Shallow Graves

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"I heard this scary story about you one time," Marty said, "and I didn't know whether it was true or not."

Pellam didn't look over. He was driving the Winnebago Chieftain 43 back into town. They'd just found an old farmhouse a mile up the road and had offered the astonished owner thirteen hundred dollars to shoot two scenes on his front porch, provided he didn't mind if a combine replaced his rusting orange Nissan in the driveway for a couple of days. For that kind of money, the farmer said, he'd eat the car if that was what they wanted.

Pellam had told him that wouldn't be necessary.

"You used to do stunt work?" Marty asked. His voice was high and Midwest-inflected.

"Some stunts, yeah. Just for a year or so."

"About this film you did?"

"Uh." Pellam pulled off his black 1950s Hugh Hefner sunglasses. The autumn day had dawned bright as blue ice. A half hour ago it had turned dark and now the early afternoon seemed like a winter dusk.

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