Elliot and James arrive at Waste Management's headquarters north of town to "collect Hank's belongings" and do a little snooping. Meanwhile, Linda does the same at the Town Hall.
Their visits follow an almost identical trajectory. The secretary offers polite regrets for their loss, then escorts them to the employee lounge, where personal affects are kept. They stay as long as they dare, searching the room for something awry, and reading coworkers for signs of deception. As she is leaving, Li
As he steps over the police tape, he see her standing on the bank with her feet almost in the water. She does not look around at his approach, though his boots make a great deal of noise on the lose round rocks.
"What brings you out to the field, Liz?"
"The same thing that brought, I imagine, Jack. Doubt."
"I didn't know you shared my feelings on this matter. Your report was pretty conclusive."
"I established that cause of death was drowning, yes. He was alive when he went into
Our dramatis personae can be encapsulated in a single photograph.
James Dalton, brother of the deceased, stands next to the gravestone with his hat against his heart. He cuts the figure of a movie star cowboy: a care worn face with a masculine jawline, eyes the same color as his faded blue jeans, a well starched white button up, and a turquoise-and-amber bolo tie. His eyes are upturned, his mouth set in a thoughtful grimace as he plots the next line of his ovation.
Linda has her back to
"You crazy son-of-a"
Elliot wakes to find a short, auburn young woman standing over him, fists on her hips.
"Morning Linda."
A frock coat makes a remarkably warm blanket, but as he pulls himself clumsily to his feet, his limbs cry out in numb protest. The woman offers no assistance, and continues to fix him with a steady glare.
"I don't suppose you have someplace I could thaw out?"
She rolls her eyes and wordlessly escorts him down the hill.
***
A light breeze rustles
Observe Mr. Elliot Holt.
He is disembarking the California Zephyr on a brilliant but chilly January afternoon. As he steps down onto the platform, he pulls a pocket watch from the breast of his frock coat and checks the time- an action which draws several sidelong glances from his fellow travelers. A somewhat surly porter wrestles his baggage- a rough leather case containing a "portable" typewriter- from under a sea of rolling suitcases and duffles. Mr. Holt accepts it with a bow and tips th
The I80 between Omaha and Des Moines is one of the more godforsaken stretches of road in the country, and most people would agree that anyone who would ride a motorcycle through such a scene on a bitter January evening would have to be at least a little crazy.
This man, clad all in black, expression blank despite the cold and the speed, is more than a little crazy. Even as he takes a curve at just over ninety, he's busy reflecting on the deeds of the previous night.
Lights from the polic
In dark room above a dark shop, a man wakes with a start. Down the street, someone has set off an illicit firework. Next door, sounds of revelry intrude upon the solitude of a cramped studio apartment. This is what woke him, but they are not what keeps him awake.
"Denver." He breaths the word like a curse.
As he sighs and shuffles off toward the bath room, the everlasting hum of the city pursues him. He turns on the shower, runs the water until it achieves its maximum lukewarm potential,
