Read Online It's No Picnic by Kenneth E. Myers - Free Book Online Page A

saying she’s dead, others, the plaything of the devil. Apart from expressions on the edge of reason, most admitted they didn’t have a clue. The chatters, clatters, or for that matter, talk, freely continued outside the window, never mind the endless peering and peeking, eyes popping in and out of view like fire flies at dusk.
    Alex took the matter; No, never mind, deciding to pace the hallway in hopes of ending gloom, one thought ceaselessly cycling, “Where is Miss K.?” making joy of pain.
    Then—the awful truth, or news; sometimes alike, most times, well; let’s say not . Miss K.; purse and some belongings found in the forest. BUT No—Miss T. K. And of course, of all people, or persons, the twins delivered the news.
    “We are here Alex,” said First. First and Second, that’s what Alex decided to call them from now on, names being somehow beneath them, underfoot so to speak. He’d thought a single name might do but couldn’t find one that spoke reliable contradiction.
    “And there…” said Second.
    So, why are they here and there, ‘?S EE ¿’, here and there anyway? He, Alex that is, learned early on, what the twins were all about; plots, games—what happens next, always acting as if two wanting one. If they were here, and need it be said , there, then something was astir, cooking, afoot—cliché.
    “She is lost,” First said.
    “And found…” Second said.
    They, at least one of them; depending on point of view, handed Alex the Longport Gazette, where the headline read; See INP Chapter 6 . Alex picked up the copy of INP Smith gave him, opening to chapter 6, reading; M ISS K. I S M ISSING ! Now, he knew; beyond the shadow of a doubt, she was in fact, gone. The news; so exact, so truthful, so obvious, so thoroughly proved beyond the last standard of proof, was common stock of the acceptance she was indeed missing.
    No longer needing, nor enjoying the alien nature of the twins, Alex kicked them, literally that is, into the street; or more exactly, path outside the front door, leaving only him, alone, thoughts and all.
    And of course, alone, isolated; a mind reels at the presence of baffling situations, people, or thoughts, taxing the structure and integrity of what it means to be human, fallible, making as it were, mockery of truth. He could not wilt in the face of what was obviously mysterious. Besides, he must find Miss K.
     
     
     
    N OSY , A LEX P ICKED U P T HE C OPY O F INP . After all, he’d learned of Miss K. missing; what else might he learn? Hastily, he moved through the chapters, one by one; skimming facts already present. Naturally, this gave him a minor leg up, maybe not like that of a dog, but a leg up, possibly marking him with the kind of honor fit only for heroes and kings.
    Then, he opened to the gripping final scene—blurred as it were by dim awareness—where he read exactly what he needed to read, no more, no less, retelling; ***** —is the killer.
    Angry—he hurled the book; IT , landing in the fireplace, catching fire
     
    — b u r n i n g —
     
    until nothing but embers, and the lasting impression of the killer stood in mind.
    The image persisting, Alex repeated, “It can’t be, can’t be…” Yet, there it stood; staring, peering at him through the lens of reality, caring nothing about what he felt, or what he might be going through, saying “Words do not lie.”
    Then—he looked out the window at the faint, false light of the Longport sky, and thinking of Miss K., realized, “ IT isn’t.”
    Now, cool—and—detached; he dismissed the entire thing as fiction, hogwash, a myth concocted by a mad ghost to lead him down a fictitious path. After all, the killer couldn’t be h ** . “Besides,” Alex said, “I know who killed Nadie K.”
    Then—with no firm aim, he opened the door, finding an envelope on the mat, addressed: Alexander Lax, Open ASAP . Motionlessly, and with envelope in hand, Alex went back inside, picking up a letter opener, cutting along the