The front left tire was the first to depart, sliding off the road as the tread of the back tires dug in with all their might. The front tire slammed into a small pine tree, snapping it in two and sending the top half tumbling down the ravine, but the tire rested on the swaying, broken spear. Blake’s arms remained rigid. He pushed back from both the steering wheel and from the ravine, thinking that somehow if he pushed back he would be farther from the fall. Peering out his side window, he saw the drop just before him. Instinct guided his hand to the door handle, which he opened to see himself teetering on the shoulder. Blake released the seatbelt and placed his left leg out the door. Bending his knee to place his step as far back as possible, he grabbed the door jam and swung his body back, crashing to the ground. He crawled to the back of the truck, his right leg searing as his wound raked over the gravel.

Blake pulled himself up on the bumper and caught his breath. “Holy shit!” he said to himself, and then admonished himself in that of all moments to stop swearing. Blake walked around the truck to survey his predicament. The other three wheels were on the road. He looked down at his hands, trembling violently, as he tried to decide what to do. The wind whipped dusty gravel up the road, stinging his hands and cheeks.

Gingerly, he climbed back into the driver’s seat and turned the dial to engage four-wheel drive. Slowly, he put the gearshift into reverse. He eased his foot off the brake and pressed the accelerator at the same time. The truck lurched back and the thin pine stump that bent under the weight of the tire rocked back, forth and snapped. With a thud, the front left end dropped as the running board landed on the shoulder, and the right tire tipped as it barely teetered on the road. Blake closed his eyes and floored the accelerator, pushing back on the steering wheel once more. The rear tires dug in and spun dirt up and past his window like a team of hungry dogs digging up a bone buried in the sand. The F-150 pulled back slightly and then lunged rearward as the front right tire took hold and pulled the front left tire back onto the shoulder. Blake slammed the brakes just before the rear right tire fell off the opposite shoulder.

He sat there, breathless. “Holy s—” He caught himself and swallowed his profanity. Blake began a series of three-point turns to get himself pointed down the mountain once more. Once he was centered in the road he paused and wiped the sweat from his brow and face as the wind rocked his truck back and forth. He took another moment to compose himself before shifting down into the lowest gear and admonishing himself to keep his eyes on the road.

***

Blake pulled into the parking lot at Ingle’s and blended his truck into a sea of vehicles. He took out his phone to call Clint Justice.

“Justice,” Clint said as he answered the phone.

Blake drew in his breath, disappointed that he had not reached voice mail.

“Yes, uh...hello?” Blake began. “Uh, this is Blake Savage calling you back.”

“Mr. Savage, I’m conducting an investigation for the Food Safety Inspection Service. Do you provide meat for Nick Vegas at The Federal?”

Blake wasn’t sure what he had expected. The tone was concise and not jovial. It was black and white, abrupt. Do you or don’t you, did you or didn’t you, guilty or innocent. “Do I need a lawyer or do I have rights?”

“I’m not a law enforcement official, Mr. Savage. I’m with the FSIS, which is part of the USDA. I’m simply asking you if you sell meat to Nick Vegas.”

Sell. That was the word Blake heard and focused on. “I—deliver meat sometimes to him.”

“Meat from where, Mr. Savage?”

“From farmers up here. I deliver all kinds of things.” Blake felt himself having a good idea, felt the words beginning to form and flow with ease, filling him with confidence. He kept talking, feeling certain he could now talk his way out of any trouble he may be in. “I deliver fruits, vegetables, wine and sometimes meat from local farmers.”

“What meats?” Clint asked.

“Oh, we got fellas up here that raise grass fed beef, pasteurized chickens—”

“Do you mean pastured chickens?” Clint interrupted.

“Yeah, pastured chickens, wild turkeys, raw milk cheeses, beef...you name it,” Blake said.

“Okay, I will. Pork. Did you deliver any pork to Mr. Vegas or his restaurant? Specifically, any ham?”

Blake paused. He visualized himself on the final drive, the ultimate final drive. Instead of calling his plays carefully he had to choose his words with care, letting each word, each sentence move him closer to scoring. Victory in this game would be measured with freedom. A loss would...he didn’t want to visualize that.

“Honestly Mr., uh, Clint, I don’t usually know what I’m delivering. I just pick up them boxes from farmers and take ’em to him. If they’re open where I can see tomatoes and what not then I know, but most time they’re sealed and packed.” Blake was turning on the country, redneck, hillbilly know-nothing accent, laying it on thick to make sure Clint knew this was a trail that led nowhere.

“Surely you—” Clint began.

“I suspect Mr. Vegas would have invoices that would show all the deliveries and what he bought,” Blake interrupted, “because he pays the farmers for their stuff and not me. Ain’t that what you wanna know?”

There was a moment of silence.

“Perhaps, Mr. Savage. Please keep your phone available today, as I will likely need to phone you back. By the way, I have your address as one 13 Hale Ridge Road in Clayton. Is that correct?” Blake knew from Clint’s earlier message that he had his address, but hearing it said aloud made the hairs on his arm stand up. He felt the storm closing in on him, the noose tightening, even though he hoped he had just thrown the dog off his trail.

“Yes,” Blake said. “That’s right, but I’m not here−there today.”

“That’s fine,” Clint said. “If I need to visit and have my search warrant it won’t matter if you’re there or not.”

A lump formed in Blake’s throat.

“I’ll be in touch soon, Mr. Savage.” Clint hung up. Blake sat in his truck and replayed the conversation. In Atlanta, Clint Justice made notes on his pad and did the same thing.

***

A white Econoline van with a Black Rock Farm logo pulled into the driveway at 13 Hale Ridge Road at 10:15 a.m. The driver got out and walked to the door, holding his hand against his face to block sand and gravel that the wind had launched in his direction. He banged on the door loudly thinking that since he couldn’t hear with all the wind then no one else could. Angelica came to the door and greeted the driver with a smile.

“Howdy, ma’am. Name’s Gus...got a delivery for your husband.”

“Hello, Gus, I think we’ve met once before,” she said.

“Right. Well, howdy again ma’am. Looks like we got some weather coming.”

Angelica looked out at the trees swaying briskly in the wind. She had been immersed playing board games with the girls. “Sure does,” she said. “Looks like a good rain’s a comin’.”

Gus looked at her with a sense of puzzlement.

“Rain? You been hearing what they’re saying? ’Bout that hurricane?” Gus asked.

“Not since yesterday,” she said honestly. “They said it may hit the Georgia coast I think. Has it changed?”

“Hadn’t changed, just got stronger that’s all. And coming this way too.”

Angelica looked a little puzzled. “We can’t get hurricanes up this far, silly.”

“No ma’am, ’course not. But it’s a Cat 5 storm and they got the eye tracking this way. Saying it’s gonna bring a ton of wind and rain so you best hunker down.”

“Well,” Angelica said as she fingered the beads around her neck, “I think this mountain could use a good washing.”

Gus gave her a puzzled look and then looked at his watch. “Well, anyway, I got a delivery here for Blake. He’d asked us to bring it tomorrow but we’re rushing to get these all delivered on account of the weather. Where you want it?”