Page 220 of Fury

Elk, Nebraska -my Flames of Hell chapter

Los Angeles, California -where she got married and her son was born

Rapid City, South Dakota -where she raised her son

Meager, South Dakota -her business, her home

Pine Needle, South Dakota -

Pine Needle?

Just past Meager, through wheat and sunflower farms, Pine Needle was a small town, much quieter, more rustic and worn than Meager. Although Meager had experienced something of a renewal the past couple of years, new businesses, younger families, Pine Needle remained sleepy, musty.

What the hell was in Pine Needle that warranted the honor of being tatted on her body?

My eyes shuffled over every compass on the photos, back and forth, back and forth. Every single coordinate tat had a compass above it, almost hidden, embedded in the leaves or the flowers or the birds surrounding it. Each compass had a different direction on it. But this compass in Pine Needle was the only one locked on True North. Only this one was on her chest. And the N for North on this compass was different from the others. This N was bolder, thicker, and in blue flames.

I headed for my bike.

It was late October and the sunflower and wheat and soy fields had been cleared, the air seeped with the aroma of resin and earth. The open land was shorn, gone was its former velvety fullness. The thick fabric of reeds no longer billowed in the winds, shuffling their mysterious music at me. This spartan starkness had its own special appeal. Bare essentials. Stubborn and uncompromising.

I parked my bike in front of Drake’s Garden Center, the exact location of these coordinates on the northeastern edge of Pine Needle.

Potted trees, shrubs, fencing samples, oddball garden fountains littered the wide front yard. A small colonial house that was in dire need of a fresh paint job was also on the property and was probably where the owners lived. A truck was parked out front where a fit man with silvery blond hair tucked into a baseball cap, wearing sunglasses, struggled to unload a wheelbarrow from his pickup that was filled with them. Signs advertising roses and perennials and organic seeds stood on either side of the entrance to a large store with long greenhouses attached on the side and a long one in the back. A field of pumpkins was to the left, a wagon filled with hay stood alone before it.

“Hey there!” the man, who must have been in his mid to late sixties, stopped his attempt at unloading and checked me out. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

He wiped a jittery, shaky gloved hand across his sweaty forehead. “Anything I can help you with?”

“How about I help you with those wheelbarrows?” I asked him.

“Would you? That’d be great.”

“No problem.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it. I shouldn’t be doing this on my own, got a bad back and lately my hands don’t grip the way they used to.”

“I know the feeling,” I said.

“Damnedest thing, getting old.”

“You don’t look so old,” I said.

“I certainly don’t feel old, I can tell you.” He let out a laugh. “The young man who helps me out won’t be coming in until later this afternoon, but I need to unload ‘em now.” He held out a shaky hand. “I’m Steve. Steve Drake.”

I shook it. “Hey Steve. I’m Finger.”

He adjusted his baseball cap, his eyes going to my colors. “Good to meet you, Finger.”

I hoisted myself up on the truck and maneuvered a wheelbarrow out, then another, and another while Steve rolled them inside his store.

He led me through to the interior of the Garden Center. “You looking for anything special today?”

“I am. Just not sure what that is.”

He took off his sunglasses. “A gift?”

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