Polaroid

Jason Evans was worried. Usually he had scant cause for concern or complaint. But on the day the trouble began, something nagged at him.

On that Monday, July thirteenth, he was making slow progress on a promotion campaign he needed to complete. Was it his client, or was he just having a bad day? Probably both. He had to come up with something original for Tommy Jones's car dealership – or more specifically, for the used-car emporium of the 'Automobile King', a label repugnant to Jason. Tommy Jones had proclaimed himself the king of automobiles and was damn proud of the crown he had placed on his head.

'Genius, ain't it,' Jones this morning had crowed to Jason and his colleagues. 'I should go into advertising myself!'

What new ideas could Jason possibly present to a man for whom, during the past thirty years, every advertising concept imaginable had been cooked up and warmed over, and whose product he detested? Jason's mind wandered back to the days when, as a naive eighteen-year-old, he had bought one of Tommy's second-hand rust buckets. The ageing red Plymouth Road Runner had given up the ghost after only two months. That had been the first and last time he had purchased a car from the Automobile King. And now this auto entrepreneur was his customer, a client with Tanner & Preston, the prestigious Los Angeles advertising agency where Jason worked as an art director.

Of all people, the agency's CEO Brian Anderson had selected Jason to head the team assigned to seal the deal with their newest client who had jumped ship from Foote, Grey & Hardy, a hard-nosed competitor of Tanner & Preston.

Jason brushed strands of unruly black hair from his eyes and stared up at the ceiling, searching in vain for inspiration. But more reveries haunted him instead.

Since forever, or so it seemed, Tommy Jones's dazzling toothpaste-ad-smile had beamed down at him from posters and billboards scattered around town. Today was the first time he had looked the man in the eye and shaken his hand. Tommy, at age sixty-two, had looked a lot different from his public persona. He appeared older, balder and grayer in real life, without Photoshop's false promise of eternal youth. Only his famous grin and plump face – and his indomitable energy – remained the same. He was a short, sturdy little man who stood chin-high to Jason.

'I want something new, something exciting,' Jones had grandly exclaimed during the morning meeting, when he had graced everyone at Tanner & Preston with his presence. 'Make my cars stand out from the competition. Make them more attractive, better looking. Christ, Brian, make them sexy.'

Fuck you, Jason had thought as he sat there, listening, the memory of the rundown piece of crap the Automobile King had sold him assaulting his mind.

Of course, he hadn't said anything derogatory out loud. Tommy Jones carried around a fat wallet and besides, times had changed for Jason. He was far better off financially these days, and the silver metallic Buick LaCrosse CX he was currently driving could not be found on any of Tommy Jones's sales lots. It was too expensive and had too much class, even as a used car.

But since he had assembled his Tommy Jones team, Jason hadn't sketched as much as an outline for a campaign aimed at making the Automobile King's emporium appear sexy – or even viable. His loyal and dependable copywriter, Anthony Wilson, hadn't come up with much usable copy either.

Jason's gaze wandered around and he took note of the desk clock in the shape of two hearts, a birthday gift from his wife Kayla. It was after six o'clock. The other members of the team – Carol, Donald and Anthony – had gone home for the night. He was the last one still at work, and thus had the twenty-fourth floor of the Roosevelt Tower to himself. He stared out the window into the heat and haze of a Los Angeles summer evening. Just four more weeks, he thought, as if with a prayer. Just four more weeks and he and Kayla could finally leave the smog and chaos of this city behind them and immerse themselves in the glorious majesty and intimacy of the Rocky Mountains.

But first he had Tommy Jones to deal with. He sighed with frustration, knowing he wasn't going to pull off a miracle tonight. He stood up and was about to leave his office when George, Tanner & Preston's mail delivery man, entered waving a manila envelope in the air.

'Late delivery,' George said, as he handed Jason the envelope. Without another word, he wheeled around and walked out of the office.

Jason stared at George's broad back as he strode down the long hallway. When he saw the delivery man disappear around a corner, he glanced down at the envelope bearing his name and company's address written in a bold angular script, but with no sender's logo or return address indicated. Frowning, he fished his silver letter opener from the pen stand on his desk and slid open the envelope. Inside he found a Polaroid photograph of a tall, rusty iron gate set between two wide-trunked oak trees. Behind the gate stood rows of gravestones jutting crookedly out of the earth. At first blush it appeared similar to an old graveyard he had once visited in downtown Boston. But on closer inspection this graveyard seemed more unkempt than the one on Tremont Street.

Jason peered into the envelope but saw nothing else inside. His first thought was that Shaun Reilly had sent the photo. It would not have been the first time that Shaun had neglected to add a note. When Jason turned the photograph over, he noticed words on the back written by the same hand.

You are DEAD

He stared at the words, dumbfounded. Then he flipped the photograph back over and studied the gravestones once more.

'What's this?' he mumbled to himself. He flipped to the back again.

The same three words stared back at him.

He was stumped. Struggling to make sense of it, he turned the Polaroid over and over. As he studied the photograph intently, he became convinced of one thing: he had never seen this cemetery. The grass between the headstones was tall; the...