Read Online Shattered Shell by Brendan DuBois - Free Book Online
Authors: Brendan DuBois
Tags: USA
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room.
Well, my phone message worked, which is why on Sunday morning I was with Paula, but instead of meeting for brunch as I had earlier offered, she wanted to pay a visit again to the burned bones of the Rocks Road Motel. I pulled in behind her Ford Escort and we both got out and she came over, smiling, her breath forming little clouds in the air. The day was clear and cold, and luckily, there was no wind.
"Thanks for meeting me here," she said, smiling, holding a reporter's notebook in her gloved hands. "I hate working on Sundays, but I figured if I got this taken care of first, I'd then take you up on your brunch offer."
"Hungry?" I asked, knowing the answer quite well. Paula has a much stronger appetite than I do, and her body is quite efficient at burning off calories, something I wish her body could teach mine.
"Starved," she said, still smiling, with a look that reached in and tickled me in a quiet way. "Let's go see what's up."
Last Friday night this street had been packed with fire gear, firefighters, and the typical crowd that always forms at a fire. Today I felt as if we were extras in a movie that took place in some winter apocalypse. Except for a red Chevette parked in front of the rubble that used to be the Rocks Road Motel, ours were the only vehicles on the street. The other motels had their windows and doorways boarded up with plywood. It was so quiet that the loudest sound was what our boots made, crunching through the snow.
Yet as we got closer to the Rocks Road Motel, there was the fumbling noise of an out-of-tune engine, and I saw gray tendrils of exhaust coming up from the Chevette's tailpipe. Mike Ahern was sitting in the front seat, smoking a cigarette and writing on a pad. He had on his yellow turnout gear and he looked up at us and then went back to his paperwork as we got closer.
"I needed to talk to Mike and he said this was the best and only time to see him," Paula explained. "I think the little bastard thought I wasn't going to come out here on a Sunday morning to interview him."
"I guess he doesn't know you as well as I do."
Paula smiled. "He should live so long," she said, and I had to smile at that.
Mike dropped the cigarette on the snow, looked over, and said, "So how come I'm so lucky I get two reporters bothering me at the same time?"
"Luck has nothing to do with it," I said. "Maybe poor timing, and the fact Paula and I are friends, but I wouldn't say it's luck."
He sighed, scratched at his unshaven face. "No, I guess not, the way my luck has been running. Well, Miss Quinn of the Tyler Chronicle , now that you've managed to corner me, what can I do for you?"
Paula had dug out her pad and pencil and then gracefully went into her work mode, a process I've always admired. "The usual stuff, Mike. When I was here Friday night, all you said was that it looked like arson. You got anything more firm?"
"Well, I could say that it's a probable arson. What else?"
"What makes you think that?"
"The normal signs," Mike said, smiling, as if he were enjoying this little give and take, and for all I know, he was.
"Such as?"
"Accelerant signs," Mike explained. "Look ... well, shit, let me show you. Come with me, if you've got the time."
"Oh, I think we can do that," Paula said.
Mike got out of the car, carrying a large black flashlight, his fire coat flapping in the breeze. He trudged across the snow-covered lot, packed down from the fire engine tires of two nights ago. The ruins of the motel were covered with snow, the blackened beams poking out like the skeleton of some huge beast. Most of the windows were broken and there were new NO TRESPASSING PER TYLER F.D. signs nailed to the walls. One of the signs was near a larger sign that said, THANKS FOR EVERYTHING SEE YOU NEXT SEASON! and we climbed through the open main door. Inside, the smell of burnt debris was still quite strong. Mike clicked on the flashlight as we entered the lobby, past sodden piles of brochures and
Well, my phone message worked, which is why on Sunday morning I was with Paula, but instead of meeting for brunch as I had earlier offered, she wanted to pay a visit again to the burned bones of the Rocks Road Motel. I pulled in behind her Ford Escort and we both got out and she came over, smiling, her breath forming little clouds in the air. The day was clear and cold, and luckily, there was no wind.
"Thanks for meeting me here," she said, smiling, holding a reporter's notebook in her gloved hands. "I hate working on Sundays, but I figured if I got this taken care of first, I'd then take you up on your brunch offer."
"Hungry?" I asked, knowing the answer quite well. Paula has a much stronger appetite than I do, and her body is quite efficient at burning off calories, something I wish her body could teach mine.
"Starved," she said, still smiling, with a look that reached in and tickled me in a quiet way. "Let's go see what's up."
Last Friday night this street had been packed with fire gear, firefighters, and the typical crowd that always forms at a fire. Today I felt as if we were extras in a movie that took place in some winter apocalypse. Except for a red Chevette parked in front of the rubble that used to be the Rocks Road Motel, ours were the only vehicles on the street. The other motels had their windows and doorways boarded up with plywood. It was so quiet that the loudest sound was what our boots made, crunching through the snow.
Yet as we got closer to the Rocks Road Motel, there was the fumbling noise of an out-of-tune engine, and I saw gray tendrils of exhaust coming up from the Chevette's tailpipe. Mike Ahern was sitting in the front seat, smoking a cigarette and writing on a pad. He had on his yellow turnout gear and he looked up at us and then went back to his paperwork as we got closer.
"I needed to talk to Mike and he said this was the best and only time to see him," Paula explained. "I think the little bastard thought I wasn't going to come out here on a Sunday morning to interview him."
"I guess he doesn't know you as well as I do."
Paula smiled. "He should live so long," she said, and I had to smile at that.
Mike dropped the cigarette on the snow, looked over, and said, "So how come I'm so lucky I get two reporters bothering me at the same time?"
"Luck has nothing to do with it," I said. "Maybe poor timing, and the fact Paula and I are friends, but I wouldn't say it's luck."
He sighed, scratched at his unshaven face. "No, I guess not, the way my luck has been running. Well, Miss Quinn of the Tyler Chronicle , now that you've managed to corner me, what can I do for you?"
Paula had dug out her pad and pencil and then gracefully went into her work mode, a process I've always admired. "The usual stuff, Mike. When I was here Friday night, all you said was that it looked like arson. You got anything more firm?"
"Well, I could say that it's a probable arson. What else?"
"What makes you think that?"
"The normal signs," Mike said, smiling, as if he were enjoying this little give and take, and for all I know, he was.
"Such as?"
"Accelerant signs," Mike explained. "Look ... well, shit, let me show you. Come with me, if you've got the time."
"Oh, I think we can do that," Paula said.
Mike got out of the car, carrying a large black flashlight, his fire coat flapping in the breeze. He trudged across the snow-covered lot, packed down from the fire engine tires of two nights ago. The ruins of the motel were covered with snow, the blackened beams poking out like the skeleton of some huge beast. Most of the windows were broken and there were new NO TRESPASSING PER TYLER F.D. signs nailed to the walls. One of the signs was near a larger sign that said, THANKS FOR EVERYTHING SEE YOU NEXT SEASON! and we climbed through the open main door. Inside, the smell of burnt debris was still quite strong. Mike clicked on the flashlight as we entered the lobby, past sodden piles of brochures and
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