The Killing Season

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It was nice without being too extravagant. The room, I mean. It was a city-view deluxe in the northwest corner of the seventh floor of a midpriced metropolitan hotel. I liked the room. It had served me well in the eighteen days I’d been staying there. The city itself was pleasant, too: not too big, not too small. A comfortable environment in which to work.

In much the same way, I’d grown comfortable with the name Blake in the last couple of years. To me, names are a lot like hotel rooms: You pick one that suits your purposes, inhabit it for as long as is feasible, and then move on when the time is right.

Although it was not quite five a.m., I was wide-awake when my cell phone buzzed, having given up on sleep a couple of hours before. Some nights are like that. I hit the button to pick up and held the phone to my ear, not speaking.

“Blake? You there?” The voice on the other end of the line was tired, and cranky about it. It was also familiar.

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