The taste of the hot, bitter coffee mixed with the cool flavours of the fresh morning air through Slater’s bushy, grey beard. Although his face was aged and wrinkled, it didn’t sag; he was still young-old.
He stood barefoot on the wooden porch of the south-facing home. The house was in the center of the wide clearing, completely encircled by forest, except for one opening ahead, which made way for the small dirt road that ran from the house to the world beyond the round wall of foliage.
Much like the porch, the home behind him was also wooden. There were windows, but the thick glass was too opaque to see through. The design of the home’s exterior was simplistic by design; nothing about its rough walls were meant to inspire awe. It was two storeys tall—not including the small, triangular attic above.
To the east was a garage (also wooden) with only three walls, keeping the front end completely open. Within it, there was a wooden table with mechanical supplies and a vehicle, obscured by a large white sheet.
To the west was a rectangular plot of land devoid of grass, instead covered in spread-out vegetation. There was also a small gas generator up against the home’s western wall.
Slater placed the warm enamel mug onto the porch and stepped barefoot onto the cold, sharp grass. The slight discomfort of this was endured until he reached the gentle relief of the garden’s soil.
A variety of vegetation sprawled along the garden’s soil rows: potatoes, carrots, lettuce, tomatoes, onion, garlic, and more. Most of them weren’t quite ripe yet, but they all seemed to be on track to ripen soon.
A handheld, claw-shaped cultivator leaned against the wall of his home. He picked it up and made his way through the garden, using it to loosen the soil, just as he had every morning.
A tomato plant that looked plumper than the rest drew his attention. He felt a sense of pride, which was robbed from him when he noticed the single weed sticking out of the soil directly next to it.
Slater knelt down and scratched at it with the cultivator. The weed weaved between the claws with ease. He tried again, this time aiming one of the claws directly over it. The little weed still somehow managed to dodge it. Slater’s face tightened with tired annoyance. He clawed at it again. Then again. He continued clawing at the single weed with increasing intensity.
That single weed became his entire world. Nothing else mattered right now.
He had been so focused on it that he only noticed the sound of the car engine once it came to an abrupt stop.
He looked up at the slick, black, modern convertible that had now been parked directly in front of his house.
The man who stood from the vehicle was tall and slender. He wore a tailor-fit black suit and a black shirt, buttoned all the way up without a tie. His bleached-blonde hair was perfectly held back by shiny pomade. His eyes were completely obscured by his dark Ray-Bans. “Slater Stone?”
Slater slowly raised to his feet. He was still holding onto the sharp cultivator. “Who’s asking?”
“My name is Alberto.”
“I supposed to know who you are?”
“You don’t, but I believe you’re acquainted with my employer.”
“Yeah? And who’s that?”
“Mao.”
Slater’s arm went limp, submissively lowering the cultivator. “Never heard of no Alberto in Mao’s crew.”
“I’m freelance. I’ve been hired to track down a certain troublemaker on the run. Take him in alive, if possible.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a folded paper. He unfolded the two crossing creases and held it out, open for Slater to see.
It had been a photograph of Traveller and Ray. Traveller wore a generic black suit over a clean, white collared shirt and sat behind the steering wheel of a car. Ray was leaning against the hood of the black car. They seemed to be in the midst of a pleasant, casual conversation. Alberto’s finger motioned towards Traveller’s head. “I’ve heard you used to be very close to him.”
Slater licked his dry lower lip. “Yeah. Yeah, I knew him. What do you want?”
“Word is he got mixed up in a crime just south of here about a week ago. Motel guest murdered in a forest. Police reports say that the only other person staying there was a lone traveller who needed to spend the night while a mechanic fixed his white Cadillac.”
“That so?”
“There’s been a few reported sightings of a car matching his description in a town north of here yesterday. Did he pass through here?”
Slater shrugged. “Can’t remember the last time I’ve seen him. Sorry. Wish I could help.”
Alberto sucked on his tooth. “I’m going to have to take a look around regardless. I won’t be able to get a good night’s sleep unless I know for sure.”
Slater hesitated, remaining in place. “How do I know you really work for Mao?”
Alberto casually reached back into his breast pocket and pulled out his cell phone. “Do you really want me to make him waste his time talking to you?”
Slater discreetly grated his teeth. “Fair enough.” He let the cultivator drop to the soil, which had been completely obliterated; the weed somehow still hung onto the ground.
Reaching the porch, Slater picked up the enamel mug and took a sip; it had already gone lukewarm.
Alberto’s voice was suddenly very close to his back. “You live alone, right?”
Resisting the urge to shiver from the ominously calm voice whispering down his neck, Slater nodded. “Yup.” He peered back at Alberto.
Alberto placed both hands into his pockets and patiently waited with a calm smile.
Slater took a moment to recollect his composure before entering.
Alberto followed closely behind into the main hallway of the home. Just enough light had been let in by the open door and the foggy windows to grant them sight without sacrificing the ambient thickness of the shadows. Most of the furniture within the home also seemed to be handmade out of a similar wood as the rest of the home.
Alberto’s nose twitched. “What’s that smell?”
“Hm?” Slater stopped and turned back to him.
Alberto brushed passed Slater, following his nose to the end of the hallway.
It led him to the kitchen. In it, he found two pieces of furniture that weren’t made by hand from wood: the stove and the refrigerator, which were both connected to the outside generator by a wire that ran through the wall. A frying pan was on top of the stove, covered in a thick layer of ground potatoes: the source of the smell.
“Oh, that smell.” Slater followed Alberto into the kitchen. “I was just making myself some breakfast.”
“I thought you were out gardening.” His eyes slowly scanned the room. There had been a wooden dining table in the corner of the room with three chairs circling it.
“I always loosen up the soil while I let my breakfast cool a bit.”
Alberto pointed. “You left your stove on.”
“Hm?” The fire continued to burn beneath the pan of sizzling potatoes. Judging from the smell, they were starting to burn. Slater dashed towards the stove with sudden urgency, spilling some coffee as he slammed the mug on the wooden table along the way. “Shit!”
He moved the pan away from the heat and extinguished the flame. He had been nearly hyperventilating.
Alberto turned and left the kitchen. “Big breakfast.”
Slater remained alone in the kitchen, still catching his breath.
Alberto searched the bedroom, bathroom, and workshop on the second floor without any incident.
The same could be said about his tour of the triangular attic, which had only really been used for storing unused items, like the fourth chair from the set of three in the kitchen. The only moment of note in the attic had been when Alberto found Slater’s gun collection, but he had been surprisingly apathetic to the discovery and simply walked back downstairs without a word.
“Sorry to take up so much of your time,” Alberto spoke calmly as Slater followed him out of the house. Throughout the entire search, Alberto had remained laid-back, with his hands casually in his pockets.
“Gotta do what you gotta do.”
Alberto approached his car, but before he reached for the door, he turned his attention back towards the property, as if forgetting something.
Alberto focused on the mysterious vehicle, obscured by the white sheet.
Slater anxiously followed Alberto back to his garage.
Alberto lifted the white sheet, revealing the hood of a beaten-up pickup truck.
He released the sheet. “I’ll be on my way then.”
Alberto stood just outside the shade of the garage’s roof. He looked ahead, admiring the dirt road that led out of view. “I know you built the entire house, so I shouldn’t be surprised by your answer, but did you clear this road yourself too?”
“Yessir.”
“I guess when you retire you really do have all the time in the world.” His eyes followed the road from the horizon back to his own feet.
That was when he noticed the tire tracks that veered off the road, around the garage towards the east wall of the house. Alberto followed the two lines, like a path on a treasure map.
Slater face remained stoic as he followed. “You look like you got a lotta work to get to. You shouldn’t waste any more of your time here.”
The tracks curved around to the north end of the house.
Slater continued to talk, even as Alberto was about to turn the corner. “Wait—"
Curving around to the back of the house, the two parallel lines reached their end directly under the tires of the white Cadillac. While Slater’s hands shook nervously, Alberto’s remained calm in his pockets.
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