Though my college years were kind to me and afforded me many chances to assert and hone my mental prowess, it did not help me discover my career path. Like many at that point, I spent my senior year struggling to determine what I was going to do with the rest of my life. Essay writing held promise, if not a lot of profit, and other fields such as computers and design seemed both interesting and plausible.

However, it was the campus police chief that wound up starting me on my eventual path. After I stumbled into a case involving a minor car break-in, he took an interest in me and encouraged me to become a detective, putting my talents to use for solving crime. He was even kind enough to pull strings and get me into to my state's police academy, where I went after graduation.

Unfortunately, the academy and I never got along. Actually, my superiors didn't appreciate my wit and, after two weeks and more than a few rounds with my instructor, I resigned thinking that would be the end of my career in law enforcement.

But then things took yet another bizarre twist. The commandant, whom I'd never met, caught wind of of who I was and what I could do and sought me out, despite my rather unpleasant departure. Though he couldn't place me on the force since I wasn't a graduate, he encouraged and eventually got many of the higher ups in the state to believe in me and one of them, a former cop turned career politician by the name of Mike Digowski, agreed that I was too important to let go and offered to keep me on a retainer.

The idea was simple. The state police commission would pay me a paltry sum in order to keep my number on speed dial for cases their “traditional” methodology couldn't solve, or more likely, cases they didn't care enough about to invest their own men in.

Reluctantly, very reluctantly, I accepted the offer. The retainer, when combined with my income as a freelance essayist and novelist, made for a humble, but manageable living. My partner in life, April, quickly became my partner in crime solving, joining me on many of the cases and bringing her own perspective to the rather unusual puzzles we found ourselves roaming into.

It quickly became apparent that the only thing that was certain with every case we entered into was that we were going to be earning our fee, the hard way.

She was right to worry. We blew by a “Speed Limit 55” sign at nearly eighty miles an hour and were tearing around the corners of the old country road like circuit drivers on the final lap.

“I'm sorry. We're just pressed for time. We need to move.”

“What's the rush anyway?” she asked.

“I got a call from Mike. He wants me to take a look at some suspicious accident on route 81. He says it's important.”

“An accident?”

“Yeah,” I said as the car jumped up suddenly leaving behind gray pothole-ridden pavement for smooth black asphalt, “Not his style, I know. But he's meeting us there. So, I don't know.”

“Mike?” she asked with a slight grimace, “When did he start caring about accidents?”

“About an hour ago apparently.”

April paused for a bit and propped her elbow against the window, resting her chin in the palm of her hand. I could tell she was trying to act calm in the face of my outrageous driving but she was clearly getting annoyed. However, my eyes remained firmly on the road and on my watch as I tried desperately to meet my deadline while the minutes kept ticking away.

“So anyway, what is the rush?” she asked.

“Well, I called the local police on the scene. They're cleaning up the accident now and plan to have everything gone by seven.”

“Seven? What time is it now?”

“About 6:20, give or take. Luckily we're almost there.”

“Where exactly is there?”

I paused a moment and looked around me. I saw nothing but trees and telephone poles blowing by me at an ever-increasing rate of speed. Though my foot was inching closer and closer to the floor, the miles only seemed to drag on longer and longer.

“The middle of nowhere apparently. The exact geometric center of nothingness,” I finally replied.

When we finally pulled up to the scene at a shade past 6:40, the wreck was very much intact and it was a sight to behold. The road, which had been relatively straight for the past mile or so suddenly veered almost ninety degrees to the right and a car had completely missed the turn, run over a reflective arrow and smashed headlong into a hard embankment.

The car looked like Hell. Since the embankment wasn't exactly flush with the road the right side had hit first and the car was sent spinning to the side where it's rear end struck a tree. The result was an accordion-like effect that took at least a foot off the length of the car and created an abstract lump of crumpled steel and glass out of what once was a perfectly sound machine.

The driver, obviously, hadn't fared much better. A few feet away from the car's final resting place an ambulance crew was putting the finishing touches on a body bag and loading it onto a waiting stretcher. For the sake of my stomach, I prayed that I wouldn't have to investigate that particular element.

No sooner had April and I been able to take in the full horror of the scene, when one of the local cops came running up to our window.

“Excuse me sir,” he said with a thick southern accent as he tugged as his belt, “There ain't nothin' you can do here. You best be on your way.”

I reached into my shirt pocket and pulled out my badge, “I'm special detective Altru, I was called here by Mike…”

“Tony!” Mike called out interrupting my sentence. He had finally spotted my car and was trotting over to greet me. Though Mike was a good-natured guy, as good-natured as any politician can get, he wasn't a small fellow, despite being on the short side, and with his Italian blood giving him such dark hair and smooth facial features, he looked ridiculous pretending to run over to me.

He stuck his hand inside my lowered window and shook my hand, “I'm glad you could make it Tony, we got a doozy on our hands here.”

I pushed open the door and got out. Though I heard April do the same, I didn't see her as Mike, being one of those huggy, personable guys, grabbed me by the shoulders and looked me up and down.

“Jesus,” he said, “Do you wear anything but black? Every time I see you you've got that damn suit on. You look like you're going to a damn funeral or something.”

“That's funny,” I said before he could continue, “Every time I see you it's because someone's dead. I thought I was dressing appropriately.”

“Heh,” he said looking around at the other officers on the scene.

“Besides,” I said tugging on the lapels of his gray jacket, “I think I'm doing better than this polyester monstrosity.”

Mike knew I was sensitive about my eccentricities and picks at them only to get under my skin. Of course, I know he's sensitive about his weight and his clothes but even more sensitive about being taken seriously by the officers he works over. That's why, when I heard the snickering around me, I knew I'd scored a good blow.

However, I also knew he'd forgive me, it wasn't like he had much choice.

“Well,” he said pushing my hand away and straightening his jacket, “What do you say I show you around.”

After introducing me to the other officers, he showed me around the scene of the accident. He showed me the marks in the grass where the car went off the road, the point of initial impact and showed me the car itself, which was surprisingly devoid of blood for such a major accident. However, all in all, I saw nothing interesting.

When he was done, I looked at him and said, “Ok Mike, I give up, why did you drag me out here?”

“What do you mean?”

“This is an accident. It's as plain as day. There's no evidence of foul play, there's not even another human being in sight outside of the local cops and the only thing remotely interesting is the lack of skid marks in the road.”

“Why does that interest you?” he asked.

“Well, there's two warning signs for the turn up the road, I'd like to think that the person at least tried to stop before running off the road, but apparently they didn't. Speaking of which, who is the victim?”

Mike pulled out his notepad and thumbed through the pages, “The license was for a Shela Albertson, 27, from Morton just down the road. However, the body was too mangled to confirm so we're going to have to get a final identification at the morgue. Maybe then we'll get some more background.”

“I see,” I said looking at him impatiently. I started giving him hand signals to continue but he simply shrugged his shoulders at me. Eventually, I relented, “So why I am I here?”

“Oh, you don't know?” he said with a puzzled look coming over his face.

“No, I don't know. You haven't told me,” I said, my frustration showing through.

“Oh, that's right,” he said reeling back a bit, “Well, you see, this is the thirteenth wreck and the tenth fatality at this turn in the last two years and for a highway this empty that's a pretty big deal.”

Honestly, that didn't shock me. It was a horrible turn and it was painfully obvious the only reason they cut it as sharp as they did was to avoid the rock structure that the car thrust itself into. It was a classic case of sloppy road craftsmanship and, as far as I was concerned, nothing more..

“So, then this turn needs a guardrail, not a detective. Bad planning doesn't equal homicide. You can't prosecute the road planner, as much as I'd like to.”

“You see, it goes a bit beyond that. The local residents are pretty spooked. They're saying that it's cursed land or something like that.”

I did a quick 360 on my heels and tried to see if I could feel anything special about the area. I don't believe in curses, not those types of curses anyway, but I figured if there was something there I might be able to pick it up. Unfortunately, the feeling of death was still heavy in the air and the panic of the scene pretty much drowned out anything else I might have been able to feel.

“So is this road built on an Indian burial ground or something?” I asked, my voice dripping with sarcasm, “I mean, they have to have a reason for believing that. ”

“Nope, it's built on the land of a dead hypnotist.”

At that point, I nearly broke down and cried. After months without a case I get dragged nearly two hours into the wilderness for a spook story about a hypnotist. It was all I could do to avoid a random outburst of emotions and eek out, “Ok, what's the story,” in a semi-serious tone.

“Well, the legend is pretty well known out here. It's about a guy named Marxam the Great. He was one of those stage hypnotists like you invite to parties or see at comedy clubs. He was a big smash in the eighties, toured the country and everything. That is until he was exposed as a fraud. Apparently he paid his subjects to do as he commanded and, in one show, when one of them didn't like a 'suggestion' the guy dropped the charade and started fessing up to the audience about what was going on.”

“So much for going out on top,” I said still trying to keep a straight face.

“Anyway, his career was ruined. He couldn't get a job doing kid's parties, much less headline acts. But then, luck smiled on him and his father passed away leaving him all of this land.”

“How much land?”

“It goes for about a mile or so in that direction,” Mike said pointing down the road from the crash, “We're near the edge right now but he owns a lot of property on both sides of the road. Probably almost a thousand acres.”

“Pretty nice inheritance for a down-and-out showman. So where does this feared curse come in?” I asked, starting to get impatient.

“You're standing on it,” Mike said pointing to the asphalt beneath my feet, “You see, about four years ago the state wanted to build a highway between Morton and Jamesboro. Unfortunately, to do that, they had to cut his property almost in half.”

“I see, but by law he had to be compensated for use of his land. That's a Federal deal.”

“And he was,” Mike continued as he pulled out a little notebook and began to flip through it, “But not well enough, at least not according to Marxam, who's real name was, for the record, Jeffery Marx.”

“Like Karl Marx?”

“No relation, trust me. I checked. But anyway, he made a big stink about it, even went to town hall to file protests. Other landowners sold willingly, the money was good in their mind and they wanted the project done, but he held out until the state forced him to give up.”

“You can't fight city hall. I could have told him that,” I said.

“Yeah, but he never stopped trying. Even threatened the bulldozer drivers with a bow and arrow. Luckily, the bastard died before the highway was finished. Otherwise, he might have taken a few potshots at cars if you know what I mean.”

“Doubtful, but anyway, keep going,” I said motioning for him to wrap things up.

“Well, all he got done before he died was planting a forest to block the view of his house from the soon-to-be road and leveling another one to write letters to every senator he could. Still though, everyone around here seems to think he's placed some kind of curse on the road and, well, they have ten bodies to point to as evidence.”

I walked over to a rocky part of the embankment and found a stone to sit down on. To Mike, I must have looked like I was pondering the story he told deeply but, honestly, I was trying to figure out why such a respected law enforcement official was buying such malarkey. It made no sense.

“Tell me something,” I said as a realization flashed across my eyes, “You said that there have been thirteen crashes, but only ten fatalities, what do the survivors have to say about it?”

“Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you about that!” Mike said, his voice finally getting excited, “They all reported that they kind of slipped into a trance, almost the second they drove onto his property. Two don't even remember the crash.”

I could feel my smug expression slide into a deep gaze. Though I consider myself about as adept as anyone magically, I'm always open to the notion that there's something out there that I don't understand. Add to that volumes of knowledge that no one has stumbled across and suddenly this hypnotists curse becomes a lot more real.

“So, what do you want me to do?” I asked solemnly.

Mike threw his hands up and sat down beside me, “I don't know. My phones are ringing off the hook on this one. These guys are the conservative backbone of the state and they got me in office. Now they're scared to death by the ghost of some half-assed hypnotist and they want me to do something about it.”

“Basically, you want me to solve this and prove that there's no curse or ghost or anything like that, right?”

“Yeah, that'd be the best.”

“And saying that these are just isolated accidents isn't going to help. Right?”

“Not with these guys. City folk might buy it, but these guys are way too superstitious for that.”

I put my head in my hands and slowly started running my fingers through my hair, “Why do I feel like I should be riding around in a Technicolor van and hanging out with a talking great dame?”

“Listen,” Mike said with a sigh, “Are you going to help me or not?”

“I don't have a choice. You've got my paycheck. But I'm not going to approach this from the curse angle, not yet. I'm going to try to find a cause.”

“Well, good luck to you, any ideas where you're going to start?”

I stood up and shuffled my feet around in the dirt, “Well, when trying to piece together multiple deaths, you try to tie together the victims. I'll start there, see what they had in common. Maybe that'll turn up something. I'll need the full accident report on all thirteen crashes though. Can you get that to me?”

Mike stood up and pointed over at the two local cops still walking around the scene, “I can get them for you, but it'd be quicker to talk with them since their department wrote up all of them. I'd have to go through channels and that can take a while.”

“Alright, I'll see what I can do for you,” I said reaching out to shake his hand, “I'll call you when I find something, or nothing as the case will probably be.”

“Good luck,” he said clinching my hand tight. “Talk to you soon.”

Without missing a beat I turned around and walked over to the officers. I'd been introduced to them earlier as deputy Howard and deputy Kinard, but they seemed to simply prefer James and Jake so I decided to try the more friendly approach.

“James, I need your help with something. Mike wants me to…”

“That is deputy Howard to you sir,” he said with a heavy, almost offensive twang, “I am an officer of the law and I will be treated as such.”

“My apologies,” I said trying to bite my tongue, “I need the accident reports from this and the previous twelve crashes here. I was wondering if you could help…”

“Listen buddy,” deputy Kinard interjected, “We don't want your help and we sure as Hell ain't gonna give you none. You want anything from us, you're going to have to pry it from our cold, dead fingers son.”

I was done playing nice. My eyes narrowed and I began to focus a little harder on the world around me. I paused trying to plan my next move but I quickly realized that I'd have to use “channels” to get those reports. So, I decided to settle for the next best thing.

“It's a pretty nice set up you've got here, you must write a lot of speeding tickets.”

“How do you know that,” deputy Kinard said as he tried to light a cigarette pursed between his lips.

“Well, both of you are driving 2002 Camaro cruisers. Rural cops can't afford that kind of wheels unless they're raking in some serious fines.”

“Oooowe,” deputy Howard cried, “You must have studied hard in detective school. Oh wait, that's right, you dropped out because you couldn't cut it.”

I resisted launching a pressure point strike against him and instead just watched the two of them celebrate with a round of high fives and grunts.

“How does it feel to spend your entire life taking money from good people who were passing through your county instead of actually fighting crime?”

“Hey,” deputy Kinard jumped in, “It ain't my fault that they can't go the speed limit. It's forty five through this stretch and if they're over that, they're getting a ticket. It's that simple.”

“I see, you've got a point there. Well, I guess I'll be on my way. I have things to do. Have a good day gentlemen.”

For their part, the deputies were too stunned to respond. One of them, deputy Kinard I believe, waved at me meekly, but I was too busy turning the other cheek to notice. I just walked back to my car where April was already standing in wait.

“We done here?” she asked, impatient.

“Yeah, what's wrong?” I asked.

“Those two assholes,” she said motioning to the deputies. “They wouldn't leave me alone for a second.”

“I'm surprised you didn't kill one of them,” I responded dryly.

“I should have, but they aren't worth going to jail over.”

I chuckled a bit at myself, “I couldn't agree more. Let's get out of here so we can figure out what's going on. There's nothing more here, unless you like windbags.”

April nodded at me and we both climbed into the car and sped off, back the way we came.

However, about half a mile down the road, a glint of silver on the opposite side of the road just below the treeline caught my eye and I pulled over.

“What now?” April asked, her frustration obvious.

“Nothing, is that knife still in the glove box?”

“Yeah sure but…”

“Give it here.”

April opened the glove box and handed me my pocketknife, which, up to that point, served only to cut nylon rope that I used for ties. “What are you…?”

Before she could finish her sentence I was out the door and hopping across the empty highway. I climbed a small embankment, took my knife and started sawing away at a branch.

Though the branch was thick and the knife was small, it only took a few seconds before the sharp blade found it's way through the wood causing the branch to fall to the ground, revealing a “Speed Zone/Speed Limit 45” sign that was concealed beneath it.

I quickly dashed over to the car and hopped back in. No sooner had I turned the key than we were in drive and pulling back onto the highway.

“What was that all about?” April asked as I began to get back into the lane.

“Pruning,” I said trying to remain calm.

April shifted in her seat so she could see out of the rear view mirror. After a quick glance she looked over at me, smiled and said, “Uh-huh, pruning, got it.”

“Pruning. Just pruning. And you never saw me doing that. Ok?”

April let out a faint laugh, “Got it.”

My first order of business, as far as I was concerned, was putting them in order by date. Before I could even start looking for similarities, I needed to know who crashed on that curve and when.

Unfortunately, right as I was in the middle of shuffling and sorting, April walked into the room. “Sweetie, you know I love you and I don't mind your work but…”

“Yes,” I said sliding one of the files into its proper place.

“Well, I don't want to have to get a bigger table. We do have to eat at some point you know.”

I couldn't help myself but to laugh. That dining table hadn't been used for eating in so long that I had honestly forgotten it could be. Though April was a very good cook, we both seemed to favor a variety of take out to home cooked meals and take out usually wound up being eaten in the computer room or at a nearby park if it was a nice day outside.

“It'll only be a moment,” I said, “I'm just getting them in order so I can go through them.”

“Oh,” April said with interest in her voice, “Those are the files for those accidents. You want some help going through them.”

On the long car ride home from the accident, I had told her all about the supposed curse of Marxam the Great and previous twelve accidents. Though, like me, she hadn't spotted anything interesting at the wreck, she took some interest in the case and was eager to help.

“Here,” I said sliding her the second file on the stack, “You can take the second one and I'll take the first one. I'll read out the pertinent information on mine and let me know if you seem to have a possible match on your end, alright?”

April nodded her approval and we both cracked open our files. I took a moment to skim through the file, even glancing at a few of the horrific photographs inside it before finally settling in to read.

“Ok, this woman is named Claire Duveaux. She was seventy-six years old, Caucasian, she lived out in the country off of route 367, apparently in a ritzy house though because she was driving a large brand-new Cadillac, white, and was on her way to see her grandchildren in the upstate. She had no history of any serious physical condition, outside of minor arthritis, and, if this is her complete driving record, hadn't been in an accident in about twenty years or so.”

I looked up from my file and saw April still buried in hers. I tapped the table twice to get her attention and, when her eyes met mine I motioned for her to begin. However, that only caused her to shrug her shoulders at me.

“You didn't say anything. Something wrong?”

“No, nothing's wrong, there just weren't any similarities.”

“Huh?” I said confused, “Nothing at all?”

“Let's see,” she began, “My victim is a thirty-five year old black male, father of two, who was driving down the highway as a detour home from work, apparently there was some road construction at that time. He lived in an apartment complex outside of Jamesboro and the only thing he shares the first victim is no known history of medical problems. No Epilepsy or heart trouble or anything like that.”

I motioned for her to slide the file across the table, which she did. I picked it up and briefly leafed through it. Though the accident was almost identical in every way to the other file and the one we visited, at a glance, the victims couldn't have had less in common if they tried.

Immediately, a whole flood of theories and hopeful guesses washed away. I was hoping for an easy solution, something like medical problems or someone targeting a certain group of people. But as I continued to leaf through the files, the victim list only got more and more random.

By the time it was done, there were 12 victims. Nine were dead, three were alive. Among the dead, four were white, three were black, one was Hispanic and one was Asian. They came from all classes of society ranging from the wealthy Claire all the way down to a welfare dad with seven kids. They drove a variety of cars, from Sedans to pick up trucks and only one had a history of heart trouble, but his autopsy revealed no heart trauma.

When I finished with the last file, I tossed it down on the stack and buried my face in my arms. “Nothing,” I said, “They have nothing in common.”

“Except how they died,” April chimed in.

I sat back up slowly, my face must have still be streaked by frustration because April took pity on me and brought me a Coke from the refrigerator. “How they died or were injured,” I said, “Was in twelve separate, unrelated car accidents at the same bad turn. As far as I can tell, this is still a case of bad road design, not foul play.”

April set the coke down on the table in front of me and went back to get herself one, “So tell Mike that,” she said speaking over the refrigerator door.

I took a long sip of the Coke and leaned back in my chair, “I tried that, but the locals are spooked badly and Mike wants something more substantial.”

“Sometimes there isn't anything 'more substantial'. Accidents happen you know? That's life,” she said sitting down, opening up her can.

“I don't know, maybe.” I said cracking open the last file again, hoping to see something new.

April reached across the table and pushed down the top of the file to look into my eyes, “Something else is bothering you Tony, I can tell. What's going on?”

She was right, she could tell. Despite years of learning to hide my emotions I could never hide them from her. She could read my eyes as if I had what I was feeling printed on the back of them. The only consolation was that I could do the same to her, I guess this is what four years of living together does to you. Still though it's frustrating to be called on it.

“It's the survivors,” I said. “They all reported feeling like they were in some kind of hypnotic trance when they got onto the property. It's strange.”

April took a quick sip and said, “So do you think the curse has merit?”

“No,” I said shaking my head violently.

“But you're worried that it might.”

At that point, she had me, I leaned back in my chair and uttered “Yeah,” under my breath, “It's just that these accidents are very weird and, right now, I don't have another explanation so it's going to eat at me some.”

“Well,” she said scooping up all of the files on the table, putting them back in order, “Let's find another explanation. Any ideas where to start?”

I scratched the back of my neck and leaned forward in my chair, “The victims don't have anything in common, but the accidents seem to have plenty. Let's make a list of everything the accidents share and see what that offers us.”

April nodded her approval and we were off. This job took significantly longer as there was a lot more information to go through, or at least a lot more productive information. Files began to fly across the crowded workspace and April began using a dry erase board to keep track of our ever-growing list.

It was a messy ordeal, but within about thirty minutes we'd filled the board with all of the things we could find. April, picked it off of the table and began to read, “Ok, all of the accidents happened roughly the same time of day, between four and seven in the evening, on clear days. They were all traveling north on the road. All were going about fifty five miles an hour, give or take, and none of them, apparently, made an attempt to stop before hitting the embankment.”

“Furthermore,” I chimed in, “They were all driving alone and only one had a history of medical problems but, as we said earlier, that was found not to have played a role.”

“So,” April asked as she tapped her fingers on the table with anticipation, “What do you make of it?”

“Well, any of these things can be explained by coincidence. Most roads are busiest between four and seven, most people in the country do drive alone and with those deputies in the area I'd wager everyone does the speed limit religiously.”

“Still though,” she said smugly.

“Still, all of it together makes it seem like the exact same accident happened to thirteen completely unrelated people. I don't believe in the word random, but this is about as close to it as you can get.”

“So where do we go from here?”

“I have no idea,” I said shaking my head lightly, “It's getting harder and harder to write it off as a coincidence, but there's still no proof that anything is wrong.”

“So where does that leave us?”

I stood up from the table and started pacing our small dining area. April said frequently that this was my “Sherlock” mode and she knew to keep quiet when I was wearing down the carpet. “I still think that if we can tie the victims together, we can solve this easily.”

April tossed one of the files onto the table and picked up the dry erase board, “Good luck with that, you won't find a much more diverse group of people than this. From what I can tell, all they have in common is the same death certificate.”

I went back over to the table and started throwing open the files, looking at the types of things they all contained, “Since none of these cases were treated as homicides, there wasn't any real investigation into the deaths. No serious interviews of family members and so forth.”

April looked up from the dry erase board, “So what are you saying?”

“I'm saying tomorrow I'm going to talk to the victim's families. See if they can tie these thirteen together. They might be part of a club or something. Diverse people get together all the time for all kinds of causes, we just have to find the one they all shared.”

“So who are you going to start with?”

I rubbed my chin and went over the names in my head, “Claire seems as good as any. She was going to visit her grandchildren so it reasons she's close with her children, at least her son. Maybe he'll have some answers for me.”

“Hold up,” April interjected before I could continue, “Why not talk to some of the survivors? Wouldn't they know better than anyone what happened and what was going on?”

I leaned back in my chair and began tapping my fingers lightly on the table, “Two of the survivors don't even remember the crash and all three of them have had this spook story drilled into their heads. So much so that none of them faced as much as a fine from their insurance company. They've got too much at stake to abandon the 'curse' theory. I need people who were close to the victims but have no reason to hide the truth.”

“Ok, wait a minute,” April called out as she reached across the desk and began rummaging through some of the files, after searching for a few moments, she pulled out the one she wanted, “If that's the case, why not talk to Mr. Carney? His wife died in an accident six months ago. They were closer and his memory will be a little more fresh.”

“Ok, him first, Claire's son second and, well, someone else third. If I can't pin it down by the end of three interviews, there's probably nothing there, agreed?”

“Sounds good. When are you going to leave?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

A quizzical look came over April's face, “But tomorrow's Saturday.”

“Exactly, they'll all be home, best time to do it.”

A smile came across April's face as the thought sank in. “Good idea. I'll be sure to pack you a lunch.”

The alarm clock started buzzing at 6:00 in the morning and somewhere between pressing the snooze button and arising to my feet I took a few moments to curse my job and it's unholy hours.

A night creature myself, getting up early on a Saturday morning was akin to sacrilege and, right then, I wasn't terribly fond of Mike, his half-baked case, or the job I was about to do. Not only are relative interviews one of the most depressing tasks a police officer can be called to do, but doing them six months after the fact means bringing back bad memories that should have been forgotten.

However, as the coffee kicked in and my body began to come a little bit more alive, I started feeling a bit better about things, or at least hating them less. I paused a few minutes before hoping in the shower to re-read the files of the people I was visiting and tried to envision what I was running up against.

The first was a man by the name of Alex Carney. He lived in a middle-class suburb of Jamesboro, which was about three and a half hours away, If he was anything like his wife, he was middle aged, Caucasian and pretty straight-laced. But as the old adage goes, opposites attract.

After that, I was planning on visiting Claire Duveaux's son Harold. He lived a little bit north of Jamesboro, up near the state line and, if he wasn't adopted, he would be Caucasian, probably fairly wealthy and on the fast track to success. I knew he had children, two daughters, but not a lot else.

Finally, there was Samson Nash whose sister, Marceka, was killed on the turn eight months ago. Since he stumbled upon the accident on his own trip home from work, he was stopped and interviewed by the police at length. He was a black man, age 26, living in a rural area on north end of the highway about thirty minutes past the turn. He was a factory worked and made a good living, but was, by his own admission, uneducated. Apparently though, he's a genius at fixing things, his record listed him as a former mechanic in the police motor pool. Tough environment for anyone.

I'd gone ahead and, using the Internet, mapped out routes to all of the houses. It was a little over three hours to the Carney residence and I wanted to get there before noon. I also wanted to leave a lot of time for searching around since I wasn't familiar with the area.

However, when I was comfortable I had everything together, I jumped in the shower and started slowly getting ready.

April, for her part, didn't stir. She had grown accustomed to my odd hours and could easily sleep through my stirring around. She wasn't coming along this trip, since you only bring two people for hostile interviews and, besides, I figured having one figure dressed in all black would be intimidating enough.

Regardless, I ended up taking my sweet time getting ready and didn't leave the house until a little bit after eight thirty. I figured, if nothing else, I could take advantage of April's absence to drive a little faster and, hopefully make all of my mental deadlines. So, with little more than a kiss on the cheek, I left April behind and headed north to parts unknown.

The drive itself was uneventful. The only part that was really memorable was driving past the accident site. Though I was warned about it by the newly-unveiled speed limit sign, I still wasn't ready for the shock of seeing it in plain daylight. With the mangled car and police cruisers about, the spot looked almost peaceful and calm. Though I felt no ill effects myself, nothing that could be called a trance to be certain, I was still a bit taken in by the gravity of the situation and it shored up my resolve to press on and find a solution to this little mystery.

As I took the turn, I made note that, though it was difficult, it wasn't impossible, even at fifty-five, which was how fast I was traveling. It was easily visible, especially with the reflector arrows, and anyone not accustomed to taking tight turns would have had ample time to slow down, even if they had missed all of the previous signs. Simply put, there was no reason for an alert driver to go flying off of the road.

To be blunt, that knowledge lingered with me and only deepened my sinking feeling that something was going on.

Regardless, I pressed on and eventually made my way to Jamesboro. It was there that I got my first unpleasant surprise. Though I easily found my way to the address of Mr. Carney, I quickly learned that he had recently vacated the quiet house he and his wife had shared. Luckily, the new owners had his current address and they, in turn, sent me on a wild chase through back roads and trails that eventually ended up at a shady mobile home park on the outskirts of town.

Admittedly, I was reluctant to enter. It was the type of park that's often a haven for drug dealers, petty thieves and a variety of cop-haters and I didn't want to be a police officer caught in the middle of it all, not with out some form of protection at least. Since being a “special detective” didn't afford me the privilege of carrying a gun, I had to rely on my wits and my hands to get me out of any shaky situation I might land in.

So, understandably, this wasn't the place I wanted to be. However, wearing all black and driving a beat up late model car aren't exactly monikers of the police force so I figured, as long as I didn't make too much noise, I'd be fine.

However, that didn't comfort me much as I drove to the edge of the park and approached the door to one of the older, run-down trailers. I paused before knocking on the door to look around a bit. Though the trailer was of decent size, probably larger than my apartment, it looked like hell. The siding was coming off of the wall, the ground was littered with debris and the roof was lined with bent antennas and a mess of wires that I doubt any electrician could have figured out.

To call it a dump would have been a radical understatement.

With a deep breath I knocked three times on the door and, almost immediately it swung open and a large, unkempt man wearing nothing but an undershirt and a pair of jeans was standing before me.

“Are you… Mr. Carney?”

“Yeah, that's me,” he said with a growl, “What do you want?”

It was ten seconds into the conversation and he was already angry with me. I immediately began to wonder what I'd done to deserve this fate but decided to play it straight. I pulled out my badge and showed it to him, “I'm special detective Tony Altru. I'm here to talk to you…”

“Hey, if this is about them parking tickets, I'm going to get that later. I'm good for it.” he interrupted.

“Mr. Carney,” I said softly, “I'm here to talk to you about your wife.”

The look on his face changed. Though I still wouldn't say he was remotely pleased with me, a look of bewilderment sank into his eyes and he opened the door wider, “Why don't you come in and sit down.”

“Thank you,” I said nodding as I made my way into the house.

The living room looked like a cross between a swap meet and warehouse. It looked as if he'd tried to fit twice as many things into the room than would comfortably fit. Though he had a seating and a TV area, it was cramped and surrounded by boxed. The walls were so crowded with pictures that the wallpaper was almost completely covered and the whole room seemed to be filled with odd trinkets and display items.

It was starting to sink in. Mr. Carney, since his wife's death, had fallen on some hard times. Though I suspected it when I heard he had moved out, this confirmed it. He was living rough and probably hating it.

“So what do you want to know about my wife,” he said sitting down in a recliner opposite the TV.

I took a moment to examine Mr. Carney in more detail. He was a big man, but not what one would call fat or even overweight, he looked like someone who worked with his hands for a living. His thinning dirty blond hair left a very strange pattern on his forehead and made the rest of his face look round and heavy, like a pitbull's almost, and his clothing, all ripped and mangled, seemed to complete the picture nicely.

“Your wife, as you know, was killed in an accident along route 81. This was about six months ago.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said impatiently.

“The death was ruled an accident, however, nine other people have since died at that exact location in the same way. There are those that think there's something else involved.”

Mr. Carney leaned forward and began to slide his chair closer to mine, “You're damn right there's something else going on. I suppose you've heard about that curse.”

“I have,” I said flatly.

“Well, I didn't believe in curses until I found out about that road. That's bad magic going on there. I don't drive it myself you know. I take highway 25 up and around.”

I looked at him puzzled, “That adds at least an hour to your time though,” I said.

“I don't care!” he exclaimed. “I don't want to drive by the curve that killed my wife and I sure as hell don't want to drive on no cursed road.”

“Sir, please,” I said motioning for him to calm down, “I'm here to get to the bottom of this, curse or no curse, and I need your help.”

He settled back in his chair a bit, “What do you want?”

“I want to ask you a few questions about your wife, see if there's any reason that someone would want to do this…”

“You think someone killed my wife?” he said excited.

“I don't know,” I said trying to remain calm, “But I need to find out.”

“Alright, go ahead,” he said with bitterness dripping from his tongue.

I opened up my file and my notebook and situated myself to where I could both read and jot notes, “Now, it says here that your wife was a nurse, is that correct?” he nodded his approval. “Did she have any enemies at work? Someone who might want to harm her?”

Mr. Carney started shaking his head, “Naw, she worked in the cancer wing, not a lot of people can do that you know? I don't think anyone hated her. They all loved her really. Gave her a big birthday party a few months before she passed on. She'd been there for umpteen years. Never had a bad word to say about anyone. Lovinest creature ever was.”

“Was she politically active at all?” I asked trying to maintain the momentum.

“Naw, some of the other nurses wanter her to join this pro-choice group but she said she didn't care one way or another about it. She said it wasn't her business. Hell, I don't even think she voted come to think of it.”

“Was she a member of any clubs or organizations?”

Mr. Carney started shaking his head trying to think, “Nope, not that I know of. Tried the nurses union once, many years ago. Ended up leaving though.”

I settled back on my seat a little trying to plan my next move, “Listen, I'm going to read you a list of names, let me know if you've heard of any of them in relation to your wife.”

After Mr. Carney nodded his approval, I proceeded to read the names of the other 12 crash victims, including the survivors. None of them rang a bell and the brick wall I was running into was getting thicker by the minute. I could see the case stalling on the train tracks and decided to push a little harder.

“Did your wife have any enemies outside of work?”

“Not really, she and I pretty much minded our own business. We went to the movies every Friday but that was about it.”

“Did anyone stand to gain financially from her death?”

Mr. Carney's eyes turned to stone. I immediately knew that I had made a huge mistake. He dug his nails into the armrest of his recliner and I could see him visibly restrain an explosion. He didn't strike me as a guy with stellar temper control and I could tell this was pushing him to his threshold.

“I didn't gain shit from my wife's death,” he shouted.

“Sir, I wasn't necessarily talking about you…”

“Do you think I'd be living in this dump if I had?” he said bowling over my pathetic attempt to quell his rage, “My wife loved me you know? She was college educated, had all of them fancy degrees and me, I barely got by high school. She didn't care though, she loved me and made me feel like I meant something. She never called me stupid, she helped me when I was down and didn't care that all I did was solder shit together in a factory.”

“I understand that sir, I wasn't saying necessarily you but someone else…”

Mr. Carney's rage had turned to despair, he was starting to get visibly upset and he rocked back into his chair, choking back tears, “She really loved me and I never got to tell her that I loved her before she left… When she died… She didn't have insurance or nothing and I lost everything because I can't pay for shit with my job. All I could give her was a decent burial…”

The weight of what he was saying began to get to me. I'd seen crocodile tears before and could sniff out fake despair easily. This was the real deal though. I could also see that it was time for me to be thinking about my exit, that I wasn't getting any more here and that I'd done enough damage for one day.

I procured a card from my wallet and laid it on the table, Mr. Carney, for his part, began weeping almost uncontrollably and was completely beyond comprehension. I felt a huge pang of guilt as I looked into his tear-filled eyes and I started kicking myself for bringing back all of his pain, especially to no avail.

“Mr. Carney,” I whispered, “If you think of anything else, call me. I'm going to show myself the door.”

He waved me on but I could still hear his sobbing as I left the house and it followed me through the thin walls of the trailer until I shut the door of my car.

At that exact moment, the only thing I could think about was the fact that I had two more to go.

However, this was one time the trip home was longer than the trip to. Not only was the way longer, but the constant self doubt and hopelessness of the case was nagging at me non-stop. There was no reprieve from this failure. Though experience had taught me that dead ends such as this were common, even in solvable cases, I felt like I was completely out of ammunition.

Worse yet, though I was no longer convinced that these were merely unrelated accidents, I had less evidence than ever to prove me right. Though all of the relatives had at least heard of the curse, none provided any tangible connection with the other victims or even the scene of the accident. The word random kept coming up in my mind and it kept irking at my senses.

Nonetheless, I returned home. April was waiting on me in the living room and, after switching off the TV, gave me a tremendous hug and a firm kiss to welcome me back. Though from the look on her face I could tell she knew the answer, she still felt compelled to ask, “So, how'd it go?”

I told her all about it. First about Mr. Carney's breakdown and then the other interviews. I laid out everything, my frustration becoming more and more apparent as I talked, until I'd covered nearly every last detail. She must have listened patiently for a good twenty minutes or so before I finally covered the drive home.

When it was all done, she asked the one question I'd been dreading, “So where do we go from here then?”

“I don't know, I'm running out of options. I could monitor the curve but that could take weeks and I need something now.”

April let out a deep sigh as she shared in my frustration, “Well,” she said, “I did have a productive day of it.”

“Oh?”

“Yep,” she said with a smile. She walked over to the kitchen table and picked up an inch-thick stack of photocopies and handed it to me, “I spent the day at the hall of records. Seeing if I could find anything.”

I began to leaf through the pages. The horrible photocopies made the text barely legible but it was pretty obvious much of it was criminal records. “So, what did you find?”

“Well, I originally went there to do criminal background checks on all of the victims. Nothing turned up though. All of them were clean except for one guy who had an assault charge in the seventies, probably protest related. But, what I did find interesting was the stuff I dug up about this Marx guy and his land.”

I slid over to the couch and sat down, “What's the story there?”

“Well, it's a long story, but it actually starts with Jeffery's father, Alan. Alan and his girlfriend had Jeffery in '52, during the Korean war. It was an unwanted pregnancy, but they were still, by all accounts I could find, happy about it. Unfortunately Alan got drafted and shipped to Korea during the war. Since the two of them were never married, he was powerless to stop it.”

I leaned back in the chair and rolled my head causing my neck vertebrae to grind, “Hell of a way to be brought into the world.”

“It gets worse. Alan made it back when the war ended the next year, however, he'd taken a Korean wife during that time and pretty much abandoned Jeffery and his mother. However, when Jeffery's mother died in the early sixties, Alan began to feel guilty and took him in. Unfortunately, the relationship wasn't exactly stellar. Though Alan constantly worked to earn his son's trust, it never played out and Jeffery never forgave him.”

“So how the Hell did he wind up with the land?”

“I'm getting there,” she said motioning for me to be patient, “I told you, it's a long story. Anyway, Jeffery went off to college in the seventies, on his father's dollar I might add, studied psychiatry. Apparently he liked it, he stuck with it and even got his doctorate in it. By the end of it, he was licensed to practice psychiatry.”

My senses jumped at hearing those words and I leaned forward in my chair, “That's odd.”

“Why?”

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees and my chin on my fingers, “Well, most stage hypnotists, if they have a degree at all, get a certification or just a Masters. For someone who's so interested in hypnosis, getting a psychiatry degree is overkill. Any idea why he did that?”

“Actually, there is,” April chimed in, “Some of his clinical records are in there, he studied hypnosis through drugs and probably needed the degree to administer them legally.”

“That explains why he was a fraud on stage, but not why he went there in the first place.”

“Why don't you ask his son?” April said slyly, “He currently lives on the land. David is his name.”

“I see,” I said trying to listen while letting the gears churn in my head.

“Unfortunately though, it looks like the bad father gene got passed on. Jeffery had David when he was in college in '77 to be exact. However, when David was just five, Jeffery went out on the road, leaving him behind. When his mother got arrested for DUI a few years after that, Jeffery sent David to live with his grandfather, the same one I mentioned earlier. That's where he's lived up to now.”

“Let me guess,” I chimed in, “when Alan died about twelve years ago, Jeffery was left the house,” April nodded her approval, “I bet that irked David.”

“That's putting it modestly, David contested the will in court and tried to get his father thrown out of the house. It was to no avail though, the will was rock solid. The judge ordered the two of them to to share the house. From then on, we don't have any evidence of the two of them as much as speaking, at least until Jeffery's funeral.”

“How did Mr. Marx die anyway?” I asked as I leaned back in the chair.

“Glad you asked,” April said as she pulled a sheet of paper out of her pocket, “The cause of death is listed as a hunting accident. But you know well what that means don't you?”

I took the paper from her and looked it over, “Yeah, that's the polite country way of saying 'suicide'. It looks better in the papers.”

“Exactly.”

I folded my arms and let out a large sigh, “This is one hell of a story, but it doesn't affect this turn one way or another and, unless Dean Koontz is looking for some new characters, I don't see how this is useful.”

“Well, don't you think you should talk to this David. He might have some perspective. You seem to be at a dead end anyway.”

I had no choice but to agree. Though I was no fan of rural drama, the family affair was the only thing I had to go on. I solemnly nodded my approval and told her that there was no way in Hell I was heading out again the next day so I'd go there on Monday.

Satisfied, April looked at me smugly and said, “Anything further questions?”

“Only one,” I began, “Did you get all of that from the hall of records?”

April let out a small chuckle, “Of course not, you're not the only one who can read between the lines though. It's all there, I'm sure you'll find it. But first, get out of those clothes, we need to wash them and you need to call Mike back, he wanted and update on the case.”

I stood up and began taking off my shirt, “I'll call him Monday,” I said, “Maybe by then I'll have something for him.”

The third trip into the country was even more dull than the first two. The only thing worth mentioning was the struggle to find the mysterious house. The erected tree wall effectively hid it from the road and the driveway was on a side street cleverly disguised as a small dirt road. It was painfully obvious that this was a place that didn't want visitors and I took no joy in knowing that I was probably the least welcome of all possible visitors.

Nonetheless, I patiently drove along the bumpy dirt road and eventually the long snaking driveway that more closely resembled an old wagon trail than a passageway for mechanical vehicles. Every rock and every hole made my poor car shake violently, rattling my teeth and making me question the soundness of my shocks.

Eventually, after enough damage to shake even the best dentist, I drove up to the front of the large three story farm house. To put it modestly, it was huge. A blue house with a full wraparound porch, it seemed to tower over even the distant trees and the fact it was situated in the middle of a large clearing didn't make it look any smaller.

However, complete with white shutters and impeccable landscaping, it still felt strangely inviting, almost like one could call it a home as opposed to a castle.

With some trepidation, I rang the doorbell. Though the chimes echoed loudly through the house, so much so I could almost see the windows rattling, there wasn't an immediate answer. I gently pressed my ear to the glass of the storm door and listened for any sign of life. There was none.

I rang the doorbell again and again, hoping to get an answer but to no avail. I turned around and scanned the vast yard and tuned my ears to detect any sign of life. But all I heard was birds chirping and all I saw was the gentle sway of the trees a hundred yards away.

Frustrated, I gave up. I paused only a moment to kick myself for not calling ahead before I began stepping off of the porch. But, as I was about to clear the final steps, I heard the sound of shuffling behind me and, with a swift motion, the door flew open. After a quick spin on my heels, I found myself face to face with a tall, thin wisp of a man.

I paused a second to look him up and down. Though he was clearly younger, almost certainly younger than thirty, he had a receding hairline that was made worse by the fact he still kept his dark black hair very long and tied in a tight ponytail. His face seemed cold and distant, he had ice blue eyes and a very square jaw at the bottom of his long face. Though dressed in only gray jeans and a dark shirt, he looked imposing and, judging from his heaving chest, he was either angry, exhausted, or both.

“Can I help you?” he said gasping for air, his voice slightly bitter.

“Are you David Marx?” I said squinting for a better look.

He looked around him for a split second before settling his gaze back on me, “Yeah, what of it? You know this is private property right?”

I reached into my shirt pocket and produced my badge, “My name is special detective Tony Altru. I'm here to talk to you about your father.”

He paused a second and lowered his eyes from my face to the badge. He studied it for a few moments, as if trying to memorize something, and then looked back up at me, “Very well, come on in,” he said with a slight smirk.

He led me through his entrance way and into his den. Like the rest of the house it was huge, almost overstated. It was filled with plush chairs, a sofa and fireplace. Though a TV was mysteriously absent, it was obvious he was going for more of a wealthy look than a rural one. It was hard to mistake the mixture of dark wood and red furniture for anything else.

David motioned me to sit down on a plush couch and he took a seat in a recliner opposite to me. Though between us sat a large cherry coffee table, the way he leaned forward in his chair made it feel as if he were sitting right on top of me.

“So what can I do for you Mr. Altru?” he asked after making sure we were both comfortable.

“As you probably know Mr. Marx,” I said shifting in my chair, “There's been a lot of accidents on your property over the past two years. Thirteen to be exact.”

David leaned back in his chair, “Yeah, I'd heard about them. All of them hitting that rock wall up the road a bit.”

“I don't need to tell you that this number is exceptionally high. Ten fatalities in two years on the same curve is very odd.”

“Well,” he said with a slight chuckle, “When those jackasses cut the road they snaked around that wall like they didn't know it was there. Truth is they were just too lazy to plan right.”

“But even then,” I said sliding forward, leaning in toward him, “The number is very high and it's the single most deadly curve in the entire state.”

“Listen,” he said rubbing his forehead, “That's tragic and all, but what does it have to do with me or my father?”

I stood up and started pacing the floor in front of the couch. With my palms pressed together in front of me, I began to explain, “Your father was very opposed to that highway being built. He even attacked some of the construction workers that were building it. Is it possible he could have done something to the road to make it, shall we say, less safe?”

David rocked forward and started laughing out loud, “You're talking about that curse aren't you? Don't tell me those bumkins have you city cops scared too.”

I pressed my palms down on the coffee table and leaned over it as far as I could, “I said anything Mr. Marx, anything at all.”

He rocked back in his chair and kept chuckling despite a futile attempt to stifle his laughter, “I'm sorry this is just too much,” he said trying to cover his face with his hands.

“Are you going to help me or are you not?” I asked flatly.

“Well,” he said still giggling to himself, “Let me get out my voodoo kit and I'll see what I can do about this curse. Ok officer?”

I'd had it. Though I was no fan of the curse theory myself, it didn't strike me as this funny. I started looking around the room and, after a few moments, walked over to where a shotgun was mounted on the wall, “You know, I know about your father's death. Tragic wasn't it?”

David sobered up quickly, “Yeah, you know about the accident?”

“Sure,” I said with a scoff, “If that's what you want to call it.”

“What do you mean?” he said, bitterness seeping into his voice.

I put my hands in the air, “Nothing, nothing. Tell me, was this the gun he died with?”

“Yeah it was, when I got it back from the police I put it back where he kept it, kind of like a shrine to him you know?”

“Let me guess, haven't touched it or anything?” I said walking around behind him.

“Not at all. Not since, well, that day,” he said somberly.

I started pacing up and down beside his chair, “Now correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you get a huge insurance settlement out of his death? Something like seven digits wasn't it?”

“Yeah,” he said looking up at me unsure, “Where are you going with this?”

I stepped around behind him and pressed down on the back of his chair causing the recliner to lay out flat, laying him prone beneath me, “The point is that I'm not like these local cops. I investigate deaths for a living. I don't take a look at a shotgun next to a corpse in the woods and say 'hunting accident' because it looks good in the papers. The truth is your father committed suicide and if that ever got out then you'd lose that big fat settlement.”

“I… Well… But…” he stammered.

I reached under the back of the reclined chair and set it up. I leaned over, close to his ear, and said, “So, if I don't get your full cooperation in this investigation. I'm going to send an anonymous tip to your insurance company. Now, is that funny?”

“No sir,” he said meekly. He looked down at the ground for a second and I made my way back over to the couch I was sitting on originally. His chest was heaving from a combination of nerves and anger. It was easy to see that I'd finally gotten underneath his skin.

“You know this is extortion right?” he eventually said, trying to be strong.

“No, this is an exchange, you help me, I help you. You answer my questions honestly and in a serious tone and I'll exit your life without ruining it. Do we have a deal?” I asked.

David, still unable to meet my gaze, nodded his approval.

“Now, the records also show that, when your father inherited the house, you protested it in court. You tried to have the will nullified. The judge, however, decided you two had to share the house. Now, how did that work out?”

David leaned forward in the chair and rested his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands, “At first it was really bad. He kind of took the upstairs and I took the downstairs. The attic and the entrance way pretty much became neutral territory. However, we kind of grew to like each other, even became friends. He offered to pay my way through college if I wanted to go.”

“But you didn't, did you?”

“Nah,” David said shaking his head, “I was never good with books.”

“So what do you do for a living?” I asked, trying not to sound pushy.

“I write some, do some music, but those don't pay the bills. Mostly I get subsidy money from the government for keeping the land barren.”

“So you're one of those farmers that gets paid not to farm?”

David chuckled for a second but caught himself and straightened up, “Yes, sir,” he said, “And, sorry about that.”

“It's alright, I'll forgive that one,” I continued, “Is that subsidy one of the reasons your father hated the highway so much?”

“Yeah, he thought it was going to cut the amount we got each year. It did, but not by a lot, maybe five percent or so.” David said.

“Didn't stop him though did it?”

The look on David's face changed suddenly. It was as if he were looking off into the distance and getting lost within himself. After a breathy sigh he began talking, “My father became kind of different as he got older.”

“How so?”

“I don't know. He was kind of a broken man when I first met him, after that whole stage career thing fell dead. He was pretty cool for a while but eventually, I don't know, he just went nuts.”

“Any examples?”

David leaned back in his chair and started thinking hard, after a few moments he leaned forward so fast he nearly rocked out of the chair and said, “You know that time he attacked the construction workers? Well, he did that a few times actually.”

“Really?” I asked, confused, “Only once is on the record.”

“Because they only reported it once, the first few times they just ignored it because they figured he was just trying to scare them. Well, once he came a little to close to their heads and they called the cops. Luckily the police convinced him to stop.”

“He's lucky he didn't get arrested, or worse.”

“Eh,” he said waving his hand at me, “They still saw him as an old nut and the police here don't arrest anybody anyway. All they do is write tickets.”

“So I've gathered.”

“Anyway, the police just figured that, with the highway set to be opening up soon it was just too much and that he killed himself. Honestly, it made sense to me.”

“So, where were you when it happened?” I asked, trying to keep a level tone.

“I was inside. He had gone hunting for the day, which he did all the time. I heard the shot and didn't think anything of it. I didn't think anything was wrong until he didn't come home after dusk.”

“He went hunting alone a lot?”

“Only way to go hunting out here.”

“Anyway, to get back on track, do you think he did anything that could have made that road less safe?”

David started shaking his head wildly, “My father hated the road. But he wasn't a wizard or anything like that. He put up a bunch of damn trees and tried to forget about it. Obviously it didn't work, but he pretty much failed at everything, his private practice, stage hypnotism, even stopping the road from being built. In the end, he failed at life too, I feel sorry for him you know?”

I stood up and began pacing the floor again. I began to understand how it felt to repeatedly hurl yourself against a brick wall. All of my work and all of my chess playing had gotten me no closer to anything useful. Just a more pathetic picture of a broken man that the whole area was scared of despite being long since dead.

I paced the room silently, reaching into my brain trying to find my next question. In the stillness, I was able to get a sense of the house and I picked up nothing special. It was a home, people lived there and it had their presence, but I didn't get anything out of the ordinary. Nothing that screamed “curse” or bad magic in any way shape or form.

Desperate, I decided to try my last hope, “Is there any way I could see your father's old room, if it's still intact, and perhaps look through a few of his things?”

“Sure, but is there anything in particular that you're looking for?” David asked, getting a little more comfortable.

“A diary if he kept one.”

David stood up and scratched the side of his neck, “Hm, he kept a journal of his studies, but that's all I know about. Would that work?”

“Better than nothing,” I said.

Without another word, David motioned me to follow him and he led me up the stairs and into a small, crowded bedroom on the second floor. It was obvious that the room had been turned into a de facto storage room since his father's death. Though the bed, dresser , end table and mounted deer's head on the wall obviously belonged in the room, the deluge of rickety old chairs and various boxes clearly didn't.

The room itself didn't feel special in any way either, except for a pound of dust covering everything, there was nothing out of the ordinary. It was pretty much what one would expect from a bedroom of a deceased relative, homage slowly giving way to function.

David, without missing a beat, opened up the top drawer of the dresser and pulled out a small leather-bound notebook and handed it to me. “This was his journal. He kept researching right up to his death. Nothing major though. I guess he was hoping to get back into the business.”

I took it from him and opened it up, idly thumbing through a few of the pages, “Do you mind if I keep this for a while?”

“Sure,” David said shrugging his shoulders, “Just make sure I get it back.”

“I will,” I said closing it and sliding it underneath my arm, “I'll return it personally in a few weeks, once I turn in my report.”

I extended my right hand and we met for a firm handshake. Though most of the tension from earlier was gone, I could still feel his hand trembling a bit as it met mine, “Will that be all?” he asked.

“For now,” I said, trying to be calming, “Thank you for your help and I'm sorry I had to be so rough with you. But this is a serious matter and, frankly, I'm not a comedian.”

“No worries, just um, well, keep the deal ok?”

I nodded softly and said, “Alright.” With that being said, I turned around and showed myself the door, heading back down the stairs and eventually back through the endless miles of boring woodland roadway.

In the quiet solitude of the apartment, I threw the journal down on the desk and began leafing through it. Immediately, it became apparent I had a long road before me. Though the notebook wasn't thick, almost all of the pages in it were filled, front and back with very small handwriting. To make matters worse, he wrote like one would expect a doctor to and various parts of it were practically illegible.

However, the information contained in it was impressive. The book spanned almost his entire hypnosis career from his graduation from college until his death. It quickly became obvious that, even though he was a fraud on stage, he was actually a very talented hypnotherapist when he could use drugs. His patient logs made him seem like a miracle worker as he helped people break addictions, deal with repressed memories and break bad habits of all varieties with very few sessions. So impressive were his results that I had a hard time understanding why the practice failed.

But then, as the pages of the notebook turned, so the story of his life unfolded. Soon, he found himself confronted with allegations of unethical behavior regarding his use of drugs. Though no patients brought up objections against him, his peers didn't like his choice of method and, slowly, their campaign began to eat away at his client list. Though he didn't say it outright, he alluded to the possibility it was due to his Russian ancestry and the ongoing cold war.

In the years he took to the stage, there were few entries. Though he reported on performing research in the use of sound to hypnotize, probably as a bid to become a legitimate performer, he didn't seem to make much progress or have much success. His voice, by all accounts, was wrong for the art and the type of presence he commanded seemed to prevent patients from feeling at ease enough to go under.

However, once his father died and his life settled down, the book began to fill up again. He apparently discovered the Internet somewhere in that time and had begun researching new forms of hypnotism that could be better suited for him. The most promising was hypnotism through light. The latter pages of his books were filled with clippings and studies about experiments with LED lights and various projectors designed to relax and entrance the viewer, making them susceptible to hypnotic suggestions.

It was fascinating material. Though I was well-versed in psychology, I wasn't familiar with hypnotism and this crash course on all things hypnotic engrossed me for hours on end. So much so that I was completely oblivious to April's return home, her trip to the computer room or her shuffling around in the kitchen until, after nearly forty five minutes of being ignored, she walked up from behind me and kissed me on the cheek.

“Oh, hey,” I said jumping to life.

“Hey yourself,” she caught a glimpse over my shoulder, “Whatcha reading?”

I held the notebook up for her to see, “It's Dr. Jeffery Marx's clinical and research notebook. It's pretty much everything he did in the world of hypnotism and psychology between his graduation and his death.”

“Ah, I see,” she said sitting down in the chair next to me, “Any mention of our road or it's mysterious effect?”

“None whatsoever, but some interesting reading about hypnotism through light if you're interested.”

April held her hand up, “I'll pass, but thank you.”

“Had a feeling.”

“So, tell me how your interview with the other Mr. Marx went?” she said eager.

“Horrible,” I said looking up at her.

April leaned back in the chair and took a sip of a coke she'd laid on the counter behind her, “He wasn't helpful huh?”

“No, he was plenty helpful,” I said as I closed the notebook, “That's to say, after some persuasion. It's just that he didn't have much useful to say.”

“Another dead end?”

“Another one,” I said letting out a heavy sigh, “I can't even consider the curse anymore because there was nothing special about father or son. Neither seemed magically inclined enough to curse a dung beetle, much less a mile-long stretch of road.”

“So what do we do now?” she asked trying to look upbeat.

“I don't know. All I've got now is a hunch.”

“About what?”

“I don't know,” I said standing up from my chair, leaving the notebook on the table, “Something about this Marx guy didn't feel right.”

“What do you mean?” April asked puzzled.

“Well,” I began my hands waving through the air trying to signal the random thoughts washing through my mind, “You see, usually, when someone gets a visit from the police, they're nervous, uneasy but helpful. He however, he seemed almost smug you know?”

“I see,” April said, “Do you think he was hiding something.”

“Perhaps. Or he could have just been a real jackass. I straightened him out. But something isn't sitting well.”

“Do you think he might have something to do with the crashes?”

“I don't think he cares about the road either way. He's got his money. But something just seems off about him. Like he was too eager to paint a bad picture of his father or too eager to write me off.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing that I can do right now. No evidence, not even a crime really. Having an attitude isn't criminal, though sometimes it should be.”

April stood up and positioned herself in front of me with her arms folded across her chest, “Then you, mister, would be prison for a long damn time,” she said poking a finger into my chest, “And I'm not waiting up for you.”

I chuckled to myself and started pacing the living room, “Regardless though, this case is dead in the water and I get to call Mike tomorrow and let him down.”

“I thought you were going to call him today.”

“Sorry,” I said with a scoff, “Got busy reading.”

“I'll forgive you, but I don't think he will.”

“Probably not, but the case is dead anyway. It's just a bad curve, created by some lazy road designer, that's all that there is to it.”

“Too bad that won't be enough for Mike,” April said with a smirk.

“It's not enough for me, but I'm pretty much out of leads here. Maybe I'll get away without being fired.”

It didn't matter though, the case was dead and, frankly, I was sick of police work. The cases I had worked prior were much more straightforward than this wild goose chase through Hell. In the matter of a few short week's, I'd banged my head against a brick wall so many times that it was finally bleeding and I was ready to stop.

I scratched the back of my head and tried to push all of the work related thoughts out of my mind. With a sharp exhale, I turned to face the window. It was evening and the sun was setting. My apartment, complete with westward exposure, had just gone from getting blared by the evening sun to being privy to one of the most beautiful sunsets of the year.

I reached over and grabbed the wand on my blinds and opened them up partly to let in more of the view. Wanting to share the moment with April, I took three steps backward watching the orange sun peek through the blinds until finally I backed into her and she wrapped her arms around me.

Then, without warning, it hit me. A look of total shock came over my face and I turned to April and said, “I've got it.”

“Got what?” she asked, puzzled.

“I know what's going on along that road,” I spun around to face April and I grabbed her arms. My face must have been lit with excitement because April's eyes brightened as she saw my face, “I've got it figured out.”

“What's going on?” April stammered, “Are you sure?”

“Not at all. I need to interview one more person but I bet, if I hurry, I can catch him while he's still at work.”

I immediately started piecing together my personal effects, grabbing my wallet, a jacket and my keys. Just as I began to sprint for the door, April called out, “Who?”

I opened the door and started to head out. I stuck my head back in just long enough to say, “It's a secret, you can put me in prison later,” before dashing off.

I'm sure April made some unintelligible utterance before I dashed away, but there really wasn't any time. Instead I called her up on my cell phone and explained it to her as I drove back into the country.

However, as grateful as she was for the call, I knew she was going to let me have it when I returned home that night.

Indeed, this was a once in a lifetime moment for me, or so it seemed, and I was going to take a moment to relish it.

Though the auditorium didn't have much in the way of equipment, I made do with the overhead projector and stack of aluminum easels they had in storage. From there, it only took a steady hand, a good marker and a few over-sized pieces of poster board to create the drawings I needed and a few minutes on my computer to develop the transparencies I wanted.

I knew that I was playing to a tough house. Even Mike and April were very skeptical of my solution. However, a few quick interviews and a return trip to the site more or less proved my case and left Mike feeling so sure of my work that he called a meeting of all of the survivors and families of the victims. I, in turn, asked that David be included on the guest list as I did the local police. I figured they too would be interested in what I had to say.

However, Mike's confidence nor April's support did anything to waylay my nerves. As I frantically went through my impromptu presentation, April set out folding chairs for the guests and checked all of the signs outside. Though refreshments weren't being served, I sure as Hell at least wanted to offer the courtesy of making sure everyone could find the place with ease.

About fifteen minutes before the meeting was scheduled to begin, the guests began to trickle through the door. Since most of the faces were new to me, I took a moment to introduce myself to each group as they came in. Not only did they seem genuinely relieved to meet me face to face after receiving Mike's call, but it did wonders to take my mind off of my upcoming presentation.

Originally I had expected only six or seven of the families to be represented, but by about ten minutes after I was scheduled to begin, the small auditorium was standing room only and, by my count, all ten of the victims of the turn had someone there and two of the survivors had shown up. Also, to my further surprise, so did the local police, in full uniform, and even David Marx sneaked in as I was preparing to start opening remarks.

Once I was sure everyone was seated, I dashed up to the stage and positioned myself front and center. Almost immediately I realized that, without a podium or even a mic to hide behind, I felt very vulnerable and awkward. However, the tension was far too thick to turn around now and, with only a slight crack in my voice, I began.

“As most of you know by now, my name is Special Detective Tony Altru. I have spent much of the past month investigating the bizarre accidents on Route 81. As you all are aware, ten people have died on that road in the past two years and another three have been seriously injured. It is, officially the deadliest turn in the state and it's apparently become embroiled in some local folklore about a curse on the property. I'm here today to assure you that there's no such thing.”

Some members of the audience began to get uneasy and either started whispering among themselves or idly shifting around in their chairs. Though they were all fairly quiet, in the high ceiling auditorium it sounded more like a dull roar.

“Now, before I begin, I want to apologize to some of you. When I first began this investigation, I tried to tie together the victims. While this is a tried and true method of investigating that usually yields great results, this time it was the wrong approach to take and, in the process, I can tell that I brought up some painful memories for a few of you. For that I am sorry.”

Only Mr. Carney reacted to that statement. Though I couldn't tell if he was still bitter or if my apology had helped at all, it seemed to have had an impact on him and, in the end, that was the best I could hope for.

I walked over to my first easel and unveiled a diagram of the turn. It was a crude drawing, lines for the road, circles for trees and a mass of scribbling to represent the embankment, but it was clear and legible.

“Now,” I continued as I pulled out my laser pointer to use with the diagram, “All of the accidents took place on this turn. In every case the car was traveling northbound, on the road, lost control at the start of this turn and slammed into the embankment without any evidence of braking or trying to swerve away. The question on everyone's mind tonight is 'What did that happen?'”

The crowd was already getting impatient with me, though I'd only been talking for about ten minutes, some of the men were checking their watches and the women were folding arms across their laps. David, for his part, seemed ready to fall asleep and the cops were standing at the back chatting among themselves.

“Now, to understand how it happened, we have to understand what happened and that means looking at what the accidents had in common,” I walked over, flipped on the overhead and threw on my first slide, a bulleted list of similarities, “All of the accidents took place between four and seven in the evening on clear days. All of the victims were driving roughly fifty-five miles an hour and they were all alone. Most were driving light colored cars and none, as far as we know, had music on in their vehicle.”

The crowd erupted, no longer were they whispering politely between themselves, but now they were talking to one another, loud enough where I could easily hear snippets of their frustration as they vainly tried to keep their bitterness quiet.

“If you'll let me finish, I promise this will all be worth your time,” I said motioning for them all to calm down.

One of the family members stood up from his chair, “What does this have to do with how my daughter died?”

“What do you mean?” I asked flatly.

“I mean, music, come on, what does that have to do with anything? If I found out that you dragged me here to feed us a line I'm going to…” his wife reached up and pulled him down before he could finish his sentence.

“Music,” I continued, trying to keep my voice calm, “Probably doesn't mean anything to you. But it would have meant everything to Jeffery Marx.”

Some of the members of the crowd let out a sharp gasp. It was obvious that the name had been elevated to something of bogeyman status in the area and these people, either consciously or unconsciously, were scared of him.

More importantly though, I knew I had their attention.

I walked back up to the overhead projector and swapped out the slide for another bulleted list, this one about Jeffery Marx. “Mr. Marx, by profession, was a hypnotist. After his graduation from college he embarked on a mildly successful private practice using drugs to induce hypnotism. Though he was good at what he did, he was too controversial and was shut down, after which, he was forced into stage hypnotism.

“Unfortunately, drugs don't work well on stage and Marx was never able to use sound successfully. These days you can buy tapes to do it for you, but back then he resorted to bribing his participants, which was what led to his second downfall.”

The crowd was unimpressed, they had heard all of this before. Least impressed was David who was literally twiddling his thumbs to keep himself occupied.

“What isn't known is that, after his father's death and subsequent move to this part of the world, Jeffery resumed his studies. However, rather than taking up his old trick of using drugs again, he delved into something relatively new, hypnotism through light. He pushed forward into the subject, apparently making a lot of progress and even doing a few test trials of it, only to have that come to a halt when he launched his campaign against the new highway.

“Unfortunately, like almost everything else he tried, Jeffery failed at stopping the highway. Though it didn't drastically hurt his farm subsidies like he had predicted, it was still a personal defeat.”

The family members started taking slightly more interest in what I was saying. The new information, as little as it was up to that point, had whet their appetites nicely and I decided to keep the ball rolling.

“But then, he saw something, an opportunity. Here was a man who was a total failure. He was known as a fraud hypnotist, a lunatic and now a failed political figure. He saw a chance to prove his authenticity and he went for it, even though it would mean that many people would get hurt or killed, sadly, including you and your family members.”

The crowd was literally on the edge of their seats. Every time I stopped to take a breath I could hear nothing but the sound of perfect silence coming from them. Even David had started paying attention to my speech.

Unfortunately though, I realized that I had gotten ahead of myself and that I needed to backtrack some to adequately explain what was going on.

“Now, Jeffery knew where the road was going to go, the path had already been cut and some of it even paved. He knew that the speed limit would be fifty five since that's the standard speed limit on these types of highway and, with that simple knowledge, he laid out a plan. For his final act of revenge, he did one simple thing, he erected a tree wasll along the road.”

The room let out a sharp groan, the anti-climax was uncontrollable. Several people stood up to shout at me but all were dragged down by their husbands, wives or children. Finally, after a few moments of murmuring, Mr. Carney stood up and said, “What the Hell does a tree wall have to do with this?” The crowd murmured their approval.

I scratched my head idly and gave him a few seconds to cool off, “If you'll let me finish, I'll tell you.”

With that Mr. Carney sat back down and, slowly, the room began to quiet.

“I spoke with Jeffery's landscaper the other day,” I continued, “Though this company erects tree walls all the time, Mr. Marx's was a first. He didn't want just a simple tree wall to hide the house from the road, he wanted it done his way exactly. He had marked where he wanted each tree planted and even picked out the trees from his lot. The landscaper noticed that the spacing was uneven and tried to sell him on a more straightforward approach that would be cheaper and offer more privacy. Jeffery didn't bite. However, since he exhibited the same kind of totalitarian control over his flower beds, the workers wrote it off as him being an obsessive-compulsive lunatic and merrily took his check.

“However, the truth is that the tree wall was more than a privacy screen, it was a weapon. A weapon that became activated when the sun started to go down.”

I walked over to the second easel and revealed another drawing of the curve. This one had the tree line clearly marked and a series of black streaks running across the road. My audience, for their part, was looking back and forth bewildered, wondering where I was going with this.

“As you can see on this diagram, as the sun sets in the west, it causes the trees to project a series of shadows onto the road. These shadows produce patterns of light areas and dark areas on the road. As as a person drives down the road, flashes of light are reflected off of the hood and, some times, into the person's eyes. Jeffery, for his part, spaced the trees perfectly so that, if you were driving fifty five miles an hour, the trees would simulate a pattern of lights used to relax and subdue someone undergoing hypnosis.”

The crowd finally reacted sharply. There was so much shuffling and murmuring that none of it was coherent. The survivors, were the only ones not moving around, they sat almost completely still as the realization began to sink in.

“Now, this isn't a perfect or even a good set up,” I continued once the crowd died down, “There's a million ways it can go wrong. If you drive too fast or too slow, the pattern is just irritating. If you have distractions around you such as a car stereo or another person in the vehicle, you likely wouldn't pay enough attention to the flashes in order for them to have an effect. Finally, you had to be susceptible to hypnosis. Likely candidates there are people who were tired, older or somehow rendered weak mentally or had their focus dampened. However, driving along route 81 for a few miles is enough to make you zone out no matter who you are.

“But, despite all of the odds against it, it still worked thirteen times in the past two years and, if given long enough, will work again. All it takes is the exact right combination of variables to come together and, as you all know, tragedy strikes.”

The crowd began to rise up again. I phased out for a second and began to watch and listen to their talking. From what I could tell, it was all a mixture of patting me on the back and disbelief of my theory. Though I had done the math and confirmed the pattern, I knew that breaking out my calculator wasn't going to quell their doubt. Instead, I just decided to let them debate it amongst themselves and let time prove me right.

After all, I didn't care if they believed I was a voodoo priest that lifted the curse or a good detective, all I wanted was the killing to stop.

One of the men in the crowd stood up and snapped me out of my daydreaming, “What are we going to do about this?”

“I'm glad you asked,” I responded trying to sound courteous, “I invited the current owner of the land, David Marxam, Jeffery's son, here so that we can get his permission to cut down some of the trees in the tree wall. It wouldn't take much to break the pattern, a few dozen along the mile stretch perhaps, but we still need his permission to do it.”

David seized the moment and stood up, “Um, I just want to say that I'm sorry about this. Listen, I had no idea this was going on, I just, well, I just thought it was a bad curve, that's all. I didn't know what my father had done. I'm sorry, very, very sorry” he said in a solemn, timid tone.

An unintelligible cat call came from the back of the room causing David to hang is head for a second. “Listen,” he continued, “I can't make it up to you guys, I know. But, if it'll do any good, you can cut down all of the trees you want. Take down the whole damn thing for all I care. It's not worth this.”

“Thank you David,” I said calmly, “I'll see to it that crews are there next week. The rest of you, don't hate him for what's happened to you and your relatives. It's not his fault. He didn't know. If you're going to take it out on anyone, make it your local police.”

The comment caught the cops off guard. They broke their conversation suddenly and nearly fell over. I met their gaze for a split second, one of them, though I couldn't tell which, hated me with such ferocity that he was almost foaming at the mouth. The other just threw a cold, icy gaze that looked almost criminal in nature.

“You see,” I said with a smile, “Jeffery Marx based all of his calculations on the speed limit being fifty-five. What he didn't predict was that, due to the dangerous turn, that most of the mile was actually reduced to a forty five mile an hour zone. Of course, you didn't know that and neither did your deceased relatives because the sign was hidden behind an unpruned branch. However, the police did know about it and ignored it because it made collecting speeding tickets that much easier.”

One of the two officers lurched forward as if to rush the stage but was held back by his buddy. Almost the entire crowd turned around to face the two of them, some were shouting obscenities, some were simply asking, almost pleading, for them to say it wasn't true. The men behind the badges said nothing. The one that had just tried to rush me stood there and foamed, locking his gaze on me while completely ignoring the mob forming around him while the other hung his head slightly and let the realization sink in.

Mike came onto the stage. For most of the talk he had entrenched himself in the corner beside me, content on watching from the sidelines. I'd offered to let him explain it but he said, since I was the one that cracked the case, I got to break the news. Truth is, he just didn't want to do it. Whether he didn't think he could explain it or simply didn't understand it, I don't know, but at this moment he realized he could make a major political move and leaped for it.

“My name is Mike Digowski,” He said in his typical politician tone, “I'm with the state Police Commission and I'm going to do everything I can to ensure that there is a full investigation of these two officers and their actions and, if anything is found, they will be disciplined.”

That did nothing to soothe the crowd, I seriously doubt half of them even heard his comments. They continued yelling and the dull roar was become a loud, almost violent mess. By now both of the officers were fully aware of the crowd around them and were starting to looked panicked at the sight of the the angry populace.

Unsure of what to do, the one that had been moping just a few minutes before tapped his buddy on the shoulder and motioned for them to get out. They did so, backing out slowly with a loud, jeering mob not far behind them. When they hit the door of the auditorium, they broke off into a trot.

The audience pursued no further. Rather, the shouting became a dull murmur and then an almost universal exhale. The two cops were gone and they were going to have to deal with their neighbors later. Though I could tell from their faces that the crowd had gotten no peace from their shouting match, I figured that they could now begin to heal, because, if nothing else, they now had the truth.

In the end, most of the families seemed convinced of my theory. At least they weren't angry with me for wasting their time or blowing smoke. Even those that weren't sure about what I had to say were thinking about it and, honestly, I understood. If I hadn't seen it myself, I doubt I would have believed it.

Though I offered to stay as long as they wanted and chat with them individually, when there were no more questions and everyone was dismissed, none stuck around. Instead, they just quietly gathered their coats and purses and headed for the exits.

When David went to do the same, I called out to him and waved for him to come over. With some trepidation, he did, and Mike slid over to join in the conversation.

“Hate to say it David, but we're not done with you yet.”

“Listen,” he said exasperated, “You can cut down as many trees as you want, I feel terrible about this and I want to make it right.”

“This isn't about the trees,” I said keeping my voice low, “This is about the gun in your house.”

“What about it?” he said puzzled.

“You said you haven't touched that gun since the date of your father's death. Is that right?”

“Yeah,” he said looking back and forth between Mike and myself, “I don't have license or registration for it, You're not going to bust me for having an illegal gun are you?”

“No, we're not going to bust you because you own a gun, but because your father never did.”

“Huh?” Was all David could muster.

I went to speak but Mike butted in, apparently he wanted to be the one to move in for the kill, “Your father hunted deer. You don't hunt deer with a shotgun, you use a rifle or a…”

“Haven't you heard of buck shot?” David said angrily. “Plenty of people hunt deer with shotguns you idiot.”

Mike reeled back. The tone of David's voice made him sound like a caged rat, but he had a point. Mike had jumped the gun and his ignorance was even more striking than David's arrogance. I tapped Mike softly on the shoulder and he correctly read it as a cue to step back.

“True, you can hunt deer with a shotgun, but your father didn't. He was a bow hunter. When he attacked the construction workers, he used a bow and I've talked to several locals and none of them recall seeing him with a shotgun at any point though most remember seeing his large, professional bow. Furthermore, though you can shoot deer with a shotgun, you wouldn't use a small 28 gauge like yours. It'd be a 12 or a 10 gauge.”

David could do nothing but stammer, his look of anger changed to panic. His eyes began to dart back and forth between Mike and myself as he frantically scrambled to find something, anything to say.

Mike, smelling blood, stepped in a gain, “The truth is that was your grandfather's gun wasn't it? People around here know that he was a good squirrel and rabbit hunter and a few remember him carrying that small shotgun around or buying ammo for it.”

“But if you need any more proof,” I said leaning in, “You said your father took the upstairs to the house and you took the downstairs after he moved in. Now why, on earth, would he hang his shotgun in your part of the house?”

David said nothing and a smirk came across Mike's face. He'd clearly missed his days on the force and was enjoying catching the perp, even if it was on my ticket.

“Be honest,” Mike said, “There was no suicide, there was no accident. You killed him. You hated what he was doing to your land, you hated that he had abandoned you and you hated that you were forced to share your house and your money with a runaway dad. You hated it so much that you went out and killed him, trying in vain to make it look like a suicide.”

Panic once again gave way to anger in David. Mike was playing too rough and I could see David clinching his fists, literally digging his nails into his palms. I tried to remember if he was right or left handed so I could watch for a wild swing, “You can't prove it,” he said through his teeth. “You can't prove a damn thing.”

I waited a few more minutes to let David's heaving die down. Mike was looking mortified. The two of us were unarmed and the only police for dozens of miles were probably trying to outrun a torch mob.

“You're right,” I said, trying to be as soothing as possible, “We can't prove anything.”

The reaction from David was swift. He relaxed. His eyes unclinched and his teeth stopped grinding. After just a few seconds, his trademark look of smugness came back. One could even catch a glint of white behind his smiling lips.

“But the FBI can,” I interrupted, “They probably just got done executing a search warrant on the gun and are going to dust it for fingerprints. If your father's prints don't show up on the gun, it's going to look very suspicious. Plus they're also reopening the case, including pulling all of the old files and blocking off the scene. Your father's death is going to get the investigation it should have gotten over two years ago.”

David's jaw dropped. There was no anger, no smugness, just disbelief. He darted back and forth between Mike and myself but said nothing though he gasped a few times as if to speak.

Then, without warning, he turned around and ran, dashing out the door of the auditorium and toward the parking lot. Mike went to go follow him but I grabbed his arm to stop him, “Let him go.” I said.

Mike didn't resist me. He just dropped his shoulders and straightened his jacket. “Yeah, he won't get far.”

I walked back over to the stage and began pulling all of my belongings together, “Don't worry about it, he's not trying to run, he's just going home to protect his property. He's strange that way.”

Mike sat down on the edge of the stage and leaned back resting on his hands, “Tell me something though. How'd you get a search warrant for his place? You don't have nearly enough to get a warrant for suspicion of murder.”

I switched off the overhead projector and started work folding up the first easel, “No, I didn't. But there was more than enough for suspicion of insurance fraud. I just told the FBI I thought Jeffery had killed himself and that his son and the police had covered it up for insurance reasons. All I needed for that was the inadequate police report and the information about the policy and suddenly both the FBI and judge were very cooperative.”

Mike let out a soft chuckle, “You're a slick bastard, you know that?”

“Yeah, I can be,” I said as I laid the first easel out and started work on the second, “But the FBI is still going to have to figure it out on their own and, when and if they do, they'll get full credit for it.”

Mike hopped up onto the stage, walked over to me and patted me on the back, “But we'll know the truth right?”

“Yep,” I said laying the second easel on top of the first, “And that's all that really matters. Now quit being lazy and help me pack this stuff away.”

Mike stopped and started looking around the room, “By the way, where's April?”

“Oh,” I said, “We noticed there wasn't a car registered to Jeffery Marx. She's getting the make, model and license of the car he drove in with and reporting it to the FBI, she should be back any second. You know, just in case I'm wrong about him not fleeing.”

“Well, lately, you don't seem like you can be wrong,” Mike said as he hopped down from the stage and began to move the folding chairs around.

I paused for only a second, remembered what I had done to poor Mr. Carney and resumed putting things away. My only hope was that, for him, the relief of knowing the truth was greater than the pain of the memories I'd drudged up.

“Everybody makes mistakes Mike, everybody.”

With cleanup, April and I didn't make it home until late that night. By the time we opened the door to our apartment, we were dead on our feet and could only manage to make it as far as the couch before we collapsed like a house of cards. There we sat, as still as the walls around us, trying to overcome the tension not only of the meeting, but of the long drive to and from the auditorium.

Though Mike had offered to put us up in a hotel room for the night, we refused, wanting nothing more than to sleep in our own bed. However, the long drive home quickly took it's toll on us and, like so many before us, we found ourselves unable to move from the splendid comfort of the couch.

April, for her part, had gotten all of the essential information from Jeffery's car and had already called the FBI. Apparently though, Jeffery did show up at his house where he was powerless to stop the investigation. If nothing else, his life wasn't going to be the same again.

After what seemed like an eternity, April got up and started stirring around in the kitchen. “Do you want a cappuccino?” She called out.

“Please,” I shouted back.

I continued zoning out and staring at the walls. For the first time in years I was frustrated at our lack of cable television. Though I've never been the type to watch much TV, it was certainly tempting right then, if nothing else than to have something to do while thoroughly ensconced on the couch, helpless to move.

Soon enough though, April came back with the cappuccino and I took a few sips. The caffeine and the sugar began to make it's way through my veins and I found myself perking up, at least enough to move around. After about half the mug, I set it down on an end table and slid over to April, holding her tight in my arms.

“Tired sweetie?” she asked.

“No, I'm just so awake I'm about to fall asleep,” I said, unable to bite my tongue.

April pushed me off and slapped my arm playfully before reaching around behind her, grabbing a pillow and tossing it at me. “Listen smartass,” she said with a giggle, “You can't get away with that here.”

I chuckled and grabbed my mug, taking a long sip, “I know, just couldn't help myself.”

“It's ok. I'll forgive you, you've had a long day.”

She was right too. I leaned forward on the sofa, clutching my cup in one hand and resting my other arm across my knees. I let my mind drift off as I began to remember not just the day behind me, but the entire investigation. Everything from the first call to the final meeting came back to me in a giant flood of emotions.

“You ok?” April asked after a few moments of silence.

“Yeah,” I said solemnly, “Just memories.”

“Hey!” She said, raising her voice to get my attention, “Don't get sad on me now. You solved the case, you should be happy.”

“I am,” I said flatly, “I'm just tired,” I raised my cup in the air, “But here's to busting curses and catching murderers. May we continue to do both.”

April tapped her mug with mine and we both took long gulps, “You know though,” April said after she pulled away from her cup, “In a way, there was a curse on the land. It just wasn't magical you know?”

“Yeah, well, at least this one we can do something about.”

“But you know the next time a yahoo goes flying off of that curve at ninety miles an hour and dies no one's going to believe you any more.”

I got up from the couch and began to take off my shirt, “Probably, but at least we know the truth and I'll be happy with that. Well, as long as I'm not the yahoo in question.”

April let out a soft chuckle and scratched behind her ear,

“Come on, it's time for bed. At least it is for me.”

April rocked back hard on the couched and rolled forward to her feet.

“I couldn't agree more.”