Fifty Grand [antikvár]

C H A P T E R-"-" 1 NOWHERE, WYOMING The frozen lake and the black vacuum sky and the dead man pleading for the return of his remaining days. "There must be some kind of mistake." No. "You've got the wrong guy." No. "You're gonna pay for this." Viejo companero, I've paid in advance. And before he can come up with any more material I unroll a line of duct tape, cut it, and place it over his mouth. I step away from the car, check back up the trail. Moonlight on the green Park Service hut. Snow on the dogwoods. No new tire tracks. Apart from me and my confederates, no one's been here in days, probably weeks. I close the BMW's trunk and take off my ski mask. He kicks at the side panels with his soles but the muffled protests cease after a couple of minutes. I plunge my left hand into the coat pocket and bring out an orange. I stare at it obsessively for a moment, but the color and the smell are making my head spin. I return it to the coat. "An orange," I say to myself with a smile. I breathe the crisp December air, shiver.