Deep Wood - Margot Scott
Chapter One
Silas
What’s the most reckless thing you’ve done lately?
If you said, quit your job, traded your Lexus in for a Dodge Ram, and drove halfway across the country jacked up on five-hour energy shots, then congratu-fucking-lations, you’re as batshit crazy as I am.
I take the winding mountain road at seventy miles an hour, propelled by the cocktail of caffeine and rocket fuel coursing through my veins. A swig of bottled water does little to wash away the taste of oxidized fruit and gas-station coffee, and even less to settle my sour stomach. More aggravating than all that, however, is the numbness in my hands and feet from forgetting to switch off the air conditioner at sundown.
Three twin sets of orbs slip out from between the trees. My foot finds the brake. I barely slow down in time to hurtle past a doe and two fawns making their way across the road.
“Fuck,” I mutter, my tired muscles stiff and twitching. I slap myself twice. “Wake the fuck up.” After driving for twelve straight hours, it only makes sense that I’d be due for a crash of epic proportions. I should’ve planned this trip better. Hell, I should’ve planned at all. But it’s not like I walked into work this morning with the intent of upending my whole life.
No. That moment came as soon as I got the fucking call.
I was seated at my desk, staring blankly at the numbers on my computer screen, wondering how the hell I ended up with a desk job when all I ever wanted was to work with my hands. The call came in on my cell from a Tennessee area code. I almost let it go to voicemail, but something inside me told me I should pick up.
The guy on the other end introduced himself as Jack Benson’s estate lawyer. I hadn’t heard that name in over ten years. Jack and I had been best buds growing up, two peas in a pod since we were old enough to tie reef knots. Closer than friends, we were practically brothers. It’d been the same for our dads, which was how we wound up spending six weeks a year at Jack’s granddad’s hunting cabin outside of Gatlinburg, Tennessee.
As soon as Jack’s lawyer said the words, “Mr. Benson has passed away,” it was like he’d hit pause on the world. My thoughts halted in their tracks. I had to ask him to repeat himself, including his next line, “Mr. Benson has bequeathed to you his grandfather’s hunting cabin.”
Jack never liked hunting, much to his dad’s dismay. He’d leave lettuce out for the rabbits, peanuts for the squirrels, apples for the white-tailed deer. Then he’d hide under the picnic table and watch them go to town. Sometimes I’d sit with him, amused by my friend’s appreciation for delicate things. My own appreciation was far more utilitarian: game was for hunting, trees were for climbing, the clear, cold rivers for fishing and cooling off on afternoons when your t-shirt fused to your back like a second skin. We used to joke about bringing our own kids out there one day, introducing them to the great outdoors.
It was Jack’s idea to keep the tradition alive after his dad passed on shortly after Jack’s nineteenth birthday. But it wasn’t long until his grief turned to anger, and with no one but me to keep him in line, Jack got in with a bad crowd. He started dealing meth and coke. One night, while I was working a late shift, he broke into my apartment and stole the Marlin 1895 hunting rifle my dad had given me as a graduation gift.
That was the nail in the coffin on twenty years of friendship.
It might seem counterintuitive that I’d upset my entire life to make the trip my former friend’s mountain cabin. Maybe I was just tired of the tedium. All I know is that I couldn’t think straight behind a desk. And the only way to get my sanity back was to give it all up and get out in the open, away from the noise and bureaucratic bullshit. I told my boss I was leaving and then went straight to the dealership where I handed over the keys to my Lexus, and drove off in a brand-new Dodge pick-up.
The truck’s headlights flash on a road sign announcing Bucky’s General Store and Liquor Emporium—open 24/7—about a quarter mile down the road. From memory, I know that means I only have about twelve miles to go.