Chapter 3

Wednesday, October 30, 2019

Ernesto was right, which was an anomaly. That night, David felt a burning in his gut that fought off two Tums and a dose of Mylanta with ease. It waged an assault so fierce that even the mere desire for sleep became an elusive dream.

He rose from the bed silently allowing Connie to continue her rest uninterrupted. He opened the sliding door to his patio. Smoking had long been a discarded vice, a relic from over ten years ago, but his fingers twitched involuntarily at the mere thought of inhaling a cigarette. Ernesto's words had purposefully poisoned him, yet David couldn't muster hatred for his old friend. It was evident that Ernesto was reaching out for help, albeit in his own enigmatic way.

Walking the perimeter of his pool he dipped his foot in, and feeling the chill, he decided against a swim to ease his tension. Instead, he opened his outside fridge and pulled out a beer. It was frigid as well but a different kind of cold; one that he could bear.

Pulling his phone from his pocket, he pressed the button on the side, bringing the screen to life. It glowed in the darkness, revealing the time — just past two. He slipped the phone back into the pocket of his sweatpants, its presence a reassuring anchor in the uncertainty of the night.

A gentle breeze brushed against his face, carrying with it the faint scent of ash drifting over the hills. It mingled with the coolness of the night, providing a calmness that washed over David's restless mind. It could have been a distant bonfire from a neighboring house or a wildfire raging miles and miles away. His instincts betting on the latter. The past few weeks had been marked by oppressive dryness, and the Santa Ana winds had begun their tumultuous dance across the Sierra Pelona mountains.

Shit. Retrieving the phone once again, he scrolled through his contacts, sending out a signal that spiraled from cell tower to cell tower. There was no doubt in his mind that there would be a response, even at this unholy hour.

The line opened followed by a smug sigh. “I won’t say it, but … you know ...” The words were left to hang in the air.

David understood what lay behind those words—an unspoken I told you so. Without allowing the silence to stretch further, he inquired, "Was it Waters who gave you the tip?" He was referring to Emil Waters, an ex-cop, ex-con, who still operated in the shadows, maintaining connections with a myriad of three and four-letter agencies. He had earned the nickname 'Dirty Waters,' a testament to his murky past. But despite his tainted reputation, his information remained consistently reliable. It was enough to secure him an early release from a lengthy prison sentence, granting him the taste of freedom several years ago.

“Yes.”

“Let’s meet, but not here. I don’t want Connie to catch wind of this just yet. I’d like to see all the moving parts first. Breakfast?”

“Make it lunch. I’ll still be up for a bit, won’t be rousing ’fore ten, I’m sure. Let’s settle on 11:30.”

“Send me a text in the morning, let me know where.” Not missing a beat Ernesto said, “Coronado’s.”

“Pricey. You buying?”

“Nope.”

The line disconnected leaving David to absorb the weight of their conversation. Perhaps it was the antacids finally taking effect, soothing the storm within his stomach. Or perhaps it was the glimmer of hope, the possibility of a resolution hanging in the delicate balance of the unknown. Regardless, his restless mind found solace, and within minutes of his head meeting the pillow, the night pulled him deep into his dreams. Tense, restless dreams.

(In the Hunt by Timothy Dalton, available on Amazon)