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Summary
Two hours until dusk and Marty can't take it anymore, snatches the card off the table and pulls up a chair at his father's old rolltop desk, brushing off the filmy layer of dust that had gathered on its surface. He draws out a piece of stationery paper and palms a pencil, still sharp, and wonders why it feels like a weapon in his hand. His eyes graze over the soldier's name again.
"Rustin Cohle," Marty murmurs out loud, weighing the words on his tongue while he presses the tip of the pencil there and scoffs. "What the hell kind of name is that?"