Free Centralia by Mike Dellosso

identify. “No. They told me there was nothing left. And I have no idea who’s behind this.”
    Amy’s hand went to her mouth. “I’m sorry. And I’m sorry I didn’t come to the funeral. Didn’t call or write or anything. I thought . . .”
    “I understand, Amy. Really. When I think about it, I can’t really blame you.” Peter reached into his pocket and retrieved the note he’d found in the toilet tank. “Look, I’m not going nuts, okay? I thought I was at first, but I’m not.” He paused to consider all that he had told her so far and put himself in her shoes, on the receiving end of such outlandish and improbable theories. “Okay, maybe I’m a little nuts.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    He handed her the piece of paper.
    She unfolded it and stared at it. “Centralia. What’s that?”
    “That’s why I needed your computer.”
    “But why couldn’t you use your own computer?”
    Peter checked the mirrors. No black Lincoln followed. He slowed the truck and turned right onto Long Acre Lane. The road was lined with mature sycamores, their branches sprawling overhead, forming a canopy thirty, forty feet above the ground. Beyond the trees were acres of field that had lain fallow. Grass,shin-high and brown, swayed slowly, pushed about by the air’s gentle currents. He didn’t want to tell Amy about the gunmen. He’d trusted her at one time, trusted her with his career until she’d betrayed him and nearly cost him his job and reputation. But when he needed someone he trusted, hers had still been the first name   —really the only one   —he could think of. Regardless of what had happened between them, he knew where he stood with her. “Can I trust you?”
    If the question startled Amy or took her by surprise, she didn’t show it. “After what just happened? I think I should be asking you that.”
    He said it again. “Can I trust you, Amy?”
    She studied the note for a long moment, then turned her head toward the window and watched the trees whiz by. “Yes. Yes, Peter, you can trust me.”
    “Do you think I’m nuts?”
    Her hesitation didn’t bother him. Anyone sane would deduce that he was playing on the edge of lucidity, walking that very fine line that separated sanity from utter madness. After checking the note again, she said, “No. I think you’re confused, I think you still haven’t made sense of any of this yet, I think you’re a total jerk for pulling me into this, but I don’t think you’re crazy.” She paused, glanced at him, and smiled. “Well, maybe a little nuts.”
    He couldn’t argue with any of that. “Fine. I think I was being tracked or bugged or monitored or something.”
    “Big Brother?”
    “Worse.”
    “What do you mean, worse? And why?”
    He paused, swallowed. A light sweat had broken out on his brow and upper lip. If he wanted her help, he’d have to tell her.She was the only one who would listen to him and take him seriously without writing him off as a mourning husband and father who’d misplaced his last piece of sanity somewhere in the land of paranoid psychosis. “Big Brother with guns and an intent to kill.”
    “Is that who that was back there? Big Brother?”
    “I really don’t know. I think he was sent to clean up Big Brother’s mess. Three men broke into my home shortly after I found that note. They had guns. Silencers. They weren’t there to play nice.”
    “They were professionals?”
    “Apparently.”
    “And they knew the moment you found this note?”
    Unbidden, tears came again, pressing behind his eyes and oozing out the corners. He dashed them away. “It looks that way, yes. I was being monitored.”
    “What happened? How did you get away?”
    He glanced at her but didn’t answer.
    “We need to call the police,” she said.
    Peter shook his head. “No way. I have to stick with people I can trust. People I know.”
    “And you can’t trust the cops?”
    “Not anymore.”
    “Why ever not?”
    Outside the truck,