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PROLOGUE

Green River Post Office
Green River, Arkansas
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
4:34 PM

General Manager Michael Kissling had been having a really good day, as Tuesdays around the Green River Post Office commonly were. It was the day of the week where most people came in only to buy stamps or to have a chat while finding out how much it would be to ship a package to family members in the larger cities like Little Rock or Jonesboro. It was the kind of day where Michael was light on his feet and didn't have to watch the clock to know when it was time for lunch or time to leave—since the day just seemed to sail by.

As half past four came and went, Michael took the keys to the front door and turned them twice, a habit he had accumulated since he had first started working there back in high school as a precaution to make sure the building was shut down for the day. Pocketing the jangling metal, he turned on heel from the dim, gray-and-white interior of the office and looked out at the sunny, warm afternoon that was cascading down on Green River. The road outside, the aptly named "Main Street" that lead in and out of town, was wafting with heat as the sun beat unfiltered rays onto the blacktop. On his side, two buildings lined Main: Mel Fitchum Library and Fenton's Pool and Bar—the latter of which he would be returning to later that night. Across the street sat the general store, a real estate office, and the very small Green River Police Department, which was essentially a one-room building housing four officers. The road was otherwise bare except for one brown-and-white truck sitting still in the parking lot outside of the real estate office, its grill facing Michael, and its driver nowhere to be seen.

New resident, I'll bet! Michael thought, grinning to himself at the thought of a new face around town. Sometimes seeing the same people everyday that he had seen for the past thirty-five years of his life got a little old, especially in a town where everyone knew everybody's business. Sometimes the people that came into the post office for a shipping estimate were a pair of the town's oldest gossips, Mrs. Brody and Mrs. Fitch, who liked to share a little too much information about the divorce of the Parkers or the "seedy" transactions Mr. Cooper was dealing in the back alley of his general store—despite the fact that there was no back alley, just a vast, empty space. Both women were, of course, nice enough to accept a grin in recognition of their claims and not expect any kind of feedback, but that was probably because that was all they ever got in return. Anything that was said aloud to either woman was bound to be repeated.

But that was how a small town such as Green River worked. With barely over two hundred people inside the city limits, and without a movie theatre at arm's length, the people had to make their own entertainment. Strange claims, juicy divorces, and other squabble was All My Children brought to life, and Michael didn't mind it in the slightest—as long as nothing about him was being spread, not that there was anything to say in the first place.

Taking out his keys and reminding himself to ask Mrs. Brody if a house was being bought around town—she was the woman to ask seeing as her husband owned the real estate office across the street—when she came in to ship a care package to her daughter Laurie at University of Arkansas, Michael headed to his gold, '99 Honda Civic parked in the lot between the post office and the library. It was the only one sitting in the thick, two semi truck's-width dirt lot, and almost blended into the ground below it. When Michael had first bought the car from the auto dealer in Searcy, he hadn't liked the paint job nor the sand-colored interior, but now he understood why his wife, Susan, had chosen it. Green River, which he hadn't realized until that day was neither green nor near a river, seemed to kick up more dust than any other place he had been to, though that was a small list. Susan's black CRV was often covered with dirt and had to be cleaned at least once a week, so owning a gold car had been beneficial to him seeing as he didn't want to spend his weekends cleaning off the thick layer of grime that accumulated during the workday.

"Hey, Mike!" a voice called behind him, causing him to whip around just as he was about to put the key into the car door. "Long time, no see, buddy!"

Shielding his eyes against the bright sun, Michael could see Fenton Banks, the owner of the pool hall on the other side of the library, with the customary towel swung over his shoulder. It seemed to be there no matter what the occasion, either tending bar or not, and appeared out of place whenever it was missing from its perch. Even now, as he headed toward Michael's Civic with his sandy blonde hair soaking up the rays, his hands grabbed absently for the white cloth as if getting ready to clean a glass while talking.

"Only since last week, Fent," Michael said, reaching out and shaking the man's free hand. "I'll be there tonight, though. Don't think I'm skipping out on you now!"

"It wouldn't be the first time," Fenton joked with a sly wink. "I know how frivolous you can be when it comes to nights out with the guys. I know you'd rather spend your time at that strip joint over in Jacksonville."

Michael laughed, knowing full well that Fenton was poking fun at him. In the past ten years since the Tuesday night meet-up between the two of them and a couple of guys they had gone to high school with, Michael had always arrived early and had never skipped a session, regardless if he was sick or out of town. He always made sure to make it. It had earned him nicknames over the years such as "Mr. Reliable" or "Old Faithful", but he didn't mind it. In fact, Michael prided himself of his timeliness and attendance, something that had always been pointed out and used as an example both in school and in the workplace.

"What's on the agenda tonight, Fent? Same old, same old?" Michael grinned.

"Well, since the wives would have our heads if we did anything different, yeah," Fenton chuckled, elbowing Michael in the ribs. "Though I think we should switch it up and have a shot of whiskey instead of our everyday brews."

"Oh, I don't know!" Michael said, putting on a voice of false astonishment. "I think Susan would put me in the doghouse for such a radical idea!"

"Yeah, yeah," Fenton laughed, clapping his hand on Michael's shoulder. "Speaking of, how is that old broad? Haven't talked to her since… shoot, I can't even remember. She and the kids still doing alright?"

"Better than," Michael smiled. "Susan's still working on the novel she's been writing since Christmas and the kids are bouncing off the walls in excitement. I told them I'd take them to the lake this weekend and they haven't calmed down since. I'm pretty sure Susan is going to punish me for that one later on. Probably can't concentrate with all the noise they've been making since school's been out, made worse by the anticipation of staying up at Lake Conway." Michael paused for a minute to laugh at the idea of his eight-year-old twins, Anna and Harold, bothering Susan with questions about camping. "What about you and yours?"

"Same as always, Mike, same as always. Milly's still pregnant and her mom still won't leave," Fenton grinned. "I'm about ready to kick that old bat out of my house."

"Don't blame you," Michael grimaced, remembering how loud and demanding Gertrude Wells, Fenton's mother-in-law, could be. The last time he had encountered her had been at a barbeque at a friend's house, and the old woman had been insisting that the chef was hell-bent on giving her salmonella. Shaking off the memory, Michael cleared his throat, then turned to put his key into the door of his car, certain he'd hear more of Mrs. Wells' antics later tonight. "Anyway, I better get a move on and relieve Susan of her warden duties so she can get dinner on the table. See you tonight, alright?"

"Alright, alright," Fenton nodded, shaking Michael's hand again before turning to leave. "Don't be late!"

Smiling to himself, Michael sank into the driver's side of his Civic and started the engine, watching as Fenton returned to his bar with the towel back on his shoulder. Pulling out of the alley, he shot a glance at the brown-and-white truck to see if the driver was inside, but saw that the cab was still empty.

Oh, well. Guess I'll find out tomorrow morning.

After a quiet dinner with the kids' occasional questions about camping, a short chat with his wife about her day while he helped her clean up, and a quick change of clothes, Michael stared at his reflection in the mirror to make sure none of the Hamburger Helper Susan had cooked for dinner had gotten on his face. All that stared back at him was his olive skin, dark eyes and hair, and the distinct Italian nose he had inherited from his mother.

Smoothing his hair back with his hands for a second time, Michael nodded to his reflection and headed back into the living room. By that time, night was on the horizon and the kids had been settled down in front of a DVD of Spongebob Squarepants playing on loop.

Kissing Susan on the cheek then going to hug his distracted twins, Michael bid them all goodnight—with the promise to return at a reasonable hour—before making his way out the front door and locking it twice.

The air was crisp and clean for a late-June night, and breeze swayed the trees as Michael made his way down the twisted walk of his brick-front, ranch-style home to his Civic parked in the driveway. Though he knew a night of drinking and pool was ahead, he always made sure that he was under the legal limit before making his way back home. Despite the fact that the police department was small, and despite the fact that Michael was friends with all four officers, he didn't want to take the chance of being sighted with a DUI. Things like that spread quickly, and would probably affect his job. The manager of the post office before him had been arrested for the same thing, which was how Michael had come into the position in the first place.

Pulling out of his driveway, Michael looked in the rearview mirror for oncoming traffic before switching gears into drive. As he looked at the dark, empty street with only two houses aside from his own on both sides, he saw an odd thing: the truck that had been sitting outside of Mr. Brody's real estate office was now parked beside the front gate of the Williams' home, the front of it facing the same direction as the Civic. Mr. and Mrs. Williams, from what Michael had learned in the ten years he had been their neighbor, had hardly any relatives that they were on good terms with, so it was unlikely that the truck belonged to someone they knew.

Waiting a long minute as his car idled in the middle of the rural road, Michael's eyes strained to see into the dark cab of the old Ford, only taking in the red lights of his bumper reflecting off the windshield. Swallowing hard and shrugging, he lifted his foot off the brake and headed back into town, toward Fenton's bar.

Black blurs sailed past his window as he drove. A little way down, Michael sent a furtive glance into the rearview mirror to ensure that he was the only one on the dark stretch of highway. Though the reflection test came up blank, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being followed. That truck showing up twice in the same day couldn't be coincidence.

Rolling his shoulders back in an attempt to appease himself, Michael reached forward to tap on the radio then continued to sink comfortably into the cloth seats of his car. As the quiet strains of Coldplay hovered over the road noise, he became eased that this was all part of his imagination.

Ten miles passed before he saw something that changed his mind.

Fifteen minutes outside of Main Street, Michael saw the blinding headlights of a large vehicle in his driver's side mirror. Speeding up and tuning out the sounds of "Shiver", Michael attempted to put enough distance between him and the driver so that the lights would reflect off of the ground rather than straight into his eyes. Ultimately, all the large beast—which was either a truck or SUV, he couldn't be sure—did was follow closer behind. Though he couldn't see the car, he could only imagine it to be within an inch of his bumper, causing him to want to floor the Civic. In a moment of rash decision-making, he did. The Civic buckled under the horsepower, having never gone over sixty miles per hour, before quickening its pace.

As the odometer sailed past seventy and eighty, Michael bit his lip and checked the rearview mirror again. The bigger automobile was now a safe distance behind, having slowed down to what he would guess was forty, giving him the reassurance he needed to take his foot off the gas and let the Civic coast.

When he was almost back in town, Michael let out the deep breath he hadn't realized he had been holding and took in another. Turning onto Main Street, he could see Fenton's in the distance, but the squeal of tires took over his attention. Looking in the rearview mirror, the truck he had seen outside of the real estate office and outside of the Williams', which he now saw to be the same one trying to run him off the road, came screeching around the corner before barreling toward Michael's Civic.

There was a sharp crunch of metal as the truck's grill hit the Civic's trunk, and both cars suddenly spun out of control. As Michael tried to keep his car from fishtailing into Mr. Cooper's general store, he half-wondered why the truck was after him. In the past week, the only surly person he had dealt with had been a customer of Fenton's he had met during his morning break on Thursday, who had been refused alcohol before 10 A.M—but that was because it was state law. This guy, though driving erratically, didn't seem to be the man who had stumbled into the post office smelling strongly of bourbon. He doubted a disgruntled alcoholic would take such severe steps to get back at the man who had escorted him out of a building in the most genial way he could. This was… something else.

As the car finally came to a rough stop, Michael stayed frozen behind the wheel, unsure what to do. He could continue driving and hope the truck would stay where it was long enough for him to lose it, or he could get out and confront the man.

Deciding on the latter, Michael pushed open the door with a shaky hand and swallowed hard as he got to his feet, not bothering to turn off the engine. The man in the truck, it seemed, had come to the same conclusion, and Michael watched as the door to the cab swung open and a pair of cowboy boots hit the pavement below. There was a jingle of metal, like spurs, followed by the crunching of feet on the uneven asphalt, reminding him of one of those Westerns his son loved to watch on weekend nights.

Looking up, he saw a dark face hidden in shadow from the one overhead streetlamp. As the man came closer, Michael suddenly felt uncertain of his decision to confront the driver, and as the stranger crept toward the headlights of his truck, dread washed over him. The man that stood there, dressed in the cowboy boots, acid-wash jeans, and the button-up shirt of a rodeo cowboy, was wearing his face. All too familiar brown hair, brown eyes, large nose, and thin lips stared back at him as if he were looking in a distorted mirror.

Jumping back as his cowboy double came near, Michael put the hood of his car between them, the headlights of his Civic brightly illuminating the slacks and polo shirt he was wearing.

"Who… who are you?" Michael stammered, earning him a mischievous grin from his clone. "Don't come any closer!"

Without a word, Michael's look-alike sank into the driver's side of his Civic and slammed the door shut. As the brake lights flashed from red to white while the double changed gears and revved the engine, Michael stood stunned and rooted to the spot as the headlights of his car illuminated the driver inside. On his own face, he saw the twisted smile of his double before the car peeled away from where it had stopped right outside of Cooper's General and plowed him to the ground.

The last thing Michael remembered was the quiet strains of Coldplay carrying through the windows of his car as the tires thumped mercilessly over his chest.

"Your skin, oh yeah, your skin and bones…"