In the Company of Killers, Bryan Christy [love story books to read .txt] 📗

black snake,” Russell said. The only change for Russell was that the leaf lookers from the City drove faster through his property now. The county put up some yellow signs for the tourists about slowing down, but it didn’t do any good. It got to be dangerous, so Russell made up a sign that got straight to the point. He painted it himself and staked it into the rocky ground just before the turn onto his property. The sign read, “Stop Killing My Chickens!”

When he noticed people were slowing down to photograph his sign, Russell built a lean-to just beyond the sign with a table under it, and placed a small refrigerator and a freezer on it. For power he ran an orange extension cord across his yard, up the steps of his front porch, and through a cracked window into his house. A sign told you how much the steaks, sausages, chicken parts, and pork chops inside the freezer cost, though it was hit or miss what you might find on your particular visit. Russell vacuum-sealed the meat and wrote the date the animal was butchered on the plastic wrap with a Sharpie. Another sign asked you to raise the red metal flag welded to the refrigerator to let him know when he was out of eggs. The supply of both eggs and chickens generally depended on the foxes.

The eggs were expensive as eggs went, but Klay liked to say hello to a person every once in a while, so he stopped by Russell’s place two or three times a month, whether he needed eggs or not. He went the long way to get his gas at Van Guilder’s for the same reason. There was another reason he stopped by Russell’s lately. Russell’s daughter was a doctor in the City, but on her visits home Grace was a farmer’s daughter in mucking boots and overalls. They talked easily. When Grace was working for her father, Klay found it could take half the morning just to pick up a dozen eggs. She had a wonderful smile and she didn’t ask him about his past. He felt like he didn’t have a past in her company. On her most recent visit, she had handed him a piece of paper with his eggs. It was her phone number. This weekend they were planning to go on their first date.

He brought the pump to ten dollars even and went inside Van Guilder’s to pay. He put his money on the counter and weighted it down with a smooth gray river stone resting beside the cash register for that purpose, same as usual. Van Guilder’s Mercantile sold milk, assorted candy bars, motor oil, and fishing and hunting supplies, including three pairs of Wolverine brand work boots in unlikely sizes. A red fox with one paw raised as if to say hello was mounted to a birch branch in the store’s front window, its fur moth-eaten and bleached to a pale yellow. A cardboard “Be Back Soon” clock hung inside the door for when Van Guilder was away. Someone had drawn antlers on the six with a ballpoint pen. Klay hadn’t been to Van Guilder’s during deer season yet, but he was looking forward to the venison stew everybody talked about.

He touched the silent clock on his way out. Capturing time on paper had been his life for so long. Suddenly he recalled the clocks scratching away in the Confession Club. It was remarkable the things that rose unbidden from his mind. The past was not ever dead. It lived with him, bodies and all. If not for Eady, he might still be with Hungry. If not for Eady, he might still be a journalist. Who could tell the impact of that one blood-covered stone tossed into the pond of his life. He did know one thing. The ripples were quieter now that he’d done something about it.

He paused to greet Van Guilder, same as usual.

“See your story got the cover again,” the old man said, nodding toward a news rack. The rack held copies of American Angler, Truck Trader, Guns & Ammo, and a few local papers, along with the New York Times.

When the news finally broke that Klay was a CIA asset, Porfle had sent him an email telling him he was fired. “Dear Mr. Klay,” it began. When the story subsequently went viral, Sharon had emailed him: “Tom! Come back! We want to give you your own column. ‘The Sovereign’s Agent.’ It will be your BRAND! I’ll send you a mock-up. What do you think?”

He declined.

The Agency’s plan had been to reengage with Krieger, to wrap him up in noncompetes and NDAs, overwhelm him with carrots and pretend they could control him. But Krieger had them by their secrets, and as long as that was the case, Klay knew where their hearts and minds would be.

Botha had texted after it was done. His message was short: “Never knew he was fair game.” Klay didn’t write back. Porfle had been right about snipers and editors. An investigative journalist fires his shot from a long way off, sitting alone at a desk, and waits for word of a result. Klay bent down and picked up a copy of the Times from Van Guilder’s rack.

He had been more than happy to send Raynor McPhee what he had, including recordings he’d made of Eady’s final confession: “I stepped off that two-bit amusement ride and invested in the amusement park instead . . .”

Raynor’s first story had run on the front page above the fold. The article, taking up two more pages inside, had vindicated Hungry, and already she and her anti-corruption effort had been reinstated, her task force granted even more power. Ncube was on his way out. Today’s article was the second in a three-part series. It was also front page.

“MURDER PORTFOLIO: Rogue Intelligence Funds Kill for Profit.”

He scanned the first few grafs. It was all there: The Fund, Eady’s “suicide,” Klay’s double life, Krieger’s hunting accident. After