Killdeer: The Utopian Testament, #1.1

By Jim Christopher

Okay, I can do this. One problem at a time. That's how this is going to work. Do the thing in front of me, then move on to the next. I'll figure it out, like I always do. I have to, or Dad's life is over.

I mean, turning drugs into cash isn't exactly new to me. I've done this hundreds of times. But all I've got to work with is pressed luck and borrowed time. San Antonio is smelling out my weakness, a city-sized predator toying with prey. The cops are raking the earth to find me, and to the wrong person, I'm worth more than this stash of opiates I'm holding.

I need a connection. Someone I can trust long enough for one simple transaction. Dad's going to die if I can't find them. One buyer, that's all I need. Then I can work out how to cover the hundred miles back to Dad before he wakes up and realizes I'm gone.

 

Read this tense novella set in the award-winning Utopian Testament universe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jim Christopher
• Release date: May 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9781735536286

Jim Christopher

JIM CHRISTOPHER lives in Decatur, Georgia, where he writes and makes a living as a technology and learning sciences consultant. His work history is a crooked path, meandering from stagehand, audio engineer, carpenter, cognitive psychologist, behavioral researcher, musician, software developer, to whatever he might do today. To relax, Jim crochets, builds tiny houses, walks his dog, and tries to stay active. His favorite things include dogs, petit fours, Legos, end-of-the-world and horror movies, and escape rooms.

Book preview

Killdeer

A Psalm of the Utopian Testament

Jim Christopher

https://www.jim-christopher.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2022 Jim Christopher. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Jim Christopher.

ISBN-13: 978-1-7355362-8-6 (e-book)

ISBN-13: 978-1-7355362-9-3 (paperback)

Cover design by Jim Christopher.

First edition, published 5 July 2022

I do know that the slickest way to lie is to tell the right amount of truth--then shut up.

― Robert A. Heinlein, Stranger in a Strange Land

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Nine pm

The night sky over San Antonio doesn’t get dark like it does in the desert. Even this late, after a cloudless day, the palest light refracts through the damp air, turning every light source into a broad halo, the mix of it all fading into a pale pink glow over the city. The piercing white of the truck stop flood lights washes into the amber halos of the streetlamps that fade into suspended fuzzy orbs down the road ahead.

I ease the Nissan into the parking area by the truck stop. There are no shadows here. No place to hide the stolen car except in plain sight. Some papers spill from the packed glove box when I open it—old registrations and receipts, it looks like. My fingers lift the remnants, and I tuck the gun beneath them. Then I do the same with Dad’s medication, the rattle of pills in the thick orange prescription bottle stoking my anxiety as I think about him asleep back in Utopia, nested in a filthy utility shack like a discarded fledgling.

He doesn’t know I’m here. Dad wouldn’t have let me come. He couldn’t have stopped me in his condition, but I sure as hell don’t want his second chance at life to be wasted. Dad needs this, and he’s not willing to do what needs doing. Neither is my sister, Irene. This part of the plan is on me: turn Dad’s pain medication into five grand, cash. That money must reach Dad, so he can pay for his miracle.

Outside of the car is too warm. The city is sweating, is what it feels like, and my T-shirt is sopping before I reach the automated doors. But then the air inside the building is chilled and the wetness in my clothing makes my skin tighten.

A few other customers wander the narrow aisles looking for snacks or hats or motor oil or whatever the hell they’re here for, and I track one employee behind the clear acrylic wall meant to keep him and the register safe. He watches me approach, eyes tired and squinting as he pries his ass off the stool and leans to the metal grate that will allow us to talk across the barrier.

My hand is in my pocket, rummaging out the small lump of bills. I isolate five bucks to toss into the trough in the counter.

Cantrels, please. My voice rings louder than it is. Probably bouncing off the transparent plastic.

The clerk digs my money out from the crevasse. He turns to the cigarette rack, plucks out a soft pack of my cancer stick of choice, and mashes buttons on the register until the cash drawer clangs open. My change clatters to the bottom of the metal exchange bucket, and the sharp noise tugs on the memory of Dad’s rattling breath as he sleeps alone in that abandoned shed ninety minutes away.

My smokes make no sound as they land in the trough.

Can I get a bag?

His empty gaze rises to mine, and his brow knots. For one pack of cigarettes?

Yes, please.

His shoulders shrug. He yanks a crinkled plastic sack from under the counter and stuffs it next to the smokes, leaving me to bag my purchase.

Back in the Nissan, the smokes fall on the dashboard, and I