Read Online Not Dead Enough by Warren C Easley - Free Book Online Page B

incoming calls next. The first belonged to a doctor’s office in Shaniko and the second to a veterinarian in Fossil, a larger town north of Clarno.
    We went back in the kitchen and poured some more wine. Philip said, “What about Winona. Have you talked to her since the shooting?”
    I scratched my head and frowned. “Nah. Not yet. I guess I’m just putting it off. It’s bad news for her. The last person to see her grandfather alive is dead now.” I retrieved her card from my wallet and called her. When she didn’t answer, I left a message to call me but gave no details.
    Philip eyed me appraisingly. “I know you’ve had a couple of meetings with her, but you haven’t told me much about them. She’s quite a woman, huh?”
    I kept a poker face. I didn’t want to encourage Philip to do me favors when it came to women. I wasn’t looking for that kind of help. “She’s been all business when I’ve talked to her. Are you two really related?”
    â€œWell, we didn’t hang out together as kids. I think she’s a second cousin, once removed.”
    â€œShe seems pretty private. What’s she really like?”
    Philip shrugged. “From what I hear she’s, uh, complicated. Married some Klickitat from over in Washington, a political activist. That didn’t work. Lives alone in Portland now.”
    â€œWhat’s complicated about that?”
    Philip smiled and shook his head. You know, the same old story—she’s conflicted, caught between two cultures, all that bullshit. And she probably feels a ton of pressure because of the expectations, Stanford PhD and all.”
    I thought of Philip. Half white, half Indian. He was caught in the middle, too. “Sounds familiar.”
    Philip looked at me and laughed. “She’s got it worse than me, man, a lot worse. Nobody expects me to change the world. For me, it’s simple. Live in the moment. Screw the rest. That’s how to survive.”
    â€œWords to live by,” I said and instantly regretted it.
    My friend looked at me again and held my eyes with an impatient, almost scolding look. “You’re like her, Cal. Complicated. I know that what happened down in L.A. was bad. I’m not saying it wasn’t. But at some point, you need to shrug it off and get on with your life.”
    I nodded. “Yeah, you’re right,” but inside I was screaming, shrug it off? How could I possibly shrug it off?
    I was utterly exhausted and turned in early that night, but sleep didn’t come quickly. I lay there in the dark listening to Archie breathe and thinking about what had happened—Watlamet’s rag-doll body, his shattered skull, those incoming rounds with my name on them, and the question of whether I was now the target of some maniac sniper.
    Fragments of that scene spiraled in my head like debris in a tornado. It was a feeling I’d experienced once before, and I manned the firewall separating me from those old memories with all my strength.
    I finally fell into a fitful sleep, which was, thank God, dreamless.

Chapter Eleven
    The next morning Archie and I sat in the car across the street from the Shaniko Methodist Church waiting for someone to show up. A modest, single-story structure sided with board and batten hewn from old growth firs, it looked at least a hundred years old. The sign out on the highway told me the population of Shaniko was four hundred sixty-nine, but right now, at eight-forty, it looked more like five or six, max. I sipped a cup of black coffee I’d bought at a little diner just outside town. The coffee was better than I expected, which boded well for the rest of the day. I’m off my game without a decent cup or two in the morning.
    At eight-fifty a dusty green pickup pulled into the church parking lot. A big man with a mashed potatoes and gravy waistline got out. He wore dark slacks, a faded cowboy shirt and freshly