Deceit

FOURTEEN

Where was I?

I’m losing track here.

Maybe because I’ve eaten once in the last two days. Make that three days-I’m not sure. I’m all out of Nabisco crackers-that’s the sad truth. No more Tostitos or Jolly Ranchers or beef jerky, provisions scored from my last foraging expedition to 7-Eleven, when I emerged from the motel room wearing Ray-Bans and a cowboy hat and scared the 7-Eleven clerk half to death. When I pulled out my loose cash, she looked relieved that it wasn’t a gun.

I have to take precautions.

They’re looking for me. I am a marked man.

Where was I?

Finding the note?

I’ve been through that, correct? The note from Benjy, complete with postscript greetings from the mysterious Kara. Kara Bolka. Who’s this Kara anyway? Benjy’s wife? His girlfriend?

Hold on. Be patient. Soon enough you’ll know who Kara Bolka is. You’ll know who everyone is. Soon enough you’ll know about the accident, about everything. The dead will all stand up and take a bow.

Not yet.

I need to pick up the thread.

To sew things up nicely and neatly, even professionally.

My journalism professor used to say that every reporter has one great story in them.

This is mine.

I told you about the note. I distinctly remember telling you about it.

Happy hundred birthday.

Love, Benjy.

Greetings from Kara Bolka.

Like a haiku.

Haikus may read simple, but they’re infused with mystery.

Wait.

Did I mention my Miata? That it broke down?

No, not the first time, at the bowling alley.

The second time, four blocks away from the nursing home.