Read Online Moonbird Boy by Abigail Padgett - Free Book Online
Authors: Abigail Padgett
Tags: Mystery, Native American, southern california, st louis, Social Work, adhd, shark, Child Protective Services
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thing he was in a safe place until his meds kicked in.
"Not only that, but I've kissed a frog," he went on. "Think maybe I'll marry her."
"I won't smoke around you if you won't pace around me," Bo offered. Anything to shut him up, silence his intense, meaningless stories. And he agreed to the deal. But then he'd been constantly at her side, joking, cajoling, dragging her out for countless walks in the desert. She'd finally quit smoking without really thinking about it. But the change wasn't permanent, she was sure. She felt none of the melodramatic idiocy so evident in nonsmokers. Not a single urge to flap her hands and cough dramatically at the mere sight of a Bic lighter. Nothing. About smoking she just felt nothing. And that, she was sure, wouldn't last.
Slipping a tape of the soundtrack from The Mission into the Pathfinder's tape deck, Bo watched the urban landscape revert to its natural state as she climbed east on Interstate 8. The hilly terrain was pocked with boulders and where the ground was not shadowed by coast live oaks, sycamores, and elderberry trees, an occasional cholla cactus grew, baking in the sun. They looked like the fuzzy arms and legs of dismembered teddy bears. Little forests of teddy bear limbs growing from each other at odd angles, matted with barbed spines that could bury themselves an inch deep in rubber shoe soles. What they could do to flesh did not bear thinking.
In the morning glare Bo felt a growing unease. The closer she got to Ghost Flower Lodge, the more she felt as if she were driving into an old black-and-white movie. The sun had devoured color, leaving nothing but gradations of ecru relieved only occasionally by splotches of shadow. Ennio Morricone's score blaring from her tape deck only reinforced the eerie feeling, but she couldn't bring herself to turn it off. The single oboe, the boy soprano's haunting miserere, the threat audible in a rumbling timpani, brought up an edginess that had nothing to do with depression. Something was wrong in these baking hills; Bo could sense it. Something unholy happening. Something fearful in the white glare.
As she turned off the freeway onto the patched concrete road leading toward the Neji Reservation, Bo noticed a small wooden sign professionally painted in letters reading, "Hadamar Desert Reclamation Project, Site II." Beyond the sign a narrow road wound into the hills, littered with tumbleweeds. A university project of some kind, Bo thought. Geology. "Hadamar" was undoubtedly some academic's pun on an excavation for the fossilized marine life left baking after the retreat of ancient seas. "Mar" meant "sea" in several languages, she remembered, wondering if "had a sea" was typical geologist humor.
Curious, Bo made a mental note to explore the area later. For now, she reminded herself sternly, the goal was to explore the muddy financial situation of the Neji.
Zachary Crooked Owl was standing in the courtyard as Bo pulled up, talking to a man who looked like George Washington with a crew cut. The man had slung his dark suit coat over a shoulder and his black wingtips were covered with a film of dust, but even in the high desert heat he seemed cool, composed. Zach was sweating. Bo could see dark blue arcs under the arms of the big man's blue workshirt, and the leather cord holding the owl's claw at his neck was dark with moisture.
"I've already told you, Henderson..." Zach said as Bo opened the Pathfinder's door to a wall of dry heat.
But the man merely nodded and turned toward a rental car parked under the cottonwood. "We'll be in touch, Crooked Owl," he replied and then paused to perform a smiling appraisal of the lodge's exterior. A satisfied, self-congratulatory look. Like a man who's just purchased an expensive toy. Then he folded himself into the little car and drove away.
Zach stared into the dust cloud trailing the man's exit for minutes before acknowledging Bo's presence. "Good to see you, Bo," he finally said. "But don't stand
"Not only that, but I've kissed a frog," he went on. "Think maybe I'll marry her."
"I won't smoke around you if you won't pace around me," Bo offered. Anything to shut him up, silence his intense, meaningless stories. And he agreed to the deal. But then he'd been constantly at her side, joking, cajoling, dragging her out for countless walks in the desert. She'd finally quit smoking without really thinking about it. But the change wasn't permanent, she was sure. She felt none of the melodramatic idiocy so evident in nonsmokers. Not a single urge to flap her hands and cough dramatically at the mere sight of a Bic lighter. Nothing. About smoking she just felt nothing. And that, she was sure, wouldn't last.
Slipping a tape of the soundtrack from The Mission into the Pathfinder's tape deck, Bo watched the urban landscape revert to its natural state as she climbed east on Interstate 8. The hilly terrain was pocked with boulders and where the ground was not shadowed by coast live oaks, sycamores, and elderberry trees, an occasional cholla cactus grew, baking in the sun. They looked like the fuzzy arms and legs of dismembered teddy bears. Little forests of teddy bear limbs growing from each other at odd angles, matted with barbed spines that could bury themselves an inch deep in rubber shoe soles. What they could do to flesh did not bear thinking.
In the morning glare Bo felt a growing unease. The closer she got to Ghost Flower Lodge, the more she felt as if she were driving into an old black-and-white movie. The sun had devoured color, leaving nothing but gradations of ecru relieved only occasionally by splotches of shadow. Ennio Morricone's score blaring from her tape deck only reinforced the eerie feeling, but she couldn't bring herself to turn it off. The single oboe, the boy soprano's haunting miserere, the threat audible in a rumbling timpani, brought up an edginess that had nothing to do with depression. Something was wrong in these baking hills; Bo could sense it. Something unholy happening. Something fearful in the white glare.
As she turned off the freeway onto the patched concrete road leading toward the Neji Reservation, Bo noticed a small wooden sign professionally painted in letters reading, "Hadamar Desert Reclamation Project, Site II." Beyond the sign a narrow road wound into the hills, littered with tumbleweeds. A university project of some kind, Bo thought. Geology. "Hadamar" was undoubtedly some academic's pun on an excavation for the fossilized marine life left baking after the retreat of ancient seas. "Mar" meant "sea" in several languages, she remembered, wondering if "had a sea" was typical geologist humor.
Curious, Bo made a mental note to explore the area later. For now, she reminded herself sternly, the goal was to explore the muddy financial situation of the Neji.
Zachary Crooked Owl was standing in the courtyard as Bo pulled up, talking to a man who looked like George Washington with a crew cut. The man had slung his dark suit coat over a shoulder and his black wingtips were covered with a film of dust, but even in the high desert heat he seemed cool, composed. Zach was sweating. Bo could see dark blue arcs under the arms of the big man's blue workshirt, and the leather cord holding the owl's claw at his neck was dark with moisture.
"I've already told you, Henderson..." Zach said as Bo opened the Pathfinder's door to a wall of dry heat.
But the man merely nodded and turned toward a rental car parked under the cottonwood. "We'll be in touch, Crooked Owl," he replied and then paused to perform a smiling appraisal of the lodge's exterior. A satisfied, self-congratulatory look. Like a man who's just purchased an expensive toy. Then he folded himself into the little car and drove away.
Zach stared into the dust cloud trailing the man's exit for minutes before acknowledging Bo's presence. "Good to see you, Bo," he finally said. "But don't stand
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