At four am, I sat alone in a coffee shop, barely able to see through the haze. It wasn’t cigarette smoke, indoor smoking had been banned years before, but my eyes, and the exhaustion. Still, I could see Horace pushing his way through the crowds.
“Ruddy,” he said, taking a seat.
“I’ve been up for two days,” I said. “I can barely see. But I can tell something is wrong.”
A woman walked by on her way to the bathroom. Horace looked at her hungrily.
“Cosette is dead,” he said.
“Impossible,” I said.
“She is.”
“How?”
“She was impaled by a branch while hiking.”
“A coincidence, then.”
“So is Takehiko.”
“How?”
“Decapitated. With a chainsaw.”
“My god.”
“And Kibwe. Forced exposure.”
“A pattern,” I said. “The police?”
“They can’t help us,” said Horace. “They won’t.”
“You want me to help?” I said.
“Yes.”
“Tomorrow.”
“They’ve died in the last two days. We may not have the time.”
“If you want me on this, tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
“I’ll call you at sunset,” I said. "Be ready.
“I will be.”