As soon as he recovered his rhythm with the BMW, his mind began wandering in earnest. He turned Casey’s spacey words over, feeling like a hound who’d caught some curious, unshakable scent on the wind. You find that coyote yet? Utter nonsense, yet it nagged at him. He was seeking something as grisly as carrion, after all. He wished he possessed the primitive scavenger’s instincts necessary to catch the scent. Off-road was tricky, to be sure, and Duncan tipped over a good half dozen times as he edged deeper into the badlands, too slow at dodging rocks, misjudging the softness of the earth. The dust was brutal at low speed, but he found that the closer he edged toward the creek, the harder the packed clay became under his tires, making for a more stable ride. The sun began its descent in earnest, the wind biting more sharply and the blue above him deepening to indigo in the east. The scrub grass grew denser, and then stubby trees began to appear, announcing his arrival at Dead Creek.
