31. The Secret War, chapter 2

Editor's Note: This is the second chapter of a novel that Hawkinson is apparently writing; it has no basis in reality and nothing to do with the other activities and individuals noted in this blog, or so I am told. People around here can be pretty slippery.

Chapter 2

Spinning like a dervish, I dodged screaming headlights piercing the fog first from one way and then the other. My fishing line had snapped and I was in the middle of the road, and at a loss to navigate a return trip back to the house. A large refuse truck was drifting over the centerline, rumbling straight for me. I used my training skills to turn sideways, standing up as straight as possible to make myself a smaller target. The truck jammed on its brakes, slid sideways, its hydraulic handle just snagging a button from my coat; the driver snarled, “Hey, buddy, you wanna die young or somethin’? Ya kin always join the Tombstone Pizza garbage—ha, ha, ha!”

During a lull in the traffic, I maneuvered to a narrow sidewalk along the road. Inside my coat pocket was the single piece of mail I had retrieved from the Seahawk. On one side was written, “Et a gut brakefas’.” On the reverse side was a photo of a grizzly bear shredding a salmon—and the salmon looking none too

Grizzly bear eating a good breakfast

happy about it. I flipped the photo over back and forth, noticing it wasn’t a postcard. There was no place for a stamp, no address. It was simply a photo with writing on the back . . . that someone had stuck in my mailbox. 

Knowing from my training that the most dangerous thing to do in the fog is to try to retrace your steps back to your home base, I jammed the photo in my coat pocket and began walking down the sidewalk, cars still racing by only inches away from me, their horns screaming, and their lights burning in my eyes. My mind was filling with questions. Overhead, ravens seemed to mock me in increasing numbers. A murder of crows, I recalled, and a conspiracy of ravens. Bad omens either way. I secretly hoped that they would crash into the local “canning” factory and die from the fog-enhanced stench.

A few minutes had passed, and I found myself in front of the Parkside Restaurant & Grill. The front door was framed by a large sign: “Mirabel ‘Marbles’ White Crow, Owner and Head Cook.” An even larger sign warned: “Don’t even think about coming in without wiping your shoes!” I wiped my shoes and settled at the bar. As I waited for service, my eyes drifted down a row of “Employee of the Month” photos.  The same person was featured in the last eleven out of twelve months. The nameplate boldly identified that person as Mirabel “Marbles” White Crow. The twelfth photo was still blank.

“Pancakes, hon?” asked a voice from behind a wall. “Made from fresh corn . . . “

Was she talking to me?