The Deepest Dark, an excerpt by Joan Hall Hovey

 

The Deepest Dark

By Joan Hall Hovey

An Excerpt

Chapter 1

The three dark figures moved quietly among the shadowy, rain-dripping birches, pines and alders toward the old farmhouse where amber lights glowed in the two lower windows. They crept with the stealth of foxes intent upon the chickens in the hen house, hungry and deadly, already tasting blood. And the Nichols’ actually did keep a few chickens of their own, mainly for the fresh eggs, but not altogether for that reason. They liked seeing them clucking and pecking about the yard; they were good company and cost only a bit of seed. Once, they had operated their own farm, and a fair sized one it was, too. These days they kept a small vegetable garden and Ethel Nichols tended the flowers that grew along the walkway and in her window boxes, mainly morning glories in heavenly blue and pansies in shades of lavender and sun-yellow.

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In their early eighties now, and in relatively good health, they were enjoying the fruits of their labor in these latter years, including the big screen TV on which they were presently watching an old rerun of All in the Family, one of life’s pleasures that Hartley and Ethel shared. Playing scrabble was also a favorite pastime. (for Ethel especially since she always won) and checkers, definitely more Hartley’s game. The couple enjoyed simple pleasures like taking a walk through the woods, though not so much since Hartley took a fall and broke his hip last spring. He’d had a hip replacement but it didn’t turn out quite the way they’d hoped, and he used a cane now. Their golden lab, Ralph, used to accompanying them on their walks, but Ralph got old and died last year and they didn’t have the heart or will to replace him. Although lately they’d been talking about taking a drive over to the shelter and seeing if they couldn’t find a new furry friend.

They also enjoyed sitting on the porch swing and just admiring the sunset, even if it was a bit of a cliché. And now and then a family dinner, whenever Sally, their beautiful, unmarried, successful daughter who worked in real estate in Halifax, could make it home for a visit. Occasionally Hartley and Ethel talked a little about how nice it would be if Sally met someone special, got married and presented them with a grandchild. But they didn’t dwell on it. Didn’t push their luck. They were very blessed just as things were, and they knew it.

Ethel and Hartley Nichols had been in love since they were teenagers. And though they’d had their ups and downs like any married couple who had spent more than sixty years together, they were at one with each other and with their place in the universe.

When the commercial came on, Ethel rose from the big stuffed chair across from her husband’s Lazy Boy. She was white-haired, ample of figure, and quick to smile. “Cup of tea, Hartley?”

He looked in her direction and grinned mischievously. Though his own hair had long gone and he walked with a limp, to Ethel he was as handsome as the first time she saw him walking into Mr. Biggar’s class in grade nine. She could still see him as he was then, tall and lean, with a thatch of fair hair fallen over his brow.

“Wouldn’t mind having just a tiny slice of that apple pie you baked to go with my tea.” An affectionate coaxing twinkled in blue eyes that had faded only a little over the years.

Looking at him, she mentally shook her head. He knew he had trouble getting to sleep if he ate after he’d had his supper. “Sure,” she said. And it will be tiny, Mister Nichols, you can bet

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on that. She had started for the kitchen when she stopped in the doorway between the living room and kitchen, thinking she’d heard a noise outside. She listened. Heard it again. A squeaking of the porch swing chain?

“Did you hear that?” she called into the living room.

“Hear what? Didn’t hear nothin’, Ethel.”

“I’m not sure. Sounded like... oh, I’m sure it’s nothing. The wind.”

Hearing nothing further, but still wearing the same uneasy frown on her face, she continued on to the kitchen. She was reaching into the drawer for a knife to cut the pie with when she heard the noise again. She looked in the direction of the sound and that’s when she saw the grinning face in the window. Her heart lurched painfully but before she could cry out, something crashed against the back door. It burst open and three men strode into her kitchen, big as life. Three men she had never seen before. Strangers. “Who are...?

The one who appeared to be in charge, the nicest looking of the three if you could get past the smarmy smile, said, “Ah, ma’am, we could surely take to a slice of that fine pie on your table there. And maybe some coffee. Oh, by the way, this here is Tattoo,” he said, gesturing to the man beside him. “He’s got a real name but no need for you to know that. Better in fact, if you don’t.”

The big man he referred to was dark and swarthy with a hook nose and beady eyes, like a hawk. He wore a dark jacket over a plaid shirt. The neck was open and she could see the snake coiling up and around his neck and on upward to where its menacing purple-brown head covered one side of his hard face, fangs bared.

Ethel had seen a similar spectacle in a circus side-show once. She tried to calm her heart which was beating a mile a minute.

“Dog here right behind me. Odd name, I guess, but you’ve gotta admit, Dog kinda does look like a mutt, doesn’t he? Hair flopping over his forehead the way it does. And those sad eyes. Don’t you think so, ma’am?”

As frightened as Ethel was, and she was indeed frightened, she didn’t think his eyes looked sad as much as they looked stupid. And dangerous because of that. A follower. He was the shortest of the three and his foolish grin showed a mouth full of bad teeth. There was a collective stink of wet cloth, body odor and something else that wafted off them like a cloud of evil,

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contaminating her kitchen. She heard the squeak of Hartley’s chair as he lowered the footrest. Oh, dear.

The man who had been doing the talking glanced away from the one he called Dog and raised an eyebrow at Hartley who came hobbling into the kitchen just then, his face flushed with anger. “You busted in my damn door. What do you fellas want? Get the hell out of...”

No, Hartley, no, Ethel begged silently, but before he could even finish his sentence, the biggest man, the one called Tattoo, back-handed him across the face, slamming Hartley into the kitchen wall, sending one of the pots flying off its hook and clanging across the floor. Ethel cried out, feeling as if she’d been struck, too. Her arms reached out instinctively to her husband, and it was then that she realized she still held the knife in her hand. She had taken it out of the drawer to slice the pie. The big man was about to strike Hartley again, and she tried to drive the blade into his back. The blade barely pierced the skin, causing only a superficial wound, but still managed to raise a holler from Hartley’s attacker.

The other man grabbed her by both arms and tried to force her into a chair, yelling into her face to sit down. In his day Hartley could have given either one of them a run for his money. Hartley always could handle himself. Even now he was struggling to get to his feet and fight back, but the man hit him again, with his closed fist this time. When Hartley went down again the man followed up with a vicious kick to his bad hip. Hartley groaned. Ethel was out of the chair and screaming for the man to stop, falling to her knees beside her husband, tears streaming down her face.

The man who had asked for the pie, who had forced her into the chair, the apparent leader of this pack of thugs, said, “Sorry about old Tattoo, there, Ma’am.” Ethel was crying so hard she could hardly see him.

“He can get pretty nasty when riled,” the man continued. “Your husband shouldn’t have been so inhospitable.” He took the knife from her hand. (with a spot of Tattoo’s blood on it) “Poor old fella doesn’t look too good, does he. It’s his own fault, you know that’s true. Now if you’ll just muster up that coffee, maybe I can get my friend to calm down.”

“He’s not breathing,” she cried. “I have to call an ambulance. Oh, Hartley.” She dashed for the phone in the living room, but Tattoo’s arm shot out and he grabbed her by her thin, white hair and yanked her back. Ethel turned and began to beat at him with her small arthritic fists,

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screaming her rage at him as she did. Tattoo struck her hard in the face and she fell silent to the floor. Then he picked her up and threw her bodily across the room.

Donnie Leaman (Dog) looked away, while Ken Roach looked on helplessly at the railing madman in the kitchen. They shouldn’t have come here, Ken Roach thought. It was a mistake. But too late now for regrets. What’s done is done.

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Chapter 2

Abby had a destination in mind and that was the important thing, wasn’t it? Since the accident, she’d had none, no destination, no purpose. She moved through her days on molasses legs and an equally sluggish heart and it was time to either pull herself free or go under once and for all. The emptiness, the pain, was exhausting, as if some nameless thing had a hose attached to her soul and was siphoning off her very life force. Someone had suggested a vacation, a change of scene. A cruise maybe. She couldn’t remember who. She didn’t give it a lot of thought at first, and then she began thinking about the cabin in Loon Lake. And here she was on her way there.

She slowed at a stop sign. The rain was coming down harder and she turned the wipers up a notch, waited for a break in traffic, then turned left onto the highway.

Abby pictured the bottle of pills in her purse that Doctor Gregory had prescribed to help her sleep. It was just a matter of making the decision. One day she could be alive, the next, dead. Like Corey and Ellie. They could all be together again. Was that even possible? Or was death really the end? She didn’t know. But she wanted to believe that we lived on at least in spirit.

Jazz music played on the car radio, some dark bluesy piece to accompany her mood. The brain-chatter went on: Or do you just go into the ground and that’s it? Was it all some great cosmic joke? She didn’t want to accept that; she’d been such a religious little girl. Back then there had been no question of a God, or of Heaven. She supposed much of that had to do with her very Christian grandmother Mina, her mother’s mother, whom Abby had adored. After her mother died of breast cancer and her father left them, (figuratively if not literally) she and her younger sister Karen went to live with Granny Mina. It took two years for their father to drink himself to death.

On her left, a short stretch ahead she could see an Irving service station wavering through the rain. She needed to use the washroom.

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She pulled into the lot just in time to see a woman taping a Wanted poster up in the storefront window. After filling the gas tank, she went inside and paid for her purchase.

“May I use your washroom?” she asked the woman who was climbing down from her step-ladder.

“Sure. Right at the back on your left, she smiled. A warm smile. She had curly salt and pepper hair, and wore cat’s eye glasses. They suited her.

Abby used the facilities, washed her hands and splashed warm water on her face, patting it dry with rough brown paper. When she came back out of the washroom, the woman was behind the counter. “Help yourself to the coffee, dear,” she said. “Freshly made.”

Gratefully, Abby poured the steaming coffee into a Styrofoam cup, and stirred in a dab of real cream. “Thanks.” She took a sip. “I needed that.”

“You’re welcome. Don’t know about you, but this rain is getting me down. Awful about those three escapees, isn’t it?”

“I hadn’t heard. Escaped from where?” she asked, feigning interest, something she was getting good at.

“Pennington Prison. I just put the flyer in the window. A cop dropped it off.”

Abby shrugged inwardly. She had heard something about it. “Pennington’s in Ontario,” she said. “Pretty long way from here.” She eyed a pack of Matinees on the shelf and wished she still smoked. Though it had been seven years now since she’d quit, the yellow package called out to her. But she left the store without it. Not sure why. Thanking the woman again for the coffee, she hurried back to her car.

She tossed her raincoat over the back of the passenger seat and slid in behind the wheel. Her hair was damp against her neck and she raked it away. She needed a cut, as Karen kept telling her, offering to do it, but Abby wasn’t up to sitting in a chair letting herself be fussed with. What did it matter anyway?

Once she was back on the road the old needle slipped easily back into its groove and she began to think about Corey.

Corey was an only child. He had told her once that his parents always seemed to be in a cold war when he was growing up. They didn’t fight so much as they were silent. She’d met them a few times, and his mother always gave her the impression of being a bitter, sad woman. His father was a quiet man, gruff, unhappy in his own way. He’d served in the Gulf war so Abby

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thought it might have had something to do with post traumatic syndrome. Or perhaps they had simply disappointed one another over the years. Who knew in what ways. Not that uncommon, really. She had been lucky in that regard. Her parents, in their relatively brief time together, had been happy. There was lots of laughter and affection in their home. Not perfect always, but good. Corey had wanted theirs to be a happy family, too, and it had been. They had had that. The three of them. The team. Tears welled, blurring her vision, and she wiped them away with the heel of her hand.

Other than the soft music coming from the radio and the whap, whap, whap of windshield wipers, the only other sound was the rain rattling on the windows and the hiss of the tires on the road. About an hour later, she took a right at the sign that said Three Brooks and the hissing ended and soon there was a soft clawing of tree branches on metal as she was jostled over bumps and ruts on a narrower, dirt road.

She’d almost forgotten what a crappy road this was. As if to underline it, something, probably a boulder, scraped the car’s undercarriage, forcing her to grip the wheel and hold her breath until she was safely over it.

She recalled it was about a two hour drive. The last time they’d gone to the cabin, Corey had driven. It was a day of blue skies, wispy white clouds. Ellie was counting Osprey nests from the back seat. “There’s another one, Mom,” she cried, “up in the radio tower. Can you see it? Look, Mom.”

I miss her voice. The way she felt in my arms, her little girl smell. The silky softness of her hair. Her smile.

For weeks after the accident, hearing the hiss of the school bus’ airbrakes, the chatter and squeals of children being released into the day, would send her running to the window, praying it was all a terrible nightmare and that Ellie would be among them. But of course she never was. Maybe if Ellie hadn’t died too she would have had something to live for. A reason to go on. If only...

Abby had seen the driver of the truck that struck them on TV once. A balding, thin man, with hound-dog eyes. She hated him. Hated him for being alive while Ellie and Corey were in the ground. She knew she needed to forgive the man. Needed that for her own soul. But she couldn’t. Malcolm Fowler was his name. Malcolm Fowler. He had killed Corey and Ellie. He had murdered her life. “The man should be executed,” she had cried to Karen.

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Karen and Pete took care of all the arrangements. Doctor Gregory kept her pretty much sedated through it all. But the pills barely reached the pain, that even now came in unexpected waves that took her breath and left her weak and wailing. She tried to put on a good face in front of people, especially her sister. No one wanted to be around someone who could burst into tears at a moment’s notice.

A stone thunked against the windshield, startling her. She eased up on the gas. The announcer’s voice interrupted the music from the FM station. “Three men who escaped from Pennington Prison…”

She turned it off, uninterested. They had nothing to do with her. Pennington was a long way from here.

She had just settled back in the seat when the car gave a jaw-snapping drop, jarring Abby’s entire body, leaving her shaken. Another bad patch. If she wasn’t careful the matter of whether to live or die would be taken out of her hands. (A thought that would soon prove prophetic) But would that be so bad? Yeah, maybe. This was an isolated road with very little traffic since the new highway went in, and she didn’t relish lying helpless in a ditch for hours or even days, like a bug on its back, before she succumbed. She refocused her attention on the road which had narrowed yet again in the past five minutes. The trees on either side of her reached higher here, blocking out the sky and creating a canopy that took her through a long gloomy corridor. “An appropriate metaphor for my life,” she said softly. God, she sounded so full of self-pity.

Where was the damn log cabin anyway? She had such a lousy sense of direction. She’d gone through Three Brooks, Erinville. She’d passed a few old farms, a silo, finally just trees and more trees. Shouldn’t she have seen the sign that spelled out Loon Lake by now? Had she somehow driven past the road that turned up to the cabin? The GPS wouldn’t have done her any good. She doubted the place was even on the map.

She thought of her email to Karen and imagined her reading it. She would be upset that she had no way to reach her. Abby was probably one of the last people in the country not to have a cellphone, unheard of in her business. But she had never felt the need to be constantly connected to the world, and less so now.

Karen had no idea that just seeing her and Pete together made her feel resentful. Seeing them with their boys brought bitterness that shamed her because she loved Karen with all her heart.

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And Pete was the best. She loved her nephews who were replicas of their dad, right down to the red hair and freckles. No, Karen would have no idea. She would be devastated if she knew.

‘You have to move on,’ her sister had pleaded with her. ‘You have to carve out a different life now. Start a new novel, Abby.’

She would give it a try. Abby had packed a stack of school scribblers in her suitcase. Just in case. Maybe she would get an idea. Since the cabin had no electricity, having no TV to watch or internet to surf (not that she’d done much surfing lately) she might be inspired enough to come up with something. Her other option would still be there, in her purse.

The rain had let up and she turned off the wipers.

There it was. Relief washed through her. The sign was weather beaten, fading, but still legible. Loon Lake. 1.4 km. “It’s our secret hideout,” Corey had said, wrapping his arms around her, and giving her that sexy sweet smile of his. “We won’t tell anyone where it is.”

And they didn’t. Something she would come to regret in the days ahead.

Soon, she caught a glimmer of green water through the trees, and a short distance further on she saw her road, which was not much more than a path really, with the arrow pointing left up toward the cabin.

And then she was there. Her heart was beating hard as if it too was grasping for some — some kind of — possibility. Putting the car in park, she turned off the ignition and sat listening to the ticking of the motor cooling as she stared at the cabin.

It was just as she remembered. A cedar log cabin, darkened with the years, the wrap-around porch. Steps leading up to the front door.

Last summer had been such a magical time. Ellie caught her first fish, a speckled trout. Abby could still hear her squeals of delight. And then Ellie had felt bad for the fish and made her dad throw it back in the water. So like her.

Abby Miller had known who she was then. Beloved wife, mother, successful author. Life was good. The log cabin had been part of that good life.

The wood Corey had chopped was still stacked beside the left wall of the cabin. She knew there would be wood inside too, piled beside the fireplace, if no one else had taken it for themselves.

Water came from the old pump situated a few yards to the right of the cabin. Ellie had thought the pump was neat until she’d exhausted herself priming it, getting those spurts and

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trickles before the water began to flow freely. The outhouse was out back. They had intended to put in plumbing at some point, but Corey died before they got around to it. Inside, were two antique kerosene lamps they’d picked up at a garage sale, and candles.

Getting out of the car, she made her way up to the cabin, skirting puddles as she went. Her Nikes were silent on the wooden steps.

Two wicker chairs sat on the porch where she’d left them, the small table between. She’d taken the cushions inside. After Ellie was asleep they would sit out here with their glasses of wine and talk, or just sit companionably and listen to the crickets’ song, and beyond, the water lapping against the shore. Later, they would make quiet love in their room.

She fished the key from her pocket and was about to let herself into the cabin when she heard something snap behind her.

It had sounded like someone stepping on a dry twig or branch hidden beneath wet leaves. She peered through the pines and alders and birches where the path led down to the lake, but saw no one. Probably a deer, or some other poor sodden creature foraging for food. This had once been a hunting camp before they bought it.

The rain was gathering new strength, drumming on the porch roof and gushing from the downspout like a river, into the rain barrel. She stood a few seconds longer on the porch, then unlocked the door and went inside.

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Chapter 3

Abby wasn’t wrong about Karen being upset by her brief, unsatisfactory email, which said only that she had an idea for a novel and was going away for a little while to work on it. Karen didn’t buy it for a minute, considering how depressed Abby was when she dropped in on her just two days ago. She didn’t mention any novel, which she would have if it were true. When Abby was stoked to begin a new novel, she would be excited. She would be both anxious that she couldn’t pull it off, (which she always did) and pumped with the ideas that flooded her mind. No, she wasn’t writing any novel. No way in hell was she writing a novel. So what was going on? Where was she? Her email didn’t offer any clue. And what did a little while mean?

“Hey girl, ready for coffee?” Pete Rawling said cheerfully, entering the dining room, carrying two steaming mugs, the rich aroma permeating the air. He slid his wife’s coffee mug, with its Queen of Karaoke painted on it, under a coaster. She’d won it at the club for her rendition of At Last. She was no Etta James, but she was still damn good, in his opinion. She was as creative as Abby, in her own way. As it was, she earned decent money as a hair stylist out of her own parlour in the basement, which was part of the reason they’d bought this place. She kept the business relatively small and exclusive, hiring only one girl to help out. Pete did okay so she didn’t have to kill herself.

“Hey, smells great,” she said, turning to give him a thin smile.

“What’s up, honey?” he asked, peering over her shoulder at the open laptop. “You look worried.” He planted a light kiss on the nape of her neck, just above the collar of her blue plaid robe. She absently fussed with a strand of her honey blond hair as she read Abby’s email to him.

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it? Means she’s moving forward, getting on with her life.”

She looked at him over her shoulder. “No Pete, that’s not what it means at all. That’s what she wants me to think it means. But I know better. I know my sister. She’s been a walking zombie for months now. A big part of her died when Corey and Ellie did. You’re right; I am worried about her.”

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“You’re thinking she might do something — to harm herself?”

“I don’t know.”

He drew up a chair beside her, the legs whispering over the tweed carpeting. “She wouldn’t, Karen. Abby’s stronger than that.”

She didn’t answer. Could only swallow back her fear.

“Honey, it’s only been six months. It’ll take time, you know that. Not that she’ll ever get over it. Who could? She probably needed a change of scene.” Not so surprising, he thought. “Maybe she needed to get away from all the well-meaning advice, the pitying looks. She’ll — be okay.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I do. She didn’t say where she was going?”

“No. She has to be staying at a hotel though. We don’t have any relatives living out of town. Even if we did, Abby isn’t the sort to visit her problems on anyone else. You know what she’s like, Pete. So damned independent.”

“What about that cabin they bought a couple of years back. Would she go there?”

“I don’t even know where it is,” she said with a note of bitterness. “But no. I can’t imagine. Not by herself. Abby’s a city girl. Corey was the one who was the outdoors type. Damn! I can’t even call her on her cell phone because she doesn’t have one. She’s always resisted having a cell phone, which I think is so ridiculous in this day and age.” She sipped her coffee. “It’s good, Pete. Thanks.”

She reread the last part of Abby’s email aloud. “I don’t have my laptop with me. I sent this before I left. So I won’t get your reply till I get home. Love you. Abby. xxoo.”

Pete knew he was treading in dangerous waters here, but he ventured anyway. “I’m sorry, honey. I know how much you care about Abby. But she’s a big girl. She’s got a right to go off by herself if she wants to. She’ll call you soon, or email you again when she gets somewhere where there’s a computer. Give her a little time.”

In Pete’s private opinion, it was Abby’s choice to be unconnected if she wanted to be. “I wish I could stay and talk some more about this, but I’ve got to get to work.” He gave her a quick kiss and was out the door.

Pete was a computer technician with an Electronics firm downtown. He knew he was no Brad Pitt but he had a round, pleasant face, red hair and a smattering of freckles across his nose

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and cheeks which he’d passed on to his sons. He liked to think he was a decent guy, definitely a born peacemaker who adored his wife and really did wish he could stay and talk, sort of. But the truth was, he couldn’t even offer any good suggestions on the matter. Abby was a grown woman capable of making her own decisions. It wasn’t like she’d gone missing. As far as Pete could see, her going off for a while wasn’t anything to panic about. As he’d told Karen, needing a change of scenery was not so hard to understand. And maybe she really was working on a new novel and just didn’t feel like sharing its fragile beginnings with anyone. Even Karen.

He knew better than to argue about it, though. When Karen was in this frame of mind, there was no getting through. She wouldn’t be reassured, and he could end up sleeping on the sofa. Though Abby was five years older than Karen, you’d have thought Karen was the older sister, she was so protective. And maybe just a little opinionated. Karen always knew best. Abby didn’t seem to mind; it sort of rolled off her, and she’d just smile. And Pete, unlike a lot of men, kind of liked his wife’s take-charge attitude. Most of the time, anyway.

It was drizzling, promising more rain later on. Pete slid into the driver’s seat of his van and checked his rear view mirror. Seeing no traffic, he switched on the wipers and backed out onto the road.

Abby was a different kettle of fish, he thought. Both were lookers, brunettes (although Karen had been blonde for years now) but bore only a slight resemblance to one another. Karen complained that she needed to lose ten pounds, but she looked just fine to Pete. Better than fine. Abby was taller, thinner-lipped, higher cheekbones, and she must have dropped twenty pounds since the accident. The dark circles under her eyes didn’t help. Their personalities were different too. Abby lived inside her head, not that she couldn’t be fun to be around, at least before the accident, but no matter how attentive she might be, you always had a sense that her mind was elsewhere. Maybe it was just that way with writers.

He thought about the cabin. When he asked Corey where it was, his brother-in-law had told him it was his and Abby’s secret hideaway and gave him a mysterious smile. Pete remembered feeling a little ticked off at the time and told him he wasn’t asking so that he and Karen could use it — although admittedly the thought had crossed his mind — he was just curious. “I know that, Pete,” Corey had assured him, patting his shoulder. But he still didn’t tell him where it was. Just that it was a fairy tale cabin in the woods, beside a lake.

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If I were a writer like Abby, he thought, it might be the very place I would go. Pete braked as the light turned red and a blind man with exaggerated straight posture crossed in front of him, tapping along the pavement with his white cane. The light turned green and he drove on, the theme continuing in his head. But then he wouldn’t be a writer, he concluded, because they spent too much time on their own for his liking. He supposed you had to not mind being alone, especially if you wanted to write books. Personally, Pete liked being around people. He liked noise and music and stuff going on. He liked coaching little league, and karaoke night at Rooney’s pub. In fact, there was a neighborhood party tomorrow night he was looking forward to. It would do Karen good too, take her mind off Abby.

Yeah, be probably wouldn’t fare too well in a cabin in the woods. And neither would his wife. A few days, fine, but that would be it. He thought Karen might be projecting her own tastes onto Abby. But he understood her concern. Since the accident that took her husband and daughter, Abby truly was like someone wandering among the ruins of a bomb blast. He could only imagine what she was going through. If anything happened to Karen or the boys, he didn’t know what he would do. He felt sick just thinking about it.

Waiting at the red light, Pete didn’t notice the Wanted flyer fluttering wetly on the utility pole in front of Lau’s Chinese restaurant.

* * *

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