Ring of Knives

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"Hell of a day, ain't it?"

"You said it." Matt stared out the windshield, his fingers white-knuckling his rucksack. Fog choked the winding road so badly that the tow truck seemed to be plowing through a sea of milk. The glare from the truck's headlights revealed nothing ahead but the broken flash of yellow median lines, which slipped into view just a second before being eaten up by the truck. Occasionally the jagged shadows of black pines faded into view along the roadside, only to drown, seconds later, in the milk.

The driver shook his head, snorted. "Only a fool'd be out on a day like this."

Matt decided to let that one pass.

"How long you had that Ranger?"

Matt told him he'd had the old Ford for three weeks. That he'd got it off a part-time cop in Galesburg in exchange for building an addition onto his porch.

"Ford," the driver snorted. "Fix Or Repair Daily. Ain't that the truth?"

Matt said he guessed it was, wishing to God he'd been picked up by a mute. He stole a glance at the driver. The guy hadn't gotten any better looking since Matt first laid eyes on him: beer-bellied, as bald as Mr. Clean, wearing a black Harley T, black "Don't Tread on Me" ball cap, and black Terminator wraparound shades.

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