Sam reluctantly stepped aside, allowing Keith more room to work as he grabbed a mug from the shelf when Brock Luepke sidled up to the bar. Sam wiped his palms against his jeans and glanced toward Gus as if there was a way out of the forthcoming conversation.
After a moment's hesitation, Sam accepted defeat and rounded the bar.
Gus shifted his weight off the stool, pushing himself upright with his cane. The arthritis in his hip protested the movement, sending a sharp jolt of pain down his leg. He ignored it, as he'd learned to ignore so many other physical discomforts over the years.
“Back booth,” Gus stated gruffly as he slowly made his way across the wooden floor. “We’ll have some privacy.”
The rubber tip of his cane created a soft rhythm against the hardwood floor, though it couldn’t be heard over the country music drifting from the overhead speakers. Sam could have walked ahead, but he remained a half step behind out of courtesy.
The booth Gus chose was far enough away from the jukebox to allow them to speak in solitude without concern that someone would overhear them. Over the years, it had hosted countless private conversations—business deals, marriage proposals, and confidences that needed the shelter of shadows. The wooden seat lurched as Gus lowered himself onto it, placing his cane carefully against the wall within easy reach.
Sam slid into the opposite bench, immediately reaching for a napkin from the metal dispenser. His fingers began working the paper, folding and unfolding it with nervous energy. Not even the dim overhead light could diminish the bags under his eyes.
“If this is about me tying one on Saturday night, it won't happen again.” Sam met Gus’ stare. “I know I crossed a line, sleeping it off in your office like that. Won't happen again.”
“We both know that's not true. You've been making that same promise since you were twenty-two, and we both know you'll break it the next time something pushes you too close to what you're running from.”
Gus paused, observing the way Sam's jaw tightened.
“I don't need a lecture, Gus.” Sam's voice dropped an octave. “Not tonight.”
“No, what you need is to stop carrying around guilt for something that wasn't your fault.” Gus kept his voice steady, his gaze unwavering. “Mason Dawkins has spent nearly twenty years in prison, and you've been serving the sentence right alongside him, one bottle at a time.”
Sam shifted in his seat, giving him the opportunity to peer over his shoulder. Once he seemed reassured that no one was paying them a lick of attention, he turned his attention back to Gus.
“You don't know what you're talking about. We lost a friend last week, Gus. I tied one on. It’s not a big deal.”
“We both know that’s not true.”
Gus let the silence stretch between them, a tactic he'd learned long ago. People would fill uncomfortable silences if you gave them enough time, revealing more than they intended. But Sam had learned this game too, having witnessed Gus employ it countless times over the years.
Seeing as Gus’ clock could stop ticking at any time, he decided to play his hand.
“You mentioned something to me the other morning that's been bugging me. Something about a trench coat.”
The effect was immediate. Sam’s face drained of color, and he stopped twisting the napkin he’d folded into a tight wad.
“I was drunk, old man.” Sam tapped the table with one end of the stiff material. “People say all kinds of nonsense when they're drunk.”
“That's true,” Gus conceded, though he wasn’t going to be derailed. “But drunk words have a funny way of being sober thoughts. And those particular words seemed to carry a lot of weight.”
“Like I said?—”
“You think you saw theThreshing Man.” Gus was done dilly-dallying. “Only you’re wrong.”
“Damn it,” Sam exclaimed before lowering his voice and leaning in close. “What is it with you people? I haven’t spoken about what I saw that night for almost twenty years, and now I'm about to tell it twice in one week. Yes, I saw it that night. Are we done now?”
“Twice?”
Gus' interest sharpened.
“Hadley came to me after Reed's funeral. Said she'd visited Mason in prison that morning. She knew things, Gus. She knew that Chief Garber advised me to keep quiet about what I saw in the woods that night.”
“Elijah knew about this?”
“He said it would only complicate the case, make me look like I was trying to create a distraction from what really happened to Emily.”
Elijah Garber had always been selective about which details made it into his official reports. Sometimes, he had the best of intentions, and other times, he had selfish reasons.
