Coldwater Revenge, James Ross [books for 9th graders txt] 📗

unlikely to result in the killers being identified and brought to justice. So they kept the money-stuffed jacket a secret.

Joe, who had been working in the Sheriff’s Department since finishing junior college, ran for his father’s job in the next election, and the Coldwater’s voters who may have forgotten by then that it wasn’t the same Sheriff Morgan that they’d always voted for, gave Joe the job. The brothers never spoke again about the hidden cash, and the iconic hero of their pastoral youth was buried along with his emptied piggy bank.

Tom could accept the logic of Joe’s compromise, if that’s what it was. It didn’t make him feel good. But he had to acknowledge the difference between picking your battles and taking cash to avoid them.

In the silence of gathering dark, they watched a wandering light trace a firefly path from the Heller garage to the farmhouse behind it. Then a brighter light appeared in what Tom guessed was the farmhouse kitchen. “Frankie lives by himself?”

“Sometimes,” said Joe. “There’ve been a couple of Mrs. Heller wannabe’s. Runaways mostly. They get younger every year. Sooner or later they head out. Or at least nobody sees them anymore.”

“You mean nobody’s found any body parts.”

“Or looked for them.” Joe stepped down from the truck. “Stay put. There’s a gun and a camera in the glove compartment. If you have to shoot something, take pictures. But don’t get jumpy and put a bullet up my ass.”

Tom strained to follow the sounds of receding footsteps. Manhattan’s never-ending chorus of sirens, horns and squealing tires never seemed as loud as the cacophony of the rural night when you’re suddenly alone in the dark. While he waited and listened, Tom found himself conjuring thoughts and images of his deceased father—something he had not done in a long time.

Most boys are imprinted by their dads. But when yours wears a uniform and carries a gun, impressions can be exaggerated. When such men fall, as theirs had, the plunge can be even more exaggerated. Growing up, Tom had overheard many of his parents’ arguments about the demands and temptations of his father’s job. They were frequent and almost ritual. Tom realized early that his father was one of those men who lived his job and whose family was at best a collection of secondary planets around his own central sun. So when the end came, it was no surprise that their father had died with his boots on. But it was a profound disappointment that the boots were in effect stolen, and that their larger-than-life father was simply another cop on the take.

Howls from the woods beyond the junkyard yanked Tom’s thoughts back to the present. An orange moon rose over the back of the garage and wandered across a winking sky. The elongated shadow of a trailered bass boat made Tom think of the pen and ink drawings of pirate ships in his childhood copy of Peter Pan. Scary book. Mary said that coyotes were making a comeback in the Coldwater hills and that domestic pets had become a popular snack. Some of her fellow seniors refused to go out at night, worried that they might be next on the food chain.

Sitting alone in the shadowy dark listening to howling predators didn’t feel to Tom like watching someone’s back. It felt like abandonment. Joe had said to stay put. But could he have meant this long?

Then somewhere in the symphony of night sounds, he heard the crunch of gravel on gravel. A few minutes later he heard it again, this time closer. Moving his hand to the latch of the glove compartment, he stretched his fingers through the maps, pens, batteries and tissues until they found a hunk of metal that ancient memory identified as a gun.

A chorus of cicadas fell suddenly silent, as if responding to the flick of a maestro’s baton. Tom listened to his breath and felt the throb of pulse at his neck. Then a sharp rap on the window next to his ear nearly made him wet his pants.

“Drop the gun, Morgan.”

CHAPTER 8

Small choking noise escaped from Tom’s throat. “You sca…cared the shit out of me.”

Joe opened the door and climbed behind the wheel. “Been doing that for years.” He glanced at the gun in his brother’s hand. “You can put that away now.”

Tom slid the weapon back into the glove compartment and tried to still the tremor in his hands. “You and Frankie find anything to talk about?”

“I told him that I was surprised to see him at Billy’s funeral. That I didn’t know he and Billy were buds. He claimed he was just driving by and saw a hot blond standing outside, so he stopped to take a closer look.”

“I’ll bet the new Mrs. Frankie, or whatever, loved that. Did you get anything else worth nearly giving me a heart attack for?” Tom crossed his arms to hide his hands.

“Nothing from Frankie. Though the new lady friend volunteered he was up at the stock car races Saturday night.”

“Volunteered?”

“Yup.”

“So she thinks he needs an alibi?”

“Apparently.”

* * *

Tom got up early, made coffee and went out to the porch to watch the sunrise. He remembered to punch the code into the pad before opening the sliding door, so when Joe joined him an hour later, he was wearing pants and carrying a cup of coffee instead of a firearm.

“So what did we learn last night that was worth scaring the shit out of me?”

“Don’t know yet.” Joe dropped into an Adirondack chair and sipped his coffee. “The girlfriend seems to think Frankie needs an alibi for Saturday night. But that may not be related to Billy. He could have been up to anything.”

“So we got nothing?”

“Working our way down a list, brother. Next is for you to visit that priest pal of yours. Find out what he was up to Saturday night.”

“What could Father Gauss possibly have to do with Billy?”

Joe blew a cooling breath