Eleanor Tatum

Chad McIver deposited his weary body into the wooden deck chair. He and his cold beer were ready for the famous Lake Wheatley Fourth of July celebration. Ever since his arrival last May, the few friends he had afforded himself had bragged about the oval shaped shoreline ablaze in a competition between residents for the loudest and the most colorful fireworks display. Most of these were illegal in this state, but illegal was his specialty.

As an ATF agent his assignment in this deceptively peaceful swamp involved a nasty triangle of gunrunners. They exchanged their product here, here of all places. He could smell the connections. Just today he had witnessed the where and the how, but he still needed the names and he needed Cain.

The noise and color increased as did his smile. He sat alone on a dark pier and remembered his past July 4ths with his baby brother; how they’d cut up, how they’d scared their mom by taking running starts and jumping over the campfire at the family hot dog roast and how’d they’d run from lit fuses. When they were older they would spike the lemonade and kiss the Graham girls behind their grandparent’s antique smoke house.

Running his fingers through his hair he realized he was thankful, really glad, he had called Cain today. He had had to leave a voice mail, but still he had reached out to a baby brother who ridiculously applied for this same crazy but worthy business.

He felt the soft rhythmic vibrations on the pier floor and he heard the creak of the wooden slate that needed tightening. He concluded that what he had here was an uninvited visitor. His strong instincts had him rubbing under his shirt to check for his security vest while slowly reaching for his weapon, perhaps too slowly.