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Craig Nybo

8

“He said if I didn’t get things done, that he and others would have to do it for me.”

“Is he threatening your job?”

“It was more than that; it sounded like he was planning some kind of witch hunt.”

“Two coffees.” Lucy interrupted. Kurt and Hugh looked up at her, both men forcing smiles. It appeared to Lucy as if she had caught the two of them talking about something important and private. Her smile waned. “Sorry to interrupt; your food will be right out.”

“Thank you,” Kurt said.

Lucy nodded and hurried away towards the kitchen.

“Well, speak of the devil,” Hugh said, nodding toward the diner entrance.

Harmon Bently arrived at Abigail’s at precisely a quarter of eight. He’d developed a taste for Max Kinootzn’s Denver omelet--when it came to cooking, the man had a gift. As Harmon entered the diner, he caught the glances of a half-dozen regulars. Durlin Ceivers, wearing his usual Vietnam veteran baseball cap and magnificent beard, inclined a greeting toward Harmon. Harmon waved back and started towards Durlin’s table. Harmon believed in contingency plans. And with the indifference Kurt had shown towards the mutilated sheep, he wanted to make sure there were others in the community on whom he could count. Durlin Ceivers topped Harmon’s list.

As he made his way toward Durlin, he stopped cold. Kurt and Hugh Fostett sat at one of the tables breakfasting together. At first, Harmon tried to sidle off and take the long way around. But Hugh had made eye contact; so much for a clean getaway.

It seemed to Harmon, now that he had been spotted, that a direct approach would be best. He walked over to Kurt and Hugh. “Harmon Bently,” Hugh said, intertwining his fingers and putting his hands on the table in front of him.

Harmon shot Hugh a discontented glance and focused his attention on Kurt. “Greetings, Mr. McCammus.”

“Like I always say, call me Kurt.”

“What brings you to Abigail’s this fine morning, Mr.