Read Online Simple Simon by Ryne Douglas Pearson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ryne Douglas Pearson
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day they ate turkey and mashed potat—
Footsteps rose on the staircase. Heavy feet.
Simon began rocking again. Daddy walked softly.
The door eased open and stayed open. The red haired man walked into Simon’s room alone. Simon smelled something strange. Like smoke.
“Hi again, Simon,” the red haired man said as he neared the kid. He reached into his pocket and removed a folded piece of paper. “I wanted to talk a little bit more about the puzzles.” He stood directly in front of the kid. With a gloved hand he took a fistful of hair and lifted the kid’s head until his face was visible. “You know it’s rude not to look at someone when they’re talking to you.”
Simon’s lower lip turned to jelly, but he did not cry. His eyes darted about in search of something familiar. They locked on the picture of his old dog, Ranger, on the wall by the window. Ranger had died when—
“Look at ME , kid.” The red haired man shook Simon’s head sharply.
“You’re a stranger.”
“Nah.” The red haired man put his face very close to Simon’s. “I’m your friend.”
Daddy hadn’t told him that.
“I just want to talk about some puzzles. You’ll tell a friend about puzzles, won’t you.”
This man was a stranger. He was not a friend.
The red haired man backed off, but kept hold of Simon’s hair. He unfolded the paper in his other hand and held it in front of Simon’s face.
It was covered in letters and numbers.
There were fifty numbers and letters mixed together at the beginning, and fifty letters at the end. In between were 1450 numbers.
“What do you see, kid?”
Simon’s eyes flitted over the numbers and letters. He blinked several times.
“What does it say?”
Simon knew this kind of puzzle. It was not hard. “I know kiwi.”
The red haired man pulled the paper away. “Right.” He stuffed the paper in his coat pocket and aimed Simon’s face toward the magazine on his lap. “There’s a puzzle like that in there. Remember that?” He lifted the head again with a tug. “How’d you figure it out, kid?” His other hand was now unoccupied. He drew it back, palm flat under black leather. “How?”
* * *
Martin Lynch lay in a spreading pool of his own blood when his son’s cry echoed down to the kitchen. With a great draw of air he forced his head up and looked around. His wife lay where the two walls of cabinets met. Her dress clung to the front of her body, soaked dark. A line of red trickled from the center of her forehead over one cheek.
He shot us , Martin Lynch realized. He did not remember it happening, but he knew. He should have sensed it coming, like Simon had—
“Thsimon,” Martin Lynch said in a weak, wet voice. Blood spurted from his mouth as he did. He rolled to his side, sat against the stove, and looked down. There was a dime-size hole in his work shirt, just right of the pocket. The blue cotton had turned red. He touched a hand to a fiery spot on above his left eye. One finger found a wet depression that stung tremendously.
Martin Lynch was suddenly nauseous and vomited onto his legs. My God, I’m shot… In the head, and in the chest… I’m going to die… He looked again to his wife. She was still. He killed my Jean…
A SLAP from above snapped Martin Lynch’s throbbing head upward. Simon winced loudly.
“Noth my thson,” Martin Lynch said. He let anger fill him, let it overcome the pain, the sickness, the sorrow, let it lift him from the floor, let it guide him step by step through his wife’s blood out of the kitchen and into the den.
* * *
The Red haired man’s hand was cocked for a third blow when a crashing sound rose from the first floor. He let go of Simon’s head and drew his weapon. A slender blued tube extended from the barrel.
“You stay…” The red haired man caught his folly. Like you’re going anywhere, kid. “I’ve got some unfinished business downstairs. Be right back.”
Holding the silenced Walther PPK in a relaxed
Footsteps rose on the staircase. Heavy feet.
Simon began rocking again. Daddy walked softly.
The door eased open and stayed open. The red haired man walked into Simon’s room alone. Simon smelled something strange. Like smoke.
“Hi again, Simon,” the red haired man said as he neared the kid. He reached into his pocket and removed a folded piece of paper. “I wanted to talk a little bit more about the puzzles.” He stood directly in front of the kid. With a gloved hand he took a fistful of hair and lifted the kid’s head until his face was visible. “You know it’s rude not to look at someone when they’re talking to you.”
Simon’s lower lip turned to jelly, but he did not cry. His eyes darted about in search of something familiar. They locked on the picture of his old dog, Ranger, on the wall by the window. Ranger had died when—
“Look at ME , kid.” The red haired man shook Simon’s head sharply.
“You’re a stranger.”
“Nah.” The red haired man put his face very close to Simon’s. “I’m your friend.”
Daddy hadn’t told him that.
“I just want to talk about some puzzles. You’ll tell a friend about puzzles, won’t you.”
This man was a stranger. He was not a friend.
The red haired man backed off, but kept hold of Simon’s hair. He unfolded the paper in his other hand and held it in front of Simon’s face.
It was covered in letters and numbers.
There were fifty numbers and letters mixed together at the beginning, and fifty letters at the end. In between were 1450 numbers.
“What do you see, kid?”
Simon’s eyes flitted over the numbers and letters. He blinked several times.
“What does it say?”
Simon knew this kind of puzzle. It was not hard. “I know kiwi.”
The red haired man pulled the paper away. “Right.” He stuffed the paper in his coat pocket and aimed Simon’s face toward the magazine on his lap. “There’s a puzzle like that in there. Remember that?” He lifted the head again with a tug. “How’d you figure it out, kid?” His other hand was now unoccupied. He drew it back, palm flat under black leather. “How?”
* * *
Martin Lynch lay in a spreading pool of his own blood when his son’s cry echoed down to the kitchen. With a great draw of air he forced his head up and looked around. His wife lay where the two walls of cabinets met. Her dress clung to the front of her body, soaked dark. A line of red trickled from the center of her forehead over one cheek.
He shot us , Martin Lynch realized. He did not remember it happening, but he knew. He should have sensed it coming, like Simon had—
“Thsimon,” Martin Lynch said in a weak, wet voice. Blood spurted from his mouth as he did. He rolled to his side, sat against the stove, and looked down. There was a dime-size hole in his work shirt, just right of the pocket. The blue cotton had turned red. He touched a hand to a fiery spot on above his left eye. One finger found a wet depression that stung tremendously.
Martin Lynch was suddenly nauseous and vomited onto his legs. My God, I’m shot… In the head, and in the chest… I’m going to die… He looked again to his wife. She was still. He killed my Jean…
A SLAP from above snapped Martin Lynch’s throbbing head upward. Simon winced loudly.
“Noth my thson,” Martin Lynch said. He let anger fill him, let it overcome the pain, the sickness, the sorrow, let it lift him from the floor, let it guide him step by step through his wife’s blood out of the kitchen and into the den.
* * *
The Red haired man’s hand was cocked for a third blow when a crashing sound rose from the first floor. He let go of Simon’s head and drew his weapon. A slender blued tube extended from the barrel.
“You stay…” The red haired man caught his folly. Like you’re going anywhere, kid. “I’ve got some unfinished business downstairs. Be right back.”
Holding the silenced Walther PPK in a relaxed
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