Vol 2, Issue 1

Let that iron gate declare what it will: NO TRESPASSING AFTER 5 PM. It can’t even stop the lawbreaking of winds: the reeling ones mock it. Look at it swat. So, whether you follow or whether you travel the long way around it will, either way, squeal its alarm into night and profess to its own instabilities. The young man here, the whistler, does he heed the admonitions of a few crusty, rusty old stiffjointed bars that must lean on each other for common support? Then neither should we. Sunlight still abides. And we are but ghosts to the paperpale ghost that has also been conjured the whistler’s way.

What is that tune? I know it. And you?…It’s Mozart? Of course! Piano Concerto One or the Other. An early one: filled with the promise of youth; an early one, nimble with fatherly goadings. Once on a time, that song was a hit.

It’s here we begin.

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My eyes snapped open. Hands still clutching the steering wheel, foot on the accelerator. Jesus Christ, Joe. How long were you asleep this time?

The car veered away from the motorway central barrier, speedometer needle nudging eighty miles an hour. It was dark and the motorway was empty. My dashboard clock read 1:54. A light rain fell and formed clouds of fine orange mist around the motorway lights.

This stretch heading north was always quiet, always empty at this time of night. My foot slowly squeezed down on the accelerator: eight-five, ninety. I clicked the window switch and it slid down halfway with an electronic hum. I expected the icy whip of night air across my face, to clear my head and rinse the soporific fog from the car, but the air outside was warm and still. The light rain was more of a low cloud. It was thick with humidity. It felt like I was moving through greasy water.

Still on the M90. The Kinross exit must be coming up soon. Exit number six. Come on, number six.

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Sheriff Stephen Drake always closed his office near twilight.

He took his radio and pager home, but usually by nightfall things were quiet in town. Sure, occasionally something went wrong, but that was mostly the weekend. On a normal weeknight, say a Tuesday or Wednesday, he could look forward to a hot meal and a shower at home without getting a call. Lazarus was small enough that everyone knew everyone else; he rounded up the same drunk and disorderly twice a month, busted the same teenagers, and dealt with occasional spousal fights.

He let his secretary off around 4:00, and his two deputies cleared out about an hour later. Stephen was finishing some paperwork in his office, and running late. He finally got up and was ready to leave around 6:20. He realized he’d left his wallet in his drawer and went back for it.

When he turned around, a man was waiting at his front desk.

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Brett opened an eye and examined the ceiling of his bedroom. A hangover blossomed but it was Saturday, so he wasn’t worried.

He rolled over and his eyes settled on the red digital figures of his alarm clock.

21:17.

Shock penetrated his post-sleep cocoon and he was awake, alert and scared shitless.

He strode to his window and pulled on a pair of shorts. He knew before he got to his window that it was morning.

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