Page 29 of Victorious

HERALD

MITCH loaded the last of the groceries into the pickup truck.

As usual, the errands had only taken him an hour. Which was good. The supply run was only half the reason for his weekly trip into town.

He drew the satchel from beneath the driver’s seat and crossed to the diner on the corner.

The bell chimed as he stepped in, the smell of fresh-brewed coffee and fresh-baked pie wafting toward him. Heads turned—they always did—but by the time he’d claimed his normal corner booth, everyone had gone back to their meals.

According to the most recent census, the town—Herald—had a population of 2,310, which made it by far the smallest place he and Syd had ever stayed. She’d been suspicious when he picked it. And rightly so. You couldn’t disappear in a place this size. But after two straight years of motels, and short-term rentals, and lock-and-leaves in big cities, he’d wanted to try something new.

Mitch stood out wherever he went. Always had, and always would.

He couldn’t do anything about his size, his bald head, his tattoos.

But he’d made a point, his first trip into town, of towing a kid with engine trouble. The next, of helping a restaurant team unload a stove. He caught a loose dog, thanks to the biscuits he kept for Dol, and donated twenty bucks to a local football team selling snacks to buy new uniforms.

By now, he’d garnered enough goodwill to earn a smile and a nod from most of the locals. The rest seemed happy to ignore him. Either one was fine by Mitch.

“Hey there, Jack,” said the waitress, strolling over.

“Hey there, Jenny,” he said back, amused by the fact that neither of their names was real. Her badge read Jenny, but she’d told him on his second visit, in a conspiratorial whisper, that her name was actually Jennine. But she’d found people tipped Jennys better. Her face was so open, so honest, that Mitch had almost confided in her, too. Instead, he’d smiled and said, “I wish I had a secret name. But I’m just Jack.”

She’d bobbed her head. “Lucky for you, Jack’s a great name. Very solid.”

“Don’t know,” he’d said, “think it would earn me many tips?”

She’d laughed, the sound spilling out of her like steam, and warming him all the way through.

Now she asked, “The usual?” and he nodded, thinking how nice it was, to linger somewhere long enough to have a standard order, and how it was probably a sign that it was time to go. The thought sent a tiny splinter through his chest. He winced as Jenny strolled away.

She returned a few moments later with a slice of peach pie, and a glass of chocolate milk, teasing him lightly, the way she always did, about the choice of drink.

Mitch flashed a grin. “How do you think I got so big?”

The door chimed with a handful of new customers, and as Jenny/Jennine slipped away to take their orders, Mitch drew the laptop from his bag, and booted up, connecting to the diner’s Wi-Fi.

He opened a browser, fingers moving briskly over the keys as he typed in the address, and the site came up.

The Fertile Plot.

It was a community message board, thread after thread devoted to the minutiae of home gardening and hobby farming. Mitch skimmed the new posts—inquiries and debates about organic slug repellent, soil nitrate levels, the eventual midwinter thaw—before clicking over to his inbox.

Where one new message was waiting.

SHARPENEDSPADE1652: HOW’S THE WEATHER?

The usual status check. The text equivalent of a sonar ping.

Mitch wrote back.

TURNINGOVERANEWLEAF: COLD BUT MILD. SUNNY SKIES. GETTING ENOUGH RAIN?

He waited a few minutes to see if the dot would go from gray to green.

But it stayed dark.

Wherever Victor was, he was obviously busy.