Read Online BAD DEEDS: A Dylan Hunter Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers) by Robert Bidinotto - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Bidinotto
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laughed and wiped her hands on her apron. “Brad, he’s tall and tough-looking; I think he fought in Iraq. You can see how he could take care of himself. Annie, on the other hand, she’s just a little thing. But boy, can she ever fight!”
“So you know them. They locals, then?”
Sherry shook her head. “From New Jersey. But they’ve been staying here on vacation this month.”
“Yeah? My cousin, he told me all the rentals around here was shut down for the winter.”
“They don’t rent. Brad has his own cabin out past Endeavor. You know where that is?”
“I think I been through there. Out on 666, right?”
“Just past there. Up East Hickory Road.”
This is too easy . “I didn’t know there was any cabins up there. Just woods.”
“Well, that’s what you think when you look around from the road. But if you drive up past the little bridge over Hickory Creek …” She then described exactly where the driveway was.
Rusty grinned again. This time he didn’t have to force it. “Well, I sure am glad there’s still some people who stand up to the creeps trashing this country. I’d love to shake their hands while I’m here visiting. They come in here a lot?”
Sherry said, “Yeah, but you probably won’t run into them anymore. They’ll be heading home tomorrow or Friday.”
Not good. “ That’s too bad.” He took a last swallow from the mug, then dumped a couple of bucks on the counter. “Well, my cousin oughta be home from work by now, so I better push off.” He rose, stretched casually, nodded his goodbyes.
He kept the grin till he reached the door.
Dan Adair’s house on Higgins Hill Road commanded a bluff overlooking the Allegheny River. Like its owner, the dwelling was a combination of rural unpretentiousness and modern attitude. Its natural-wood exterior seemed of a piece with the surrounding trees, but rose in angular, contemporary lines. The western side of the home ended in a sharp triangular outcropping, a glassed-in porch that jutted over the embankment. It afforded a panoramic view of the river valley.
Hunter stood beside Adair at the window of that porch, sipping a superb Lagavulin single malt. Across the river, the setting sun rim-lit the deep green rolling waves of mountains. Standing here, where the panes of glass intersected, he felt as if he were at the prow of a ship. Adair, his lean legs planted apart, blue eyes trained on the horizon, looked like its captain.
He recalled what he’d read about the man in a magazine profile. Born and raised near Cincinnati, Adair studied petroleum engineering at the University of Texas in Austin. He then took a job in oil-and-gas exploration with a nearby start-up company. Adair had a knack for figuring out inventive solutions to difficult drilling problems and was promoted fast. But his dream wasn’t to work for somebody else. With savings from almost every paycheck, he scooped up company stock during its growth years. Eventually, he cashed out and used the proceeds as seed money to hire a first-rate geologist and open his own exploration and drilling outfit.
Adair borrowed heavily to lease mineral rights on promising land. But like most wildcatters, he struggled during the oil glut of the Eighties. Prices collapsed, wells tapped out, companies closed, and many petroleum engineers left the industry. Scrounging for cash, he sometimes contracted out his engineering and drilling services to larger companies. But with a young wife and baby daughter to support, he barely managed to meet the mortgage on their cramped, 900-square-foot ranch house.
Hunter watched Adair savor a slow sip of the Scotch. Traces of the battles he had endured were etched in the lines around his eyes and mouth.
In desperation, Adair tried out ideas that he read and heard about. He drilled one of his wells at a slant and hit a “payback” reservoir in a bed of naturally fractured limestone. That strike got his creditors off his back. And when he experimented
“So you know them. They locals, then?”
Sherry shook her head. “From New Jersey. But they’ve been staying here on vacation this month.”
“Yeah? My cousin, he told me all the rentals around here was shut down for the winter.”
“They don’t rent. Brad has his own cabin out past Endeavor. You know where that is?”
“I think I been through there. Out on 666, right?”
“Just past there. Up East Hickory Road.”
This is too easy . “I didn’t know there was any cabins up there. Just woods.”
“Well, that’s what you think when you look around from the road. But if you drive up past the little bridge over Hickory Creek …” She then described exactly where the driveway was.
Rusty grinned again. This time he didn’t have to force it. “Well, I sure am glad there’s still some people who stand up to the creeps trashing this country. I’d love to shake their hands while I’m here visiting. They come in here a lot?”
Sherry said, “Yeah, but you probably won’t run into them anymore. They’ll be heading home tomorrow or Friday.”
Not good. “ That’s too bad.” He took a last swallow from the mug, then dumped a couple of bucks on the counter. “Well, my cousin oughta be home from work by now, so I better push off.” He rose, stretched casually, nodded his goodbyes.
He kept the grin till he reached the door.
Dan Adair’s house on Higgins Hill Road commanded a bluff overlooking the Allegheny River. Like its owner, the dwelling was a combination of rural unpretentiousness and modern attitude. Its natural-wood exterior seemed of a piece with the surrounding trees, but rose in angular, contemporary lines. The western side of the home ended in a sharp triangular outcropping, a glassed-in porch that jutted over the embankment. It afforded a panoramic view of the river valley.
Hunter stood beside Adair at the window of that porch, sipping a superb Lagavulin single malt. Across the river, the setting sun rim-lit the deep green rolling waves of mountains. Standing here, where the panes of glass intersected, he felt as if he were at the prow of a ship. Adair, his lean legs planted apart, blue eyes trained on the horizon, looked like its captain.
He recalled what he’d read about the man in a magazine profile. Born and raised near Cincinnati, Adair studied petroleum engineering at the University of Texas in Austin. He then took a job in oil-and-gas exploration with a nearby start-up company. Adair had a knack for figuring out inventive solutions to difficult drilling problems and was promoted fast. But his dream wasn’t to work for somebody else. With savings from almost every paycheck, he scooped up company stock during its growth years. Eventually, he cashed out and used the proceeds as seed money to hire a first-rate geologist and open his own exploration and drilling outfit.
Adair borrowed heavily to lease mineral rights on promising land. But like most wildcatters, he struggled during the oil glut of the Eighties. Prices collapsed, wells tapped out, companies closed, and many petroleum engineers left the industry. Scrounging for cash, he sometimes contracted out his engineering and drilling services to larger companies. But with a young wife and baby daughter to support, he barely managed to meet the mortgage on their cramped, 900-square-foot ranch house.
Hunter watched Adair savor a slow sip of the Scotch. Traces of the battles he had endured were etched in the lines around his eyes and mouth.
In desperation, Adair tried out ideas that he read and heard about. He drilled one of his wells at a slant and hit a “payback” reservoir in a bed of naturally fractured limestone. That strike got his creditors off his back. And when he experimented
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