Read Online Buried Dreams by Brendan DuBois - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Brendan DuBois
Tags: USA
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don't think so."
The traffic moved ahead some, and then I raised my head and said, "You and the contact in the police department still on speaking terms?"
"You could say that."
"Well, find out if there was a blood trail they found at the store. Maybe my stabbing victim ended up at a hospital or something."
"Unh-hunh," Felix said. "And what are you going to do in the meantime?"
I yawned, sat back in the seat. "Get the Sunday newspapers and crawl into bed, that's what."
We were silent for the next twenty minutes as Felix drove us south, back to Tyler Beach. By the time we reached Atlantic Avenue the sun was rising out there, above the cold and wide waters of the Atlantic Ocean. I kept watch of the changing patterns of pink and red and blue, as the sun rose up over the ocean, thankful that at least the damn rain clouds had moved on. Felix pulled into the parking lot of the Lafayette House and said, "I'd drive you to the door, but I'm afraid I'd lose the transmission on some of the rocks in your yard."
"Fair enough," I said. "Thanks for your help. And for breakfast." "No problem," he said. "We'll talk."
"I'm sure we will."
I got out into the cold morning air, but before closing the door,
I leaned back in and said, "Felix."
"Yeah?"
"What about your family? Your own parents. What about them?"
Felix smiled. "You've never asked me."
I nodded. "That's right. I never have."
He said, "It's cold out there. Get on into bed with your newspapers, all right?"
"Sure," I said, and I slammed the door shut. He backed his way out of the parking lot and then was back on Route I-A, heading north, driving safe and sure, like he always did, like he knew exactly who he was and what he was doing, a trait of his that I've always envied.
I stood for a moment, watched the sunrise, and then trudged across the street to the Lafayette House, as promised, to get the Sunday newspapers.
Chapter Five
On Monday the storm clouds had returned to the New Hampshire seacoast, and the bruise on my chest was turning an impressive green and blue. Getting dressed took some time, as moving my arms caused my chest to throb and tighten up, and I spent a few minutes before the mirror, trying to decipher what in hell I had been struck with the previous night, back in Porter, whether it was a tire iron or golf club or cricket bat. By the time I buttoned up my shirt, I had given up on my quest. I was just glad that whatever had hit me hadn't gone into the back of my skull.
I was also happy about another thing, my morning ritual, in checking my skin for any unusual bumps or swellings. There are four scars of various sizes and lengths over my body, where non-cancerous tumors have been cut away over the years, a recurring souvenir of my time in government service.
Satisfied that my body had gone through another day without betraying me, I went out into the bracing morning air and went looking for the second-best writer in Tyler.
I found Paula Quinn of The Tyler Chronicle not in her office, but at a small home on Lafayette Road, also known as Route 1. That's the problem with lots of roads around this part of New Hampshire; they end up having two or three different names, sometimes changing names in midstream, which goes a long way toward confusing visitors and out-of-towners. Not that confusing visitors is always a bad thing; it just means precious time wasted sometimes, giving directions to people who want to know how come the Tyler Road suddenly became the Exonia Road, and why couldn't somebody do something about it?
The home was set away some distance from the constant traffic of Route 1, which is a two-lane highway with a middle turning lane that runs from Falconer in the south, by the Massachusetts border, all the way up to Porter, just before the Maine border. I had seen photos of the highway at the end of the nineteenth century: narrow two-lane, with lots of homes, white picket fences, and large elm trees, overarching everything. But the elms
The traffic moved ahead some, and then I raised my head and said, "You and the contact in the police department still on speaking terms?"
"You could say that."
"Well, find out if there was a blood trail they found at the store. Maybe my stabbing victim ended up at a hospital or something."
"Unh-hunh," Felix said. "And what are you going to do in the meantime?"
I yawned, sat back in the seat. "Get the Sunday newspapers and crawl into bed, that's what."
We were silent for the next twenty minutes as Felix drove us south, back to Tyler Beach. By the time we reached Atlantic Avenue the sun was rising out there, above the cold and wide waters of the Atlantic Ocean. I kept watch of the changing patterns of pink and red and blue, as the sun rose up over the ocean, thankful that at least the damn rain clouds had moved on. Felix pulled into the parking lot of the Lafayette House and said, "I'd drive you to the door, but I'm afraid I'd lose the transmission on some of the rocks in your yard."
"Fair enough," I said. "Thanks for your help. And for breakfast." "No problem," he said. "We'll talk."
"I'm sure we will."
I got out into the cold morning air, but before closing the door,
I leaned back in and said, "Felix."
"Yeah?"
"What about your family? Your own parents. What about them?"
Felix smiled. "You've never asked me."
I nodded. "That's right. I never have."
He said, "It's cold out there. Get on into bed with your newspapers, all right?"
"Sure," I said, and I slammed the door shut. He backed his way out of the parking lot and then was back on Route I-A, heading north, driving safe and sure, like he always did, like he knew exactly who he was and what he was doing, a trait of his that I've always envied.
I stood for a moment, watched the sunrise, and then trudged across the street to the Lafayette House, as promised, to get the Sunday newspapers.
Chapter Five
On Monday the storm clouds had returned to the New Hampshire seacoast, and the bruise on my chest was turning an impressive green and blue. Getting dressed took some time, as moving my arms caused my chest to throb and tighten up, and I spent a few minutes before the mirror, trying to decipher what in hell I had been struck with the previous night, back in Porter, whether it was a tire iron or golf club or cricket bat. By the time I buttoned up my shirt, I had given up on my quest. I was just glad that whatever had hit me hadn't gone into the back of my skull.
I was also happy about another thing, my morning ritual, in checking my skin for any unusual bumps or swellings. There are four scars of various sizes and lengths over my body, where non-cancerous tumors have been cut away over the years, a recurring souvenir of my time in government service.
Satisfied that my body had gone through another day without betraying me, I went out into the bracing morning air and went looking for the second-best writer in Tyler.
I found Paula Quinn of The Tyler Chronicle not in her office, but at a small home on Lafayette Road, also known as Route 1. That's the problem with lots of roads around this part of New Hampshire; they end up having two or three different names, sometimes changing names in midstream, which goes a long way toward confusing visitors and out-of-towners. Not that confusing visitors is always a bad thing; it just means precious time wasted sometimes, giving directions to people who want to know how come the Tyler Road suddenly became the Exonia Road, and why couldn't somebody do something about it?
The home was set away some distance from the constant traffic of Route 1, which is a two-lane highway with a middle turning lane that runs from Falconer in the south, by the Massachusetts border, all the way up to Porter, just before the Maine border. I had seen photos of the highway at the end of the nineteenth century: narrow two-lane, with lots of homes, white picket fences, and large elm trees, overarching everything. But the elms
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