© 2009

The frozen lake and the black vacuum sky and the dead man pleading for the return of his remaining days.

“There must be some kind of mistake.”

No.

“You’ve got the wrong guy.”

No.

“You’re gonna pay for this.”

Viejo compañero, I’ve paid in advance.

And before he can come up with any more material I unroll a line of duct tape, cut it, and place it over his mouth.

I step away from the car, check back up the trail.

Moonlight on the green Park Service hut. Snow on the dogwoods. No new tire tracks.

Apart from me and my confederates, no one’s been here in days, probably weeks. I close the BMW’s trunk and take off my ski mask. He kicks at the side panels with his soles but the muffled protests cease after a couple of minutes.

I plunge my left hand into the coat pocket and bring out an orange.

I stare at it obsessively for a moment, but the color and the smell are making my head spin. I return it to the coat.

“An orange,” I say to myself with a smile.

I breathe the crisp December air, shiver.

I open the driver’s-side door.

The seat. The key. The heat.

I rummage in the bag and find Paco’s Mexican cigarettes.

I partially close the door and look at the BMW’s rocket ship display. Which of these is the clock? Ah, there it is next to the GPS: 6:02 a.m. At least a one-hour wait. We won’t go onto the ice until sunup-no point in taking unnecessary risks in the dark.

I light the cigarette, inhale the loose, sweet tobacco, and let it coat my lungs.

The smoke warms my insides to such an extent that when I exhale I feel empty, scared.