Killing Hemingway – Mac Fortner

The sun had burned through the haze, turning the water into a sheet of molten silver. Diane came up behind me, brushing her hair back, watching me like she was trying to read what I hadn’t said out loud. “He didn’t even ask why?” she said. “Nope. Which means he’s already got too many fires burning.” “Or maybe,” she said carefully, “he already knows why.” That sat in my gut heavier than the coffee. Walter padded out, nose in the air, tail stiff. He picked up on things before I did.

“Cam,” Diane said, “we’ve got to start thinking bigger. These notes— they’re not just taunts. Whoever’s leaving them wants you to see the pattern.” “And wants me to put the map together for him,” I muttered. She gave me a sharp look. “Or wants you to stop the man who’s trying to do that.” Edgar’s face flashed in my mind and, with it, a dozen old grudges. I poured coffee and tried to drink away the memory of the letter from the windshield—the old man, the great fish, the run I almost stopped.

Hemingway was starting to feel less like literature and more like a bruise. My phone buzzed. Unknown number. I answered on the second ring. “Cam? This is Sharon in Records.” “Morning, Sharon.” “You asked Ryan to run a plate.” “Yeah.” “Rental. Hertz. Paid with a prepaid Visa that’s already empty and dead. The renter’s name is ‘Thomas Sutter’ with a Tennessee license that doesn’t exist.”

“So, a ghost.” “Pretty much. The car was picked up at Miami International. Returned at Key West yesterday, checked out again an hour later by the same fake name.” “Same vehicle?” “Different—same class, same color.” “Anything else?” “I can get you the Hertz manager’s number if you want to push, but we’re probably looking at burner identity soup. Sorry.” “You did fine, Sharon. Thanks.” “Ryan said to tell you he’s … unavailable for a while.

If you need something, text me first.” The line clicked dead before I could ask what “unavailable” meant. Diane watched my face and didn’t need to ask. “Dead end?” she said. “Rental under a fake name. Prepaid card. Miami to Key West and back. He’s not sloppy.” “Or she,” Diane said. “Or she,” I echoed and set the phone down like it was heavier than it should be.

“He swapped vehicles yesterday. Same model. That buys him another day before anyone notices a pattern.” Walter sighed at our feet, long-suffering, then nosed the cabinet where the biscuits live. I obliged him with two.

No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. For permission requests, please contact: Mac Fortner www.macofortner.com Cover design by Mac Fortner Edited by Ken Darrow Published by Tan Toes Publishing United States of America OceanofPDF.com Contents Prologue 1. Chapter 1 2. Chapter 2 3. Chapter 3 4. Chapter 4 5.

Chapter 5 6. Chapter 6 7. Chapter 7 8. Chapter 8 9. Chapter 9 10. Chapter 10 11. Chapter 11 12. Chapter 12 13. Chapter 13 14. Chapter 14 15. Chapter 15 16. Chapter 16 17. Chapter 17 18. Chapter 18 19. Chapter 19 20. Chapter 20 21. Chapter 21 22. Chapter 22 23. Chapter 23 24. Chapter 24 25. Chapter 25 26. Chapter 26 27.

Chapter 27 28. Chapter 28 29. Chapter 29 30. Chapter 30 31. Chapter 31 32. Chapter 32 33. Chapter 33 34. Chapter 34 35. Chapter 35 36. Chapter 36 37. Chapter 37 38. Chapter 38 39. Chapter 39 40. Chapter 40 Epilogue Dedication Also by About the author Afterword OceanofPDF.com K Prologue ey West: Key West in July didn’t just sweat—it sweltered.

The kind of heat that clung to your neck and slid down your back like molasses. Daylight had faded, but the air still shimmered with leftover sun and cheap tequila. Duval Street was packed wall to wall with tourists and beards. White beards. It was Hemingway Days, the annual festival of cigars, look-alikes, and rum-fueled literary nostalgia.

At Sloppy Joe’s, they were three contests deep and halfway through a Hemingway trivia round when contestant number sixteen slipped outside for a breather. He wasn’t the real Hemingway, of course. Just another man who thought the beard and belly were enough to resurrect a legend.

His name was George Tillman, sixty-eight, retired, kind of. Most treasure hunters were; that is, until the next time.

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.

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• Pages: 250
• Language: English (en)

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