Jane Arness found herself in the coffee shop staring at Hatchet's abandoned masterpiece. It hung in a more prominent position in the main room among the shop's permanent collection. She had recently developed this habit of sitting in the same chair at the same table, drinking the same drink, eyes frozen in a saprophagous daze. She knew it irrational but she had grown convinced the scene imprisoned within the frame would shift and morph albeit with the speed of the short hand on a clock. The clouds always seemed in flux and the horizon birthing new hints of dimension, the light purling new rays and shadow. Its beauty shocked her no matter how many times her eyes ruminated its depth, contemplated its meaning. What is the meaning of this thing? Why is it here? How can it be here doing this to me? She felt weak and ashamed.
Hours before, her phone conversation with Poole had grown heated. She accused Poole of knowing more about Hatchet's whereabouts and activities than he would admit. She accused him of being over protective of her emotions, the inward consideration of which she confessed must give that contingency legitimacy. She threatened to cut all ties with him if she found out that he was concealing anything from her. Poole countered that this seemed an empty dare considering the two had been growing further apart for months. He reiterated his ignorance of Hatchet's whereabouts. He had even contacted the park headquarters in Big Bend in hopes of tracking him down but they would not and claimed they could not release any information to him, especially over the phone. Hatchet is probably deep inside Mexico by now, Jane, maybe even Central America. Jane fumed. I know there's something you're not telling me, Dexter, you can't lie to me. No more than you can read my mind, he told her, let me try something; I have a hunch; let's meet for coffee later.
Fine.
Poole had entered through the front door behind her and was now staring at the back of her head in stoned fear of what he was unprepared to discuss. He loved her as any brother loves a sister and the truths he was about to reveal challenged his courage to a death match it was too exhausted and too old to leave the confines of its cage to fight.
Coffee, Poole? Oscar was standing at the entrance to the backroom waiting for an answer, Jane at the table in the middle of the room between them turning to meet Poole's flushed gaze. Yeah, Oscar, thanks. He sat down across from her, blocking her view of the photograph. The anxiety in his face dripped like blood from a wound. She stiffened in preparation of divulgement. Oscar delivered the coffee, leaving Poole no other avenues to stall. When he was sure Oscar had returned to the counter, he began.
Jane...
Just spit it out, Dexter.
Jane, I haven't been completely—.
Where is he?
I don't know where he is but I did something for him, something I probably shouldn't have done. She was on the verge of either tears or an outburst. He wasn't sure which. About a week or so after he disappeared, he called me. I know this, Dexter. Just let me finish; he wound up stealing something more than money when—, Poole realized the volume of his voice and lowered it and leaned in toward her vibrating chin, he wound up with a piece of very rare art, something of almost unimaginable value; so he called me and asked me if I knew of anyone who could help him get rid of it. You have fucked up big-time, Dexter, you helped him in this didn't you? you have become an accomplice to this. Just let me finish, please. He reached across the table to touch her hand but stopped halfway. I know some people, a couple of brothers from back in my pawnshop days; I got him in touch with them just to get him out of a jam. And...
Poole could feel his battered courage retreating in the face of certain defeat.
Jane whispered, What the fuck has happened!
Something went wrong. Wrong? what went wrong? I'm not sure but Johnny, the younger brother, and a girl, they think she was Johnny's girlfriend, are dead. Oh my god. I can't find Ricky; apparently, he was in the hospital for a couple of weeks in coma; but nobody knows where he is now. How did they die? They were shot; it's very confusing.
Shot? you don't think... you do. You think Marcus did this.
Jane, he texted me and told me when he was meeting them; he had to have been there when it happened; that doesn't mean he did it but it sure as hell means he was involved. Another possibility struck her. Poole, do you think Marcus is okay? do you think he's been shot too? do you think he might be dead somewhere? Jane, let's get out of here. Her shoulders went to shaking and he took her by the arm as they started out but she wrenched it away as they left.
He followed her to her car parked just a few feet up the curb. She got in and slammed the door. Poole knelt down, looking at her through the window. Her eyes had unleashed the tears and she was rubbing her neck in frustration. A hollow mass wallowed inside her, a feeling she had never felt before, a seething dense muscular tumor of revulsion for both Hatchet and Poole as if a camouflet in a deep mine had popped, leaving a vacancy for this morbid growth, this cloud of dark energy pushing her parts in equal and painful directions, straining the connections, compromising the last of her concern. Nevertheless, this thing just couldn't break her. She had invested too much in these friendships for anything to erase her love for them. She glanced at him across her wet cheeks and running nose and gathered herself and rubbed her face a few times before lowering the window.
Jane, the police don't know what happened; they never had the chance to interview Ricky; we can't jump to conclusions. Poole, if he's dead, if he's hurt, she straightened herself and heaved her reddened eyes on him, I will hold you responsible. I already hold myself responsible, Jane, Marcus trusted me to help him; this is my fault. No, this is all his fault but you put yourself in this thing and you fucked it up so you had better find him, she said, you better find him and bring him home; I can't take much more of this, Dexter. I know Jane, I won't let you down. She started the car. Just don't let Marcus down, not again.
Hours before, her phone conversation with Poole had grown heated. She accused Poole of knowing more about Hatchet's whereabouts and activities than he would admit. She accused him of being over protective of her emotions, the inward consideration of which she confessed must give that contingency legitimacy. She threatened to cut all ties with him if she found out that he was concealing anything from her. Poole countered that this seemed an empty dare considering the two had been growing further apart for months. He reiterated his ignorance of Hatchet's whereabouts. He had even contacted the park headquarters in Big Bend in hopes of tracking him down but they would not and claimed they could not release any information to him, especially over the phone. Hatchet is probably deep inside Mexico by now, Jane, maybe even Central America. Jane fumed. I know there's something you're not telling me, Dexter, you can't lie to me. No more than you can read my mind, he told her, let me try something; I have a hunch; let's meet for coffee later.
Fine.
Poole had entered through the front door behind her and was now staring at the back of her head in stoned fear of what he was unprepared to discuss. He loved her as any brother loves a sister and the truths he was about to reveal challenged his courage to a death match it was too exhausted and too old to leave the confines of its cage to fight.
Coffee, Poole? Oscar was standing at the entrance to the backroom waiting for an answer, Jane at the table in the middle of the room between them turning to meet Poole's flushed gaze. Yeah, Oscar, thanks. He sat down across from her, blocking her view of the photograph. The anxiety in his face dripped like blood from a wound. She stiffened in preparation of divulgement. Oscar delivered the coffee, leaving Poole no other avenues to stall. When he was sure Oscar had returned to the counter, he began.
Jane...
Just spit it out, Dexter.
Jane, I haven't been completely—.
Where is he?
I don't know where he is but I did something for him, something I probably shouldn't have done. She was on the verge of either tears or an outburst. He wasn't sure which. About a week or so after he disappeared, he called me. I know this, Dexter. Just let me finish; he wound up stealing something more than money when—, Poole realized the volume of his voice and lowered it and leaned in toward her vibrating chin, he wound up with a piece of very rare art, something of almost unimaginable value; so he called me and asked me if I knew of anyone who could help him get rid of it. You have fucked up big-time, Dexter, you helped him in this didn't you? you have become an accomplice to this. Just let me finish, please. He reached across the table to touch her hand but stopped halfway. I know some people, a couple of brothers from back in my pawnshop days; I got him in touch with them just to get him out of a jam. And...
Poole could feel his battered courage retreating in the face of certain defeat.
Jane whispered, What the fuck has happened!
Something went wrong. Wrong? what went wrong? I'm not sure but Johnny, the younger brother, and a girl, they think she was Johnny's girlfriend, are dead. Oh my god. I can't find Ricky; apparently, he was in the hospital for a couple of weeks in coma; but nobody knows where he is now. How did they die? They were shot; it's very confusing.
Shot? you don't think... you do. You think Marcus did this.
Jane, he texted me and told me when he was meeting them; he had to have been there when it happened; that doesn't mean he did it but it sure as hell means he was involved. Another possibility struck her. Poole, do you think Marcus is okay? do you think he's been shot too? do you think he might be dead somewhere? Jane, let's get out of here. Her shoulders went to shaking and he took her by the arm as they started out but she wrenched it away as they left.
He followed her to her car parked just a few feet up the curb. She got in and slammed the door. Poole knelt down, looking at her through the window. Her eyes had unleashed the tears and she was rubbing her neck in frustration. A hollow mass wallowed inside her, a feeling she had never felt before, a seething dense muscular tumor of revulsion for both Hatchet and Poole as if a camouflet in a deep mine had popped, leaving a vacancy for this morbid growth, this cloud of dark energy pushing her parts in equal and painful directions, straining the connections, compromising the last of her concern. Nevertheless, this thing just couldn't break her. She had invested too much in these friendships for anything to erase her love for them. She glanced at him across her wet cheeks and running nose and gathered herself and rubbed her face a few times before lowering the window.
Jane, the police don't know what happened; they never had the chance to interview Ricky; we can't jump to conclusions. Poole, if he's dead, if he's hurt, she straightened herself and heaved her reddened eyes on him, I will hold you responsible. I already hold myself responsible, Jane, Marcus trusted me to help him; this is my fault. No, this is all his fault but you put yourself in this thing and you fucked it up so you had better find him, she said, you better find him and bring him home; I can't take much more of this, Dexter. I know Jane, I won't let you down. She started the car. Just don't let Marcus down, not again.
Edit 12.2.2018