The familiar weight of observation settled over him, a habit formed decades ago in the Pacific that had never quite left him, even as his body slowly betrayed him in other ways.
Decades of ownership had transformed the converted warehouse into an extension of himself. Every nick in the hardwood floors, every stain on the bar top told a story he could recite from memory.
Photographs of Whistlerun's past residents hung from the walls, frozen in sepia tones. Vintage beer signs that hadoutlasted the companies that made them, and local sports trophies donated by proud families when space ran out in their homes, occupied wooden shelves.
Behind the bar, his military medals were encased in glass. The Bronze Star and Purple Heart anchored the collection, flanked by campaign medals that younger patrons rarely recognized anymore. He'd stopped explaining their significance years ago, tired of observing eyes glaze over when he mentioned Guadalcanal or Okinawa. These days, the patrons wouldn’t even be able to locate them on a map.
“You ready to settle, Martin?”
Sam moved behind the bar with practiced efficiency, though Gus noted the slight tremor in his hand as he took a twenty-dollar bill from Martin Cox. Sam's bloodshot eyes betrayed his struggle. Gus had seen the signs too many times recently. Sam was hanging on by a thread, functioning but just barely.
“Need a refill, Gus?” Sam called over after he’d gotten Martin his change. “Fresh pot of coffee is done brewing.”
Gus merely nodded, monitoring Sam as he made his way down the bar. At ninety-eight, Gus had outlived two wives, a daughter, and most of his friends. The doctors had been warning him about his heart for the past decade, each time seeming genuinely surprised when he returned for his next check-up. His lawyer had finalized his will last month, leaving the Watering Hole to Sam—the closest thing to family he had left.
As Sam topped off his coffee, Gus caught the faint scent of bourbon beneath the cologne. Sam couldn’t entirely wash away the evidence of last night’s indulgence.
“Slow night,” Gus said, assessing Sam's reaction.
“Should pick up after the festival this weekend.”
The mention of the festival tightened something in Gus's chest. He'd watched forty-three Harvest Festivals come and go since Pearl Shepley disappeared. Forty-three autumns ofmothers keeping their daughters closer, of fathers scanning the treelines with wary eyes. The rhythm of fear had become as much a part of the season as the falling leaves.
Sunday morning's discovery still troubled him, though.
He had come downstairs early to evaluate the damage caused during Reed's funeral celebration. Gus found Sam passed out on the office couch, an empty bottle of Wild Turkey on the floor beside him. There was nothing unusual there, but it was the mumbling that had caught Gus's attention as he shook Sam awake.
“Saw him... trench coat... arms too long... not my fault... should've told...”
The words had been slurred, barely coherent, but they'd struck Gus with unexpected clarity. For three days now, Sam had been avoiding him, finding endless tasks that kept him moving around the bar. He’d restocked inventory that didn't need restocking, cleaned shelves that were already clean, and reorganized the storeroom. Anything to avoid the conversation Gus was determined to have.
He sipped his coffee, not worried that the caffeine would keep him awake. Nothing kept him awake anymore. His exhaustion was more than bone deep.He lowered his mug to the bar, wrapping his hand around the outside, seeking warmth for his joints that never seemed to thaw anymore.
Sam grabbed a wet cloth and proceeded to wipe down the bar for the fourth time in an hour, working his way closer to where Keith Bennett sat nursing a beer. Keith had been dropping by more frequently these past couple of weeks, always sitting in the same spot, always ordering exactly two beers before heading home.
“…game on Thursday.” Keith set his beer down. “The wife is taking the kids to the festival.”
“You’re not joining them?” Sam asked in a cautious tone. “With all the media camping out near the entrance, I’m not sure I’d let them go alone.”
The weight of the townsfolk’s secrets pressed down on Gus's shoulders. He'd always prided himself on being the keeper of confidences shared over late-night drinks. He knew which marriages were failing before the couples did, which businesses were about to fold, which feuds had been simmering for generations.
But this—well, this was different.
What he had inadvertently learned from Sam wasn't idle gossip. It was something darker, something that had been festering in Whistlerun's soil for decades.
Gus set down his coffee mug with a decisive clink.
He was too old and too tired to keep dancing around the truth. Whatever Sam thought he understood about theThreshing Man, about that trench coat, Gus needed to set him straight.
“Keith, take over for Sam. We’ll only be a minute.”
“What?” Sam asked in surprise. He dropped the wet rag in a bucket behind the bar. “Keith, you don’t need to?—”
“You heard me, boy.”
Keith didn’t have to be told twice. He slid off the barstool before making his way around the counter to replace Sam.
“Sorry,” Keith murmured when Sam didn’t immediately indulge Gus’ request. “Don’t worry, though. I’ve been watching you long enough to know how it’s done.”
