Free The Croning by Laird Barron

irrelevance to any living being. Below Agent Crane’s shiny wingtips, the tattered throw rug and warped floorboards, came dim, aquatic creaks and bumps of other agents on the ground level. Men in crisp suits knocking about with flashlights and cameras.
    “Hey, Tommy,” Agent Barton said.
    “Yeah.”
    “Did he say something?”
    “Yeah.” Mr. Crane finished wiping his hands. He didn’t know what to do with the cloth, so he held it between thumb and forefinger. Something crashed downstairs; nervous laughter followed. A dog barked in the yard. “Goddamn it. Fifteen minutes sooner…”
    “Fifteen minutes sooner he might’ve plugged you or me instead if himself. Want coffee?” Agent Barton didn’t wait for an answer; he went to the dresser and used the phone to brief Section. Section had alerted the local authorities, would coordinate the necessary details. After disconnecting with Section, he took a deep breath, visibly composed himself for the call to their field supervisor. It was a short conversation— Yes, ma’am. No, ma’am. We’ll be back tomorrow in the PM, ma’am . He shuddered, smiled in a perfunctory manner. “We’re done here. Want coffee? Let’s get some coffee.”
    Agent Crane nodded. The techs would scour the room, ants on jelly. Maybe there was a note, a recording. Probably nothing. He followed his partner into the narrow hall, down the narrow stairs. They acknowledged the other men, the ones with the gloves and the specimen bags.
    Once they were in the car and crunching slowly along the gravel lane, Agent Crane began to relax. He lighted a cigarette. Bony poplars clawed at the stars. Clouds blacked a steadily widening swath of the lower heavens. Three cruisers from the Chelan County sheriff’s office met them head on, ghosted by, trailing rooster tails of dust. Red and blue flashes wobbled through the empty fields and imprinted behind Agent Crane’s eyelids.
    “What’s with you?” Agent Barton said.
    “I couldn’t make it out.”
    “Couldn’t make out what? What Plimpton said?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Looked like he had something on his mind.”
    “Did it.”
    “Yep. Hey, there’s that truck stop on 97. Burger and coffee.”
    “OK.” Agent Crane cracked the window. Agent Barton hated it when he smoked in the car. Agent Crane lighted another. His head felt thick, felt like a lead ball. The adrenaline was seeping from his system, leaving him shaky and depressed.
    They made the highway. Every mile reduced Agent Crane’s sensation of dread, until what remained curled in the pit of his stomach. It hit him this way sometimes, but not often, not in years. This wasn’t the suicide, either. Plimpton was a photo, a paragraph in a dossier. A pathology report now. Meat.
    No, it was something else, some indefinable thing. The other team members had felt it too, judging by their flared nostrils and unhappy smiles. Agent Barton felt it as well; he drove too fast. Barton always drove fast when he was in a mood. Maybe the team would uncover something. Maybe there was a secret stash of chemicals, guns, incriminating documents. Bomb-making supplies. Agent Crane didn’t want to go back and hang around. He preferred to wait for the report.
    He said, “You think she knew?”
    “She called it. She must’ve known something.”
    “Could be a coincidence…”
    “And what do you say about coincidence?”
    “Fuck coincidence.”
    “Right. So she knew, she was right about that much. But, if they don’t find anything hot, it’s going to look like another circle jerk.”
    Barton said, “You think they’re going to post us in Alaska, huh? Don’t worry—Alaska’s pretty nice in the fall, long as you pack some electric underwear.”
    They drove in silence for a while. Then, Crane said, “I wish I could’ve made out what Plimpton was trying to say.”
    “Uh-huh.” Barton’s eyes were slits in the dashboard glow.
    “He…slurred. Mumbled. You know.”
    “Probably didn’t see you,