Read Online Moonbird Boy by Abigail Padgett - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Abigail Padgett
Tags: Mystery, Native American, southern california, st louis, Social Work, adhd, shark, Child Protective Services
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reservation. The tyranny of not knowing made Bo feel abandoned and angry.
"How did the Neji fund the construction of this place?" she blurted. The question was completely inappropriate. "I mean, it must have been expensive."
Zach seemed to welcome a question he could answer. "A private underwriter," he answered. "That and our licensed facility status with MediCal and then some of the big insurance companies. Took us nearly twenty years to get where we are, and now..." He stopped and jammed his fists into the pockets of dirt-encrusted Levi's.
"And now what, Zach? Can the county pull your license because of what's happened?"
"Maybe. But it's not your problem. Look, I've got things to do and—"
"It is my problem," Bo interrupted, tears forming and then drying behind her sunglasses in the warm air. "This place is a miracle! There's nothing like it anywhere west of Massachusetts. For that matter there's nothing like it anywhere. Let me do something to help, Zach. Tell me what's going on."
The look in his eyes was one Bo hated. The professional look. The one separating those with psychiatric disorders from everyone else on the planet. An impenetrable wall.
"Too much stress right now can land you back in a hospital," he said. "But I'll keep Dr. Broussard informed about the investigation into Mort's death and about what happens to Ghost Flower. She'll fill you in." With that he turned and walked into the lodge.
Bo felt a tear spill from her right eye and evaporate on her cheek as she stood beside her car. Zachary Crooked Owl never called Eva Broussard anything but "Blindhawk," and was never rude. Until now. For a moment she felt a crush of responsibility for Zach's behavior that made her nose ache. The depression bogey again, insisting that everything wrong in the world was ultimately the fault of Bo Bradley, rotten person. It said she was unworthy of Zach's confidence, a failure. It said everything she did was wrong, clumsy, inadequate. It sneered that even her dog had left her. At that the downward spiral of her thoughts slammed to a halt.
Not Mildred, Bradley. No way! Drown in your damn depression if you have to, but leave Mildred out of it.
The words had an edge that made her feel better. A boundary. She might not be able to control these eruptions of self-loathing that could override the antidepressant medication, but their content was controllable. Striding to the clump of Mormon tea, Bo addressed the beetle hiding inside. "Depression sucks," she hissed the Ss, "but it's not going to keep me from finding out what's going on around here, understand?"
Taking the long, scenic way on Highway 94 back down toward San Diego, she stopped in the dusty crossroad settlement called Campo and bought a cold Gatorade. Campo's stone store, now also a museum, was rumored to entomb a dead body in its thick, cool walls. The victim of a murder committed in 1868 and never solved. San Diego's back country kept its secrets, Bo realized. But not this time. Because this time a mad Irishwoman with nothing left to lose was going to unearth its secret or die trying. At the moment it really didn't matter which.
Chapter 9
There was something the matter with the new boy, something not right. Gussie Quinn watched uneasily as he raced back and forth on the cement patio beyond her kitchen doors. The other short-term foster children, both girls, were in school and so he had no one to play with. But Aunt Gussie Quinn, as children had called her for the three years she'd been fostering, knew boredom was insufficient explanation for a morning she could only regard as disastrous.
She'd gone to pick up the boy named Bird at the receiving home right after breakfast and had forgotten to take off her apron.
"You look like Mrs. Butterworth, the syrup lady," he told her in the lime green waiting room when they were introduced by one of the social workers. "I'll call you Gussie Butter."
In her garage was a brand-new five-hundred-dollar motorized treadmill
"How did the Neji fund the construction of this place?" she blurted. The question was completely inappropriate. "I mean, it must have been expensive."
Zach seemed to welcome a question he could answer. "A private underwriter," he answered. "That and our licensed facility status with MediCal and then some of the big insurance companies. Took us nearly twenty years to get where we are, and now..." He stopped and jammed his fists into the pockets of dirt-encrusted Levi's.
"And now what, Zach? Can the county pull your license because of what's happened?"
"Maybe. But it's not your problem. Look, I've got things to do and—"
"It is my problem," Bo interrupted, tears forming and then drying behind her sunglasses in the warm air. "This place is a miracle! There's nothing like it anywhere west of Massachusetts. For that matter there's nothing like it anywhere. Let me do something to help, Zach. Tell me what's going on."
The look in his eyes was one Bo hated. The professional look. The one separating those with psychiatric disorders from everyone else on the planet. An impenetrable wall.
"Too much stress right now can land you back in a hospital," he said. "But I'll keep Dr. Broussard informed about the investigation into Mort's death and about what happens to Ghost Flower. She'll fill you in." With that he turned and walked into the lodge.
Bo felt a tear spill from her right eye and evaporate on her cheek as she stood beside her car. Zachary Crooked Owl never called Eva Broussard anything but "Blindhawk," and was never rude. Until now. For a moment she felt a crush of responsibility for Zach's behavior that made her nose ache. The depression bogey again, insisting that everything wrong in the world was ultimately the fault of Bo Bradley, rotten person. It said she was unworthy of Zach's confidence, a failure. It said everything she did was wrong, clumsy, inadequate. It sneered that even her dog had left her. At that the downward spiral of her thoughts slammed to a halt.
Not Mildred, Bradley. No way! Drown in your damn depression if you have to, but leave Mildred out of it.
The words had an edge that made her feel better. A boundary. She might not be able to control these eruptions of self-loathing that could override the antidepressant medication, but their content was controllable. Striding to the clump of Mormon tea, Bo addressed the beetle hiding inside. "Depression sucks," she hissed the Ss, "but it's not going to keep me from finding out what's going on around here, understand?"
Taking the long, scenic way on Highway 94 back down toward San Diego, she stopped in the dusty crossroad settlement called Campo and bought a cold Gatorade. Campo's stone store, now also a museum, was rumored to entomb a dead body in its thick, cool walls. The victim of a murder committed in 1868 and never solved. San Diego's back country kept its secrets, Bo realized. But not this time. Because this time a mad Irishwoman with nothing left to lose was going to unearth its secret or die trying. At the moment it really didn't matter which.
Chapter 9
There was something the matter with the new boy, something not right. Gussie Quinn watched uneasily as he raced back and forth on the cement patio beyond her kitchen doors. The other short-term foster children, both girls, were in school and so he had no one to play with. But Aunt Gussie Quinn, as children had called her for the three years she'd been fostering, knew boredom was insufficient explanation for a morning she could only regard as disastrous.
She'd gone to pick up the boy named Bird at the receiving home right after breakfast and had forgotten to take off her apron.
"You look like Mrs. Butterworth, the syrup lady," he told her in the lime green waiting room when they were introduced by one of the social workers. "I'll call you Gussie Butter."
In her garage was a brand-new five-hundred-dollar motorized treadmill
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