And yet the old man was there!
I should have popped him while I had the chance.
It would have saved me a whole lotta trouble. But no . . . better to stay with the plan. The guy is half blind and probably stumbling drunk. You’re okay. It will be fine. Just drive into town, order the all-day breakfast as you usually do . . . Make certain you’re seen.
As the miles pass under my tires, using the road that leads away from Grizzly Falls, I put distance between myself and Brady Long. Slowly, I feel the calm that always comes after the rush of the kill. This one is different, so different and yet there is still that deep-seated and tranquil feeling of a job well done.
“Mission accomplished,” I tell myself, glancing in the rearview mirror just before I take a cut-off and double back around the Montana acres that belong to Hubert Long. I smile when I think of all the repercussions I’ve created with the single act of killing one man.
If the old man doesn’t blow it for you. I still hear that annoying voice in my head, the one that accuses me of not doing the deed perfectly. It follows me into town as I park in a spot where my truck is often seen. I waste no time, but 156
Lisa Jackson
am out of the truck and down an alley to the main street that runs along the river in this part of town—past the brick courthouse with its gigantic Christmas tree positioned not far from the flagpole. Along the icy sidewalk I smile at a nearly frozen bell ringer asking for donations for the needy.
“Merry Christmas,” he says and I nod as if this is the brightest, most holy season ever. I even find a dollar bill in the front pocket of my jeans and stuff it into the red donation pot. “Bless you.”
“Thanks.” I look him squarely in the eye. If you only knew.
Hands in my pockets, I hurry through the narrow streets toward my destination: Wild Will’s, a restaurant that serves breakfast all day and where the locals hang out. Through the doors and past the ridiculous long-dead stuffed grizzly bear dressed in some kind of angel get-up that stands guard. On its hind legs, dwarfing everyone who walks in, “Grizz”
is a local attraction who “dresses” for the seasons. Ridiculous.
Today, a fake halo made from wire and tinsel is lying crooked on his head, tilted over one ear. Equally fake-looking wings sprout from behind his massive shoulders and a string of colored lights surrounds his thick neck. Though his mouth is caught in a perpetual snarl, his glass eyes fierce, someone has tied a book of Christmas carols onto one of his huge, clawed paws.
Oh, right, the shaggy bear is getting off on “Silent Night.”
Some of the locals think it’s funny or cute. I find it vulgar.
But I grab a complimentary paper and follow
CHOSEN TO DIE
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Sandi, the owner of the place, to a booth. A tall woman who wears too much makeup, she offers me coffee and a wink while I order a farmer’s breakfast of eggs, bacon, hash browns, and biscuits with country gravy. Sandi, she likes me.
“We’ve got fresh trout, if you’d rather have that than the bacon,” she says with a smile that shows off her oversized teeth.
“How about both?” I’m hungry and want her to take note that I’m there. To remember me.
“You got it!” She’s pleased and doesn’t bother writing down my order. “What happened to you?”
she says suddenly and is staring at my cheek where that damned Pescoli slashed away some of the skin and my whiskers haven’t quite covered the wounds. I grin. “Stupid accident.”
“With a bobcat?” she asks.
“That would make for a better story.” I look sheepish as she fills my coffee cup. “I was playin’
with a friend’s dog. Got a little too close and got nailed by a paw.” I pick up the now full cup and shake my head.
“Pretty big dog.”
“Yeah . . .” I point to the menu to derail the conversation. “You have any pie today?”
She grins and looks over to the glass case. “Pumpkin, lemon meringue, Dutch apple, and huckleberry, of course.”
“Huckleberry.”