Read Online Leaving Unknown by Kerry Reichs - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kerry Reichs
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’fraid. And I can’t put ya in the jail without ya bein’ under arrest.” I was pretty sure I was glad on that one, though his regret seemed genuine. “But, I might be able to help. You put on some proper shoes and break down your little campin’ site while I make a call.”
I did as he said. I extravagantly squandered a pair of clean socks, putting a second pair on over the first. My feet were two blocks of ice. It was heaven to slip on my sneakers. I made a mental note to finish off all the Emergen-C packets I had tomorrow. I could buy more. I wrapped Oliver’s Snuggle Hut in a wool sweater with him inside it. He squawked in protest but I ignored him. I didn’t want him getting sick either. He was a bitch when he was sick. I stuffed my tent and sleeping bag by the light of my headlamp and was perched on the picnic table with all my worldly goods in a backpack and a Snuggle Hut when Bruce returned.
“Looks like you’re in luck. Follow me. And mind the roots.” He shone his flashlight along the ground. When we got to the truck, it was “Climb on up.” I was too tired to ask where we were going. I sensed Bruce was a decent man. Besides, what choice did I have? He was dead wrong about my luck.
In the cab of the truck, blessed heat seeped into my bones. Oliver felt it too, because he inched out of his cocoon and rested in my lap. I couldn’t see a thing out the window. The luxuriously soft seat and the warmth of the car were making me drowsy.
“Lawrence,” I said. “Why do they call you Bruce?”
“Wall, I reckon it’s because I like Monty Python so much.” He answered obligingly, leaving me as mystified as before. “And it sure as hell beats Larry Perry.” I said nothing more.
After a short trip we pulled up to a long, low adobe house. The truck headlights lit up attractive pink walls and a doorway framed by some kind of flowering tree. Bruce shut off the truck and I clambered ungracefully down. Bruce ignored the front door and followed a path to the left through an archway cut into the long adobe wall. Beyond it appeared to be a courtyard garden. I could see candlelight flickering through double-glass doors to the right. Bruce went through them, and I followedhim into a beautiful and spacious kitchen. The centerpiece was a rectangular wooden table burnished to a rich, warm brown. The floors were ochre tile. A welcoming fire flickered in the hearth dominating an exposed brick wall on the left, and candles on the table guttered in the draft we created. The only sound was the tick-tick-tick of a heating saucepan on a restored antique O’Keefe & Merritt gas stove. Bruce wiped his feet on a colorful rag rug and stepped in, pulling off his sheriff’s hat. I remained his dutiful shadow.
“Hello Bruce. How you doin’, Bruce? All right there, Bruce?” squawked a voice from beyond a darkened doorway to the left.
Oliver, on my shoulder now, began hopping agitatedly, lifting one foot and then the other, a cockatiel sign of anxiety.
“Lulabell, hush your beak,” said Bruce.
“Quiet Lulabell. Quiet,” mimicked the squawk.
Oliver raced from my wrist to my shoulder and back again in a fretful loop. On one pass he nipped my earlobe.
“Ow, Oliver!” I rebuked. He scrambled to my elbow, canvassing the room for the provoking sound. His crest feather was fully erect, another fear indicator.
“Right Bruce!” said Lulabell.
It was too much for Oliver. He released a torrent of sounds. “ Squawk. Carrot. Are you thinner? Road trip, don’t forget the bird! Howdy pardner. Oh shit.”
Silence from the other room.
“Yours’s just as bad as Lulabell for the potty mouth,” Bruce observed.
“Oh no.” I rushed to assure him. “He almost never says that.”
“Oh shit,” repeated Oliver.
Sigh. “That’s his only bad word. I have no idea where he got it.” I had a pretty good idea where he got it.
“It won’t be for long,” Bruce forebode.
On cue, from the next room, Lulabell spoke again.
I did as he said. I extravagantly squandered a pair of clean socks, putting a second pair on over the first. My feet were two blocks of ice. It was heaven to slip on my sneakers. I made a mental note to finish off all the Emergen-C packets I had tomorrow. I could buy more. I wrapped Oliver’s Snuggle Hut in a wool sweater with him inside it. He squawked in protest but I ignored him. I didn’t want him getting sick either. He was a bitch when he was sick. I stuffed my tent and sleeping bag by the light of my headlamp and was perched on the picnic table with all my worldly goods in a backpack and a Snuggle Hut when Bruce returned.
“Looks like you’re in luck. Follow me. And mind the roots.” He shone his flashlight along the ground. When we got to the truck, it was “Climb on up.” I was too tired to ask where we were going. I sensed Bruce was a decent man. Besides, what choice did I have? He was dead wrong about my luck.
In the cab of the truck, blessed heat seeped into my bones. Oliver felt it too, because he inched out of his cocoon and rested in my lap. I couldn’t see a thing out the window. The luxuriously soft seat and the warmth of the car were making me drowsy.
“Lawrence,” I said. “Why do they call you Bruce?”
“Wall, I reckon it’s because I like Monty Python so much.” He answered obligingly, leaving me as mystified as before. “And it sure as hell beats Larry Perry.” I said nothing more.
After a short trip we pulled up to a long, low adobe house. The truck headlights lit up attractive pink walls and a doorway framed by some kind of flowering tree. Bruce shut off the truck and I clambered ungracefully down. Bruce ignored the front door and followed a path to the left through an archway cut into the long adobe wall. Beyond it appeared to be a courtyard garden. I could see candlelight flickering through double-glass doors to the right. Bruce went through them, and I followedhim into a beautiful and spacious kitchen. The centerpiece was a rectangular wooden table burnished to a rich, warm brown. The floors were ochre tile. A welcoming fire flickered in the hearth dominating an exposed brick wall on the left, and candles on the table guttered in the draft we created. The only sound was the tick-tick-tick of a heating saucepan on a restored antique O’Keefe & Merritt gas stove. Bruce wiped his feet on a colorful rag rug and stepped in, pulling off his sheriff’s hat. I remained his dutiful shadow.
“Hello Bruce. How you doin’, Bruce? All right there, Bruce?” squawked a voice from beyond a darkened doorway to the left.
Oliver, on my shoulder now, began hopping agitatedly, lifting one foot and then the other, a cockatiel sign of anxiety.
“Lulabell, hush your beak,” said Bruce.
“Quiet Lulabell. Quiet,” mimicked the squawk.
Oliver raced from my wrist to my shoulder and back again in a fretful loop. On one pass he nipped my earlobe.
“Ow, Oliver!” I rebuked. He scrambled to my elbow, canvassing the room for the provoking sound. His crest feather was fully erect, another fear indicator.
“Right Bruce!” said Lulabell.
It was too much for Oliver. He released a torrent of sounds. “ Squawk. Carrot. Are you thinner? Road trip, don’t forget the bird! Howdy pardner. Oh shit.”
Silence from the other room.
“Yours’s just as bad as Lulabell for the potty mouth,” Bruce observed.
“Oh no.” I rushed to assure him. “He almost never says that.”
“Oh shit,” repeated Oliver.
Sigh. “That’s his only bad word. I have no idea where he got it.” I had a pretty good idea where he got it.
“It won’t be for long,” Bruce forebode.
On cue, from the next room, Lulabell spoke again.
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