END OF CHAPTER 4:

Careful not to have his plan overheard by the wrong ears, Chance encouraged the surly bartender, "Another round."

"Don't gulp it all at one time, Barracuda. You ain't no fish," the bartender grumbled.

The crotchety mixologist slammed the drink down on top of the bar. He slung the glass all the way down the bar, and went about his business so sudden, Chance was taken aback. A simpleton like Andrews could not fathom such behavior. His single-tracked mind scarcely grasped what the bartender did. The act made Andrews madder than Chance had ever seen him before.

Give Andrews a grievance and the skinny-necked turd-floater would save the atrocity like fresh-printed money. His main form of folly. Andrews washed the dust out of his throat with the drink Chance provided him. The less talk he had to listen to the better humor he was in. Andrews considered the offer he'd been made. His new word of the day? Affirmed.

For reasons of his own that pleased his accomplishment, Chance nodded his head. He had gained Tyler Andrews trust. Chance massaged his ear and sunset quiet murmured, "The dinner bell has lost its clapper."

There was no need for further discussion



#############################################################################
#############################################################################


Chapter 5:

A key missing piece of the jigsaw remained to be found. Punctual, Chance checked his watch with its spidered plastic dial face. That's the condition the Timex was in when he absconded with the time marker. Soon thereafter, he entered one of his least favorite locations in the hellacious galaxy he knew as the streets of Nashville. A dry twig cracked under his boot. The crunch sounded like a snapped bone.

Looking down, Chance said, "Dog crap. Glad I didn't step in that. Why can't some owners clean up after their animals? The lazy reprobates."

Everything in this environment crawled at an incomprehensible snail's pace, especially for anyone who hadn't served hard time. Chance knew there had been strong men who'd walked these throes and wept until their hair turned white as chalk. He had realised this unimaginable torment for several years. An experience he vowed to reciprocate if possible.

A left at the eighth red maple and Chance looked up at a robin's nest with an interwoven piece of gold yarn. He counted three cyan blue eggs and knew they would soon hatch.

"That's a peculiar place to build a nest," Chance said out loud.

Circling an oversized white oak full of Spanish moss and lichens, Chance rested under a sweetgum, with its small branches and palmate lobes that looked like the palm and fingers of a hand. The tree hugged the far perimeter of the property next to a picket fence line. As if a puppet in a tiny room, Chance paced from one plot to the next. Each careful step returned another far-reaching memory.

Though he did not know any of them, nor pause to read the names of their occupants along his journey, Chance saw four family plots, six side-by-side companion permanent addresses, and an assortment of single places of internment. Headstones of various shapes and sizes marked each final resting spot. Fresh red roses in brass holders ornamented a couple of the better maintained sites..

This was reality and only important information ever seeped out through the vapors and thickets. An unseen predator attracted him in restraints, but Chance did not dwell in fear. Rather, Chance smiled as though he were to be paroled from the prison that bound him or just won a multi-million dollar lottery. Take your pick. Chance did not dread the heavy load he bore. He had toted the note for a long time.

An unseen entity seemed to chide him, "I don't know why you're smiling. There have been no jokes or ha ha stories told."

"I came to see you," Chance replied. He flashed one of his patented don't mess with me glances and stated, "You want something and so do I."

An eerie silence, as though stranded alone in the middle of strange dark woods, fell.

Making eye contact with the solid black tombstone that rested comfortably in the Spring Hill Cemetery on Gallatin Pike, Chance continued with a fixed look, "Even though he only talked when he required something, he was a friend of yours."

A tranquil calmness placated the air.

Lowering his voice as if there was an unwanted third party beside him eavesdropping on every word Chance reflected and reiterated, "So, tell me what it is you have to say. I think it's worth a lot and I'm listening."

A soft wind fluttered the treetops.

With full attention, Chance continued, "Ethan Stackhouse, Dylan Andrews, and Blake Morgan. The three of them have guests in their attics. Rumors have it they want to cut me out of the picture. The news hit me like a sucker punch. But, here's the laugh line. I haven't dropped the bomb on them...yet. When I do, it will rattle them to their cores." He pondered his comment and vowed, "They're all out of protection. Double caps will make sure of that. There's more, isn't there?"

He waited, anticipating.

Shaking his head, Chance replied, "You knew I'd come asking questions. You know me well. Sometimes, I wonder if you know me better than I know myself?" He brushed a leafless twig off the top of the stone and stated, "I assure you the fever hasn't stripped my advantage."

As Chance turned to leave he read the name on the tombstone. An icy cold chilled him.


(TO BE CONTINUED:)


#############################################################################
#############################################################################


CAST OF CHARACTERS:

Chance Macallister - Homeless street urchin. Mastermind behind a bank robbery. Becomes assassination target of co-conspirators

Ethan Stackhouse, Dylan Andrews, and Blake Morgan - Co-conspirators in bank robbery

Unidentified entity in Spring Hill Cemetery