off on the shoulder, and stopped. Dietz swung down from the truck cab, gently latched the door, and jogged toward the waiting sedan. He winced. The car’s dimpled hood and door panels must have lost a fight with a hailstorm. Golf ball size hail wasn’t unusual here in Tornado Alley but these were fresh dings. Maybe Felch had warmed up on the car before going after the reporter.
Dietz adjusted his blue gloves before cranking open the passenger door to the car. The floor to the sedan, littered with candy wrappers and empty fast food containers, smelled rancid and he found no notes on the back seat, under the front seats or in the glove box. His luck, the guy kept everything digital, and that would complicate things.
September wouldn’t recognize him, so he could claim to be Sanger’s boss. He could do this; he was still a damn good actor. He’d be pissed Sanger wasted her time on a story with no merit. That way he could pump her for what she’d been told, and debunk it at the same time. Yes, that could work.
Dietz jogged down the bricked drive, and circled around to the front, seeing the results of lots of cash. So that’s how she’d spent the lottery winnings.
A pair of trucks sat in front of the house, one old and well-worn with a tree logo on the driver’s door advertising garden services. The other could have been held together with baling wire and spit, and he wondered how it passed inspection with the exhaust pipe trailing and a rear headlight gone. Before Dietz could make his way past the two trucks, someone approached from the side of the house. Tall and gaunt, shaggy gray hair. Shambling gait. Unwieldy sack balanced on each narrow shoulder. A stained paisley bandanna covering his nose and mouth turned him into a cartoon bandit.
Felch.
Dietz froze in the middle of the drive, and resisted the urge to duck behind something, anything. The tall man had his head down, though, and hadn’t yet noticed. Instead he carefully placed his big feet to keep from losing control of either or both of the sacks. He reached the falling apart truck, slouched forward, and shed first one and then the other bag into the truck bed with a muffled thump. White dust poofed in a cloud and immediately settled. It turned the truck’s rust to ocher.
Felch straightened, saw Dietz, and stiffened. He held his hands out. “Stay back.”
“What’re you doing, Felch? Everything okay?” Dietz didn’t make a move. He kept his voice calm. Had he already spoken to September? If she knew he and Felch were together, the show was toast. And his future gone.
“Nothing’s okay. It’s all gone t shit.” Felch kept the truck between them. “You clear out of here. I’m trying to clean up, that’s all. What ya call it, damage control.”
“Where’s Grady? He called me, said he’s taking care of things. Didn’t Grady tell you to go home and chill?”
“Can’t remember.” Felch’s forehead creased and his sunken eyes searched the sky for the missing memory. “It’s getting worse, don’t you see?” He pulled down the kerchief around his neck and it became his trademark Western accent for the TV show—but it fell flat. “Don’t know why I bother with this. Too late, figured it out too late. And now it’s too late for that poor sonofabitch back there, too.” He flapped one hand toward the house.
“Who?” Dietz took a step toward the man.
“Didn’t believe him. But I saw coyotes go loco. Raccoons, too. My cats and deer and hogs and BeeBo’s dogs caught it. With critters it’s humane to put ‘em down, right? And I caught it bad.” He rested his head in his hands, and then pounded his temples. “Can’t think! Got to do something, got to fix this, got to remember before I disappear.” His voice turned to gravel and tears spilled unnoticed as he forced the words past sandpaper lips. “I had me a lady friend once. Love of my life, till she disappeared. If I disappear, too, maybe we’ll find each other again.”
Dietz’s mouth tasted like he’d chewed cotton. “Uh, right. Whatever you say.” They were screwed, they were absolutely screwed and ruined and going to jail if he couldn’t get this nut-job the hell out of sight. He took another step toward the man. Where the hell was Grady, anyway?
“No! Stay away!” Felch pounded his head again. “If I can remember how to get her back, I know she’ll keep me from disappearing. Ain’t that right, Grady?”
Dietz started when Grady appeared, dragging another sack along the drive. “Whatever you say, Felch. You’re the boss, the star of this drama.” He nodded pointedly at Dietz and held a finger to his lips. “This is the last one, need some help here.” He whispered to Dietz, “We’re fine. Nobody’s here, and I got all the reporter’s notes from his car before I grabbed the body. But we have to work fast.” He raised his voice to add, “Move that out of the way first, will you?”
Dietz grabbed one end of the baseball bat and tossed it to the other side of the truck. He bent to catch one end of the sack, Felch supported the sagging middle, and the three of them lifted and slung it into the battered truck. In the bed of the truck Dietz saw stacks of gunnysacks with white powder spilling out, cardboard boxes of fabric-wrapped objects, a rolled up rug, and even some sort of guitar case. “Moving day?” He grinned.
“It’s your plan. Scare her off. Take a few things special to her, items she’d never leave behind. Just having someone poke around her house should make her run.” Grady’s tight sweater showed off an impressive six-pack before he zipped up his coat.
Dietz brushed white powder off his hands and sneezed. “What you got in that thing? Must weigh a couple hundred pounds.”
“Get in the truck, Felch.” Grady waited until the fellow had clambered into the passenger side and managed to shut the door, and then turned to Dietz. “Got back here too late.”
Dietz felt a chill. “Too late for what?”
Grady shook his head. “Felch had a breakdown. You saw it. All I could do was clean up once I got here. Or did you want me to call the cops?”
“No, you said you’d handle it.” He paced away from Grady, and back again. He should never have come. Now he’d been at the scene, maybe left incriminating evidence. “What’s in that bag?”
“You don’t want to know. I’ll take care of it. Nobody will be the wiser.”
“Christ! I want out of this.” Dietz jammed his hands into his pockets to keep from punching something. “I’m making calls soon as I get back to the office. And I’m taking the first offer and selling this god-forsaken show. Take a loss if need be. But getting out from under.” He whirled and started back through the gate.
Felch’s ramshackle truck started with a grumbling roar, circled around the gardener’s truck and drew abreast Dietz as he stomped back up Rabbit Run Road toward his monstrosity of a truck. Grady cranked down the driver’s side window. “You won’t sell the show.”
“The hell I won’t.” Dietz kept walking.
“You forget. I’m part owner now.”
Dietz stopped, and the truck stopped with him. Felch faced the passenger side window, head turned away with his forehead pressed against the glass.
Grady smiled, a bright sickly expression without humor. “Mr. Felch and I will dispose of our problems.” He jerked his head to indicate what now rested in the bed of the truck. “I will see you back at the office, where you will have drawn up a legal agreement making me full partner in everything to do with Hog Hell.” He held up a hand to stem any protests. “That show is my way out of limbo. Yours, too. Trust me.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“See you back at the office. Partner.” Grady gunned the engine, and was gone.
