Fatal by Michael Palmer

bracelet forged out of bent horseshoe nails. And in the donation can were two crumpled, oil-stained dollar bills. Before a day had passed, the whole town had some version or other of the story. Matt’s father docked him two weeks’ allowance for disobedience and forbade him from going near the place again. From that time on, Matt kept his monthly visits to the farm a secret. Since returning to Belinda from his residency, he went out there every so often to do some doctoring or just to catch up. There was very little, if anything, he had learned about the four men over the years that he didn’t like, although none of them would qualify as a prize-winning conversationalist. And he knew for a fact that there was a whole new generation of kids who were being forbidden by their parents from going near the Freak Brothers. The Slocumbs most definitely preferred it that way.
    Matt threw on his favorite pair of denims and a plaid work shirt, and pulled on his boots. There was no chance he would be returning to the cabin before his workday began in earnest.
    The envelope was lying on the floor by the front door. Matt had actually stepped on it before he noticed it. It was a plain white envelope, darkened in spots with grime and grease. “Dr rutlege” was printed in pencil on the front, in a labored hand. Given the shape Matt was in after the rugged basketball games and the postmortem at Woody’s Tavern, the envelope might have been there when he got home. He flipped on some lights in the living room and tore it open.

Dr rutlege.
you are Rite.
Theres poyzon barryed in the Mountin.
find it thru the Tunel in the Cleft.
giv the Reward to them as needs it.
signed
a caring Frend.

    THE UNEVEN SCRAWL was similar to the writing of many mountain people—mixed uppercase letters with lower, with phonetic spelling and no consistent attention to punctuation. Regardless of who wrote it, they were clearly on the right side— his side. His heart pounding, Matt put the note back in its envelope and stuffed it into his jeans. Quite possibly, this was the break he had been working for.
    The tunnel in the cleft.
    Matt had lived in the area much of his life, and still had no idea what the line referred to. But whoever wrote the note knew, and so, without a doubt, others did, too. Buoyed by the turn of events, Matt jumped on his Harley and raced down the hill toward the hospital.
    He rolled his motorcycle to a stop next to the brightly lit Emergency entrance and dropped the kickstand. The Slocumbs’ battered Ford pickup, parked nearby, was empty. For no particular reason, Matt guessed the one who had been passing out was Kyle—the most outgoing and obstinate of the eccentric Slocumb quartet.
    Jeannie Putnam, wearing a set of maroon scrubs and a surgical mask, was waiting for him in the surprisingly busy ER. She was a tall woman in her late twenties, with a good grasp of emergency medicine and an obvious empathy for the patients.
    “We’re grateful for your coming in like this,” she said.
    “Which brother is it?”
    “Kyle. And you were right about the other one. It is Lewis.”
    “Labs off?”
    “Kyle drew the line at getting any tests until you were here to order them.”
    “Lord.”
    “But I changed his mind,” she added with a wink. “I even got him to put on a johnny. He’s really sort of cute.”
    “You should see the room the four of them sleep in. ‘Cute’ isn’t the first adjective that would come to mind. But I am glad you appreciate some of his charm. What did you order?”
    “The usual, CBC, Chem 12. Plus the cross-match. Tell me again why you ordered it?”
    Matt shrugged and shook his head. “I don’t know. Kyle’s never had any medical problem that I’ve had to deal with. Something you said about his passing out then waking up sounded like low blood pressure, so I thought maybe he was bleeding internally.”
    “If you have made the correct diagnosis over the phone at three A.M ., I would consider you very