Plus there was Ralph Fucking Anderson, who had always been on his case. Mr. No Opinion, who got him hauled back from his fishing vacation by getting suspended . . . which is what Ralphie-boy was, and fuck that administrative leave shit. Ralph Fucking Anderson was the reason that he, Jack Hoskins, had been out in Canning Township instead of sitting in his little cabin, watching DVDs and drinking vodka-tonics.
As he turned in at the billboard （CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE）， a sudden insight electrified him: Ralph Fucking Anderson might have sent him out there on purpose! He could have known the visitor would be waiting, and what the visitor would do. Ralphie-boy had wanted to get rid of him for years, and once you factored that in, all the pieces fell into place. The logic was undeniable. The only thing Ralphie-boy hadn’t counted on was being double-crossed by the man with the tattoos.
As to how this fuckaree would turn out, Jack saw three possibilities. Maybe the visitor could get rid of the poison now coursing through Jack’s system. That was number one. If it was psychosomatic, it would eventually go away on its own. That was number two. Or maybe it was real and the visitor couldn’t take it away. That was number three.
Mr. No Fucking Opinion was going to be history no matter which possibility turned out to be the right one. That was a promise Jack made not to the visitor but to himself. Anderson was going down, and the others would go with him. Clean sweep. Jack Hoskins, American Sniper.
He came to the abandoned ticket booth and detoured around the chain. The wind would probably die away once the sun was up and the temperature really started to climb again, but it was still blowing now, sending sheets of dusty grit flying, and that was good. He wouldn’t have to worry about the meddlers seeing his tracks. If they came at all, that was.
“If they don’t, can you still fix me up?” he asked. Not expecting an answer, but one came.
Oh yes, you’ll be good to go.
Was that a real voice or only his own?
What did it matter?
2
Jack drove past the falling-down tourist cabins, wondering why anyone would want to spend good money to stay near what was essentially just a hole in the ground （at least the name of the place was truthful）。 Did no one have any better places to go? Yosemite? The Grand Canyon? Even the World’s Largest Ball of String would be better than a hole in the ground out here in Dry ’n Dusty Asshole, Texas.
He parked beside the service shed as he had on his previous trip, grabbed his flashlight from the glove compartment, then got the Winchester and a box of ammo out of the lockbox. He stuffed his pockets with shells, started for the path, then turned back and shone his light through one of the dusty windows of the shed’s garage-type roll-up door, thinking there might be something he could use inside. There wasn’t, but what he saw still made him smile: a dust-covered compact car, probably a Honda or a Toyota. On the back window was a decal reading MY SON IS A FLINT CITY HIGH SCHOOL HONOR STUDENT! Poisoned or not, Jack’s rudimentary detective skills were intact. His visitor was here, all right; he had driven down from FC in this stolen car.
Feeling better—and actually hungry for the first time since the tattooed hand had come creeping around the shower curtain—Jack returned to the truck and rummaged in the glove compartment some more. He eventually unearthed a package of peanut butter crackers and half a roll of Tums. Not exactly the breakfast of champions, but better than nothing. He started up the trail, munching one of the Nabs and carrying the Winnie in his left hand. There was a strap, but if he slung it over his shoulder, it would chafe his neck. Maybe make it bleed. His pockets, heavy with cartridges, swung and bumped against his legs.
He halted at the faded Indian sign （old Chief Wahoo testifying that Carolyn Allen sucked his redskin cock）， struck by a sudden thought. Anyone coming down the byroad leading to the tourist cabins would see his Ram parked beside the service shed and wonder what was up with that. He considered going back to move it, then decided he was worrying needlessly. If the meddlers came, they’d park near the main entrance. As soon as they got out to look around, he would open fire from his shooter’s perch on top of the bluff, knocking two or maybe even three of them down before they realized what was happening. The others would go scurrying around like chickens in a thunderstorm. He’d get them before they could find cover. There was no need to worry about what they might see from the tourist cabins, because Mr. No Opinion and his friends were never going to get out of the parking lot.
3
The path up the bluff was treacherous in the dark, even with the help of the flashlight, and Jack took his time. He had enough problems without falling and breaking something. By the time he got to his lookout point, the first hesitant light was starting to seep into the sky. He shone his flash on the pitchfork he’d left behind the day before, started to reach for it, then recoiled. He hoped this wasn’t an omen of how the rest of his day was going to go, but the situation had its irony, and even in his current situation, Jack could appreciate it.