Read Online Daemon of the Dark Wood by Randy Chandler - Free Book Online
Authors: Randy Chandler
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eye patch down over his vacant socket, and ambled off to meet his weird.
“So, this is what a pagan god smells like,” he said to the late-afternoon sky. A moment later the sky responded by dropping a dead sparrow at his feet.
Chapter
Five
----
Rourke opened an envelope of headache powder and deposited the bitter grains on his tongue, then washed them down with a shot of filmy black coffee that had gone cold on his desk. The headache had come on during his visit to the hospital to see Sheriff Gladstone, and it had grown progressively worse as the day wore on. He tucked his chin to his shoulder and sniffed the armpit of his shirt, confirming that the stink was his own.
“Alice, I’m going home to take a shower and put on a clean shirt.”
Alice Marsh looked up from the dispatcher’s desk, her brow wrinkled with puzzlement. “A shower?”
“Yeah. And don’t look at me like that. I’m not losing it, I just need a shower. When you paged me this morning I was out for my morning run and I didn’t take the time for a shower. Now I’m beginning to offend myself.”
“Why don’t you wash up in the lavatory? I could help you with those hard to reach places.” She winked and flashed him a provocative smile.
Ordinarily, Rourke would have delighted in her flirtation, but now he was not in the mood; the events of the day were weighing too heavily on him, and the burden of his responsibilities as Acting Sheriff only added to the onerous weight. He needed some time alone to think things through and sort them out. He grabbed his hat and headed for the door. “I’ll be back in less than an hour,” he said.
Alice plumped her lips. “You’re no fun.”
On the drive home he reviewed the conversation he’d had with Sheriff Gladstone this morning. With his head bandaged and his eyes blackened, Gladstone looked like a fat raccoon in a turban. The nurse warned Rourke that her patient was “off on a little trip to the Twilight Zone,” and that he probably wouldn’t make a whole lot of sense.
When Gladstone saw Rourke with his hat in his hand, he studied him with a lopsided expression, then said, “Ta hell ya doin’ here, Robber, ya sick? Ya don’t look so good.”
“How you doing, Sheriff?” asked Rourke, standing at the foot of the bed.
“Me? Hell, I can’t get myself up. You got your pocketknife with ya? Cut these damn ropes off me, will ya? I’m spoze to be fishin’ the lake.”
Rourke saw the leather restraints binding Gladstone’s wrists to the hospital bed. Not a good sign. He moved to the side of the bed. “Sorry, boss, I don’t have my knife with me.”
“Shit, son, you outta uniform without ya got a knife.” The lid of his left eye was droopy. His lips were cracked and caked with a chalky mixture of dead skin and dried saliva. A few pieces of white lint clung to the gray stubble sprouting from his chubby cheeks.
“Sheriff, I need to ask you a few questions. About what happened between you and your wife.”
“Gladys? Woman’s a goddamn saint, sho nuff.”
“She is a fine woman,” Rourke agreed. “But why would such a fine woman hit her husband over the head with a skillet?”
Gladstone’s droopy eyelid twitched as a look of confusion twisted up his face. “Damnedest thing, I tell ya what’s the truth! That yowling! On and on. It run her crazy. Right outside the house. Scariest thing I ever heard.”
“What yowling?”
“Gladys … is she all right? I gotta see her. You find your pocketknife?” Gladstone was becoming more and more agitated, yanking his arms against the wrist restraints. His face reddened and a wildness came into his eyes.
“Easy now, Sheriff,” Rourke said, putting a hand on Gladstone’s shoulder. “We’ll find her for you. Everything’s going to be all right. You just take it easy. Get some rest.”
Gladstone sank back into his pillow, his eyelids fluttering, then closing. Thinking he had fallen asleep, Rourke tiptoed toward the door.
“Robber? Ya
“So, this is what a pagan god smells like,” he said to the late-afternoon sky. A moment later the sky responded by dropping a dead sparrow at his feet.
Chapter
Five
----
Rourke opened an envelope of headache powder and deposited the bitter grains on his tongue, then washed them down with a shot of filmy black coffee that had gone cold on his desk. The headache had come on during his visit to the hospital to see Sheriff Gladstone, and it had grown progressively worse as the day wore on. He tucked his chin to his shoulder and sniffed the armpit of his shirt, confirming that the stink was his own.
“Alice, I’m going home to take a shower and put on a clean shirt.”
Alice Marsh looked up from the dispatcher’s desk, her brow wrinkled with puzzlement. “A shower?”
“Yeah. And don’t look at me like that. I’m not losing it, I just need a shower. When you paged me this morning I was out for my morning run and I didn’t take the time for a shower. Now I’m beginning to offend myself.”
“Why don’t you wash up in the lavatory? I could help you with those hard to reach places.” She winked and flashed him a provocative smile.
Ordinarily, Rourke would have delighted in her flirtation, but now he was not in the mood; the events of the day were weighing too heavily on him, and the burden of his responsibilities as Acting Sheriff only added to the onerous weight. He needed some time alone to think things through and sort them out. He grabbed his hat and headed for the door. “I’ll be back in less than an hour,” he said.
Alice plumped her lips. “You’re no fun.”
On the drive home he reviewed the conversation he’d had with Sheriff Gladstone this morning. With his head bandaged and his eyes blackened, Gladstone looked like a fat raccoon in a turban. The nurse warned Rourke that her patient was “off on a little trip to the Twilight Zone,” and that he probably wouldn’t make a whole lot of sense.
When Gladstone saw Rourke with his hat in his hand, he studied him with a lopsided expression, then said, “Ta hell ya doin’ here, Robber, ya sick? Ya don’t look so good.”
“How you doing, Sheriff?” asked Rourke, standing at the foot of the bed.
“Me? Hell, I can’t get myself up. You got your pocketknife with ya? Cut these damn ropes off me, will ya? I’m spoze to be fishin’ the lake.”
Rourke saw the leather restraints binding Gladstone’s wrists to the hospital bed. Not a good sign. He moved to the side of the bed. “Sorry, boss, I don’t have my knife with me.”
“Shit, son, you outta uniform without ya got a knife.” The lid of his left eye was droopy. His lips were cracked and caked with a chalky mixture of dead skin and dried saliva. A few pieces of white lint clung to the gray stubble sprouting from his chubby cheeks.
“Sheriff, I need to ask you a few questions. About what happened between you and your wife.”
“Gladys? Woman’s a goddamn saint, sho nuff.”
“She is a fine woman,” Rourke agreed. “But why would such a fine woman hit her husband over the head with a skillet?”
Gladstone’s droopy eyelid twitched as a look of confusion twisted up his face. “Damnedest thing, I tell ya what’s the truth! That yowling! On and on. It run her crazy. Right outside the house. Scariest thing I ever heard.”
“What yowling?”
“Gladys … is she all right? I gotta see her. You find your pocketknife?” Gladstone was becoming more and more agitated, yanking his arms against the wrist restraints. His face reddened and a wildness came into his eyes.
“Easy now, Sheriff,” Rourke said, putting a hand on Gladstone’s shoulder. “We’ll find her for you. Everything’s going to be all right. You just take it easy. Get some rest.”
Gladstone sank back into his pillow, his eyelids fluttering, then closing. Thinking he had fallen asleep, Rourke tiptoed toward the door.
“Robber? Ya
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