Read Online A Single Shot by Matthew F Jones - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Matthew F Jones
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fridge? It feels like maybe it needs it.”
John strides forward and snatches the bag. Fighting an impulse to check its contents, he shoves it beneath one arm and glares up at the man, who leans casually back against the doorframe. “You mad at me for some reason, John?”
“I don’t like guns being pulled on me.”
“A fucking madman breaks into the place, what would you do?”
“I don’t like ’em around my kid.”
“A lifelong hunter like you, John? I can’t believe that!” John thinks fleetingly of grabbing for the pistol, which is making him more and more nervous, then tells himself that alcohol and recent events are making him paranoid. “Truth is, John, I’m like you. A person who makes good use of whathe kills shouldn’t have to worry what time a’ year it is or whose fucking land he’s on. Christ, can you imagine if our ancestors who discovered this fine country could only hunt when the government told ’em to? Jesus, wouldn’t none of us be here!”
“Moira know you’re here?” says John.
“Why don’t you ask her?”
“I might.”
“Do that, John. When you give Moira her bag of goodies, ask her if she knows Obie—that’s short for Obadiah—Cornish—that’s like the hen!” He sticks out a hand, which John doesn’t take. “No shit, John, we might actually be acquainted, seeing as how a number a’ years back old Obie Cornish spent many a day busting his ass for peanuts around and about that old mountain you’re on. Though I’ve moved on to a more lucrative line of work, I’ll never forget those days, or that terrain. Jesus Christ, steeper than a hard-on, it was!” He pulls back his hand, places it onto the butt of his pistol. “Yup. Back in town after a lot of years, only to find out not much has changed, ’cept I understand you and yours had a string of bad luck. Money must be pretty tight these days, huh, John?”
“I don’t recognize you from a clump of cow shit,” says John.
The man laughs.
John walks past him into the kitchen, then over to the front door, his feet crunching against the broken glass. In the bedroom, the woman, in a low, throaty voice, starts singing a lullaby.
John opens the door and steps into the night, quieter eventhan when he’d stepped out half an hour before. “What about the bag, John?” asks the man. “Ain’t you gonna leave the bag?”
John doesn’t answer.
Descending the stairs, he has an odd feeling the man was never there. At the same time, he worries about being shot in the back. He glances in the bag and sees the meat and, beneath it, three rolls of cash, just as there had been.
The same dog starts barking again. This time, though, no one tells it to stop. A light breeze rustles the spruce trees; higher up, thin clouds blow across the moon. A pickup truck peels out from in front of the liquor store. John uses his key to open Moira’s car, then carefully wedges the bag beneath the accelerator, where Moira will be sure to find it.
T UESDAY
O N THE BACK of the dead girl’s neck, at the base of her skull, is a star-shaped birthmark. Had he seen it when he first discovered her, prior to turning her over? Couldn’t be! She had a ponytail and was wearing a hat. The rest of the time, she lay on her back. So how does he know it’s there?
Her breasts are milky-colored and large, the consistency of a soft pudding, more those of a mature woman than of a teenager; their centers are blood-red bull’s-eyes with cuspate nipples that, when sucked on, pop up like bulbs. He had not! When had he?
She has the hard, muscular calves of an athlete. A bike rider maybe. Or a field-hockey player. Her left knee, marred by a four-inch butterfly scar like that on his own right elbow, has been surgically repaired. The tissue is raised and slightly swollen, as if the operation was recent. Impossible for him to know! He certainly hadn’t removed her jeans! Why, then, does he recall the smooth, lacquered feel of her thighs? Her neatly
John strides forward and snatches the bag. Fighting an impulse to check its contents, he shoves it beneath one arm and glares up at the man, who leans casually back against the doorframe. “You mad at me for some reason, John?”
“I don’t like guns being pulled on me.”
“A fucking madman breaks into the place, what would you do?”
“I don’t like ’em around my kid.”
“A lifelong hunter like you, John? I can’t believe that!” John thinks fleetingly of grabbing for the pistol, which is making him more and more nervous, then tells himself that alcohol and recent events are making him paranoid. “Truth is, John, I’m like you. A person who makes good use of whathe kills shouldn’t have to worry what time a’ year it is or whose fucking land he’s on. Christ, can you imagine if our ancestors who discovered this fine country could only hunt when the government told ’em to? Jesus, wouldn’t none of us be here!”
“Moira know you’re here?” says John.
“Why don’t you ask her?”
“I might.”
“Do that, John. When you give Moira her bag of goodies, ask her if she knows Obie—that’s short for Obadiah—Cornish—that’s like the hen!” He sticks out a hand, which John doesn’t take. “No shit, John, we might actually be acquainted, seeing as how a number a’ years back old Obie Cornish spent many a day busting his ass for peanuts around and about that old mountain you’re on. Though I’ve moved on to a more lucrative line of work, I’ll never forget those days, or that terrain. Jesus Christ, steeper than a hard-on, it was!” He pulls back his hand, places it onto the butt of his pistol. “Yup. Back in town after a lot of years, only to find out not much has changed, ’cept I understand you and yours had a string of bad luck. Money must be pretty tight these days, huh, John?”
“I don’t recognize you from a clump of cow shit,” says John.
The man laughs.
John walks past him into the kitchen, then over to the front door, his feet crunching against the broken glass. In the bedroom, the woman, in a low, throaty voice, starts singing a lullaby.
John opens the door and steps into the night, quieter eventhan when he’d stepped out half an hour before. “What about the bag, John?” asks the man. “Ain’t you gonna leave the bag?”
John doesn’t answer.
Descending the stairs, he has an odd feeling the man was never there. At the same time, he worries about being shot in the back. He glances in the bag and sees the meat and, beneath it, three rolls of cash, just as there had been.
The same dog starts barking again. This time, though, no one tells it to stop. A light breeze rustles the spruce trees; higher up, thin clouds blow across the moon. A pickup truck peels out from in front of the liquor store. John uses his key to open Moira’s car, then carefully wedges the bag beneath the accelerator, where Moira will be sure to find it.
T UESDAY
O N THE BACK of the dead girl’s neck, at the base of her skull, is a star-shaped birthmark. Had he seen it when he first discovered her, prior to turning her over? Couldn’t be! She had a ponytail and was wearing a hat. The rest of the time, she lay on her back. So how does he know it’s there?
Her breasts are milky-colored and large, the consistency of a soft pudding, more those of a mature woman than of a teenager; their centers are blood-red bull’s-eyes with cuspate nipples that, when sucked on, pop up like bulbs. He had not! When had he?
She has the hard, muscular calves of an athlete. A bike rider maybe. Or a field-hockey player. Her left knee, marred by a four-inch butterfly scar like that on his own right elbow, has been surgically repaired. The tissue is raised and slightly swollen, as if the operation was recent. Impossible for him to know! He certainly hadn’t removed her jeans! Why, then, does he recall the smooth, lacquered feel of her thighs? Her neatly
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