The blue sedan brakes at the end of Aunt Ronna’s block. The driver and passenger look like they’re consulting a GPS, but what if they’re onto me? My breath turns ragged. Halfway up the block in the other direction, a FedEx truck veers to the curb, its flashers on. Nobody jumps out with a package. Am I being followed? Do these folks know what’s under the quilted cover of my casserole dish?
Pongo Smith's adrenaline could have burst a fire hose. The cash wouldn't stop gushing. He had to keep pulling bills from the slot to make room for the ATM to feed new ones. Then his sluggish brain kicked in. This is too good to be true. He felt a blast of fear as cold as the snow-packed slopes that surrounded the Indian casino.
First came the swipe of something wet and warm on my eyes. Then I felt a puff of hot air on my face. It stank of rotten meat. A low roar pressed against my eardrums, pushed against the inside of my skull. Pain came and erased everything, and I slipped down a pit where there was no feeling at all.
“What should we do with the body?”
“We won’t do anything if he doesn’t die.” Lizzie McGuire, always the one to make the major decisions, gazed at her twin sister. Betsy had a knack for handling a variety of situations, but none came under the category of personal importance or social necessity.
Tim clenched his teeth. Not only was the new boss continuing to mispronounce Tim’s last name (it was Feret and rhymed with the French hat), now he objected to a report Tim had been doing the same way for the last seven years.
As a prominent attorney, I have made a name for myself. Whatever name that is depends on whom you ask. At any rate, names don’t concern me. I am only interested in helping those unfortunates who would otherwise be victims of circumstances beyond their control by big corporations and an uncaring public. The money isn’t bad, either.
From his porch, Henry Moody spied the cloud of dust that indicated an approaching vehicle well before it came into view. He raised one liver-spotted hand to shield his eyes from the brilliant Montana midday sun and waited to get a better look.
The small antechamber in which Max Kohl had been waiting for far too long was spare to the extreme and smelled of disinfectant. Whitewashed walls were barren of art or decoration of any kind. He sat at one end of a row of six rickety wooden chairs, the room’s only furniture, lined up against one wall. There wasn’t even a table for his violin case, which he had to place next to him on the stone floor.
Peggy made the turn onto M-90 just past the hamlet of Johnsondale and started the final slow incline up the mountain. She’d begun the drive from San Diego before dawn; without traffic or delays, it was a little over six hours to Sequoia National Forest’s closest entrance and another twenty minutes or so past it to the cabin her father used to rent across from Ponderosa Lodge at the top of the mountain. It had been fifteen years since she’d last visited her father and his longtime partner, Juanita, there, but the tunnel of trees, rock outcroppings, stream crossings, and occasional meadows along the ascent were still familiar. There were no other cars on the road as she drove through the freckled shadows in the clean mid-October light.
Standing at the church door, Tom Reed, Smith Memorial’s senior minister, held Malcolm, his new husband, with one arm and shook hands with the other. Tom had a shaved head and an open and welcoming facial expression. Malcolm was about 5’8”, trim, black hair with a part on the left as straight as U.S. Route 20.
