Cause of Death

15

I leave Greenville Station’s city limits, following Wexler at some distance.

It’s the same route I took the other day. But he doesn’t spot me this time and we’re only slightly over the limit — near where I’d paused to ask the soft-spoken reverend and Skinny Santa if they’d seen the car, Wexler signals and turns down a dirt road.

Dust kicks up and swirls behind him, which is good, because he won’t be able to see me if he glances in the mirror.

It’s a long road. We go about three quarters of a mile and then the dust cloud vanishes. He’s not ahead of me and, according to the map, there are no side roads. He’s stopped here somewhere.

Then I notice, about a hundred yards away, to my right, a tall, black metal fence and, beyond, some buildings. I nose the Pathfinder into the brush and climb out. I push the button lock on the door itself, not using the fob; I don’t recall if the horn beeps on a single press but I’m not going to announce my presence, in case Wexler is within earshot.

The air is rich with loam, decomposing foliage and a mixture of competing fragrances from flowers I can’t see. The scent invigorates me. I move through the brush carefully, picking my way around what looks like noisy patches of leaves and twigs. Also, around nasty brambles. I feel what troops in such places as Gettysburg and the Wilderness must have experienced closing in on an enemy — who might very well be closing in on you.

Cautiously I step into the clearing and see a half dozen homes surrounded by the fence. On foot I follow a gravel drive to a rear gate.

I walk up to the gate, crouch and peer through the bars.

No people, no vehicles.

Then I’m aware of two things. One, I see a small security camera, aimed directly my way, tucked away in what seems to be a fake tree. And two, I hear a rustling behind me.

Before I can turn there’s a pop followed by an astonishing pain that radiates from my lower spine through my entire body, from tailbone to teeth. I try to stand. Another pop. That’s it. I’m gone.