Gary V. Powell, Author

Thunder rolled across the Piedmont. Lightening flashed and rain fell in dark, gray sheets. Chooch Bartkowski struggled out of bed and pulled on a worn pair of cut-offs. Mrs. Borden, the older woman he’d hired as a nanny, was already stirring. A light shone under her door and his Chicago Bears traveling coffee mug waited next to his aging Mr. Coffee. He filled the mug to the brim and looked in on Brick. The boy was still snoring softly despite the storm front that had passed through. Bartkowski decided to let him sleep rather than wake him to say goodbye.

The rain continued all the way to Spartanburg, making for treacherous driving on an oil-slick highway. Fortunately, he was ahead of rush hour and sat high enough in the pick-up for good visibility

This lead on Shana was a long shot. He’d haunted her old hangouts—the bars, the shelters, the treatment centers with little success. She’d passed through, but there were few details. No names, no places. Except people remembered seeing the woman he described with a black man on a motorcycle. Someone said the guy came from Greenville. Someone else claimed the cat’s name was Antwawn.

He’d called a retired Piedmont cop in Charleston. Sure enough, Skeeter Bullock knew a guy who knew a guy who knew a vice cop in Greenville. The vice cop took Bartkowski’s call and gave him the last known address of a crack head who went by the handle of Antwawn Biggers.

The rain let up near the BMW plant on the other side of Spartanburg. By the time he reached Greenville’s city limits, the sun showed through broken white clouds. He pulled into the Cracker Barrel for breakfast.

He wanted a full belly before calling on Antwawn’s ass.