Page 93 of High Frequency

“His truck, yes, but do we know it’s him?”

“Who else?”

Ewing shrugs, “I don’t know, but there were fingerprints found on one of the shells from the bullets that were fired at you that did not match fingerprints on file for Michael Cedric.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“How about this then?” he follows it up with. “I scanned and emailed a thumbprint I was able to pull off that paint can you dropped off, and it was a match.”

“A match to Cedric?”

Junior shakes his head. “A match to one of the prints on the shell.”

This is getting weirder and weirder.

The more we discover, the less we seem to know.

Dan

“That’s seriously fucked up, man.”

I just finished telling Jackson about Shelby, who she was to me, and how she seems to be connected to the spray-painting of my house, and to the guy who was suspected of dumping the bodies found in the gorge.

“You’re telling me.”

We’re just having a bite to eat, sitting under the awning outside the motorhome. It’s a hot day for September, and the shade is a welcome break from the sun.

While the trades are working inside, Jackson and I have been working on removing some stumps from what is to become my yard. Backbreaking work I wasn’t sure Jackson would be up to, but he seems to be getting around okay on his prosthesis and offered to swing an ax to try and sever the roots.

I didn’t stop him. He’s a grown-ass man, and if he’s feeling the need to prove himself still a man, for his own sake or mine, I’m not gonna stop him. Besides, I figure a bit more upper body muscle might come in handy for him.

“Want another one?” I ask with my hand in the cooler Ama ran out of the house this morning to give to me.

Stocked with water, apples, and probably a loaf’s worth of bread in wrapped sandwiches. She must’ve heard Jackson’s here too, although she didn’t mention it.

“Is there another egg salad?”

I dig one up and toss it to him, grabbing a cheese and ham one for myself.

“You haven’t asked.”

It’s a rhetorical question I don’t even need clarification for. I know exactly what he means. What I take from his comment is he feels as uneasy as I do with the proverbial elephant in the room, and has decided to confront it.

“So you can tell me to fuck off? I figure you’ll talk if you want me to know.”

He seems to think on that, and I take the opportunity to take a bite of my sandwich.

“Honestly, aren’t you pissed? Everyone else seems to be,” he adds under his breath.

I fix my eyes on the river and the mountains beyond, trying to remain calm when I feel anything but.

Still, he wants honest, he’s going to get it.

“Fuck, yeah, I’m angry as hell at you. Been tempted to take a swing at you, but the fact of the matter is, I can’t pretend to know what would fucking drive you to do something like that. I’m not in your shoes.”

I can feel him glancing this way but I need a minute to get a handle on my emotions before I turn to look at him.

“Shoe,” he corrects me, with a wink.

---