The Long Dark Escrow of the Soul

We found Benjamin Todd at a picnic table on the edge of the parking lot, shaded by an old elm tree overlooking the river. He was sitting with his hands folded in front of him, his phone untouched beside them, almost theatrically staying in view of the various police officers typing on laptops in their cruisers or spreading paperwork across ...

Although Mike had abstained from vodka, I talked him into doing some breathing exercises for thirty seconds or so before he pulled out of the parking lot. He couldn’t get his mind around Benjamin Todd being connected to Tim Hatch’s murder, and stress made him angry. Anger makes him tailgate people and bark at his windshield.

The Ruckmoor had been in operation twenty-one hours a day for decades, five-thirty in the morning until two-thirty in the morning, every single day including Christmas. Long ago, it had been a hole-in-the-wall serving mostly third shift workers, a rough joint for bikers and serious drunks.

Mike and I walked across the parking lot to his truck without any discussion of who was driving, and I climbed into the shotgun seat. It was a beautiful morning, perfect for a relaxing day off, perhaps on a golf course, but our masks were a stark and constant reminder that the shadow of Covid-19 still loomed over us.

I’d never cared for elevators or masks, but there I was, standing in one wearing the other, three more people standing uncomfortably around me, all sporting masks as well. Our breathing sounded like a squad of Darth Vaders. The elevator stopped on the second floor and the guy next to me practically scrambled out into the atrium without a word.