Read Online Suspension by Richard E. Crabbe - Free Book Online

a sudden sadness taking hold in the dark stairway. He stopped for only a heartbeat, then continued up the stinking stairs, thinking of their shoeless feet.
    The heat seemed to weigh on him and press him back with every step. But the heat was only part of it. The smell of such concentrated humanity hit him in the gut, taking the wind out of him. Suddenly breathing didn’t seem all that important. Breathing through his mouth was a little better, except he could almost taste the place. It smelled like a five-story outhouse, or worse, because the smells of cooking were mixed in with the rest. And then there was a hard-to-define smell of sickness and disease, and more than one deep, wracking cough echoed down the dark hallways. It was altogether a hellish place. The thought of living there turned Tom’s stomach. But the place was full of people, even at this time of day, when men were usually out to work. He could hear the laughter of women and children, a song of the Old Country, in a voice cracked with age, and a loud, strident argument from somewhere above. Coming to a landing between the second and third floors, he passed a pair of men smoking their pipes, lounging on the stairs. They gave way grudgingly.
    Tom knocked on the second door back of the stairs. He heard the faint sound of deep, fluid hacking from somewhere inside. He knocked again and was answered with a woman’s voice, calling:
    â€œKeep yer britches on, I’ll be there in two shakes.”
    The door opened and Tom asked, “Mrs. Bucklin?”
    â€œEy, and who wants to know?”

    â€œI’m Detective Braddock, ma’am.”
    â€œHave ye found my Terry that soon then? I only put in the report this mornin’ down at the station house. They said it might take days, or weeks even. Didn’t seem to give a damn if he was missin’ or not, ye ask me.” Tom watched her as she said this. She was much too old to be Terrence’s wife, he thought. She must be all of fifty-eight or so but looked ten years older. Her hair was combed but oily gray. Her face showed the wear of a hard life with deep creases carved into the soft flesh. She had probably been pretty once; she had the eyes of a doe still, if you took the time to notice. Her clothes were neat, but old and frayed at the hem. Freckles and age spots blotched her parchment-thin skin.
    â€œYou’re Mrs. Bucklin then?”
    â€œI’m his mother. Is Terry in some sort of trouble? He’s never been one to get on the wrong side of the law. It’s a good boy, my Terry is.”
    â€œMa’am, could I come in for a moment? I’m afraid there’s been some trouble.”
    â€œOh, bless me, sure, come in. Here you’re tryin’ to help me and I’m leavin’ ye out in the hall.”
    â€œWho is it, Patricia?” came a voice from the back of the room. Tom could see there was a corner that was separated from the rest by a sheet draped over a line. The voice seemed to come from there.
    â€œIt’s a detective named Braddock, here about Terry, it’s all right,” she said with a look at Tom.
    â€œHave they found him, then?” the voice behind the sheet asked. “It’s not like Terry to be out for days like this, nor miss a meal either.”
    â€œDon’t worry yer head, Pa, ye’ll start a fit again, an’ yer weak as a kitten as it is. So …” she said, turning to Tom. “What’s the trouble? Did he run afoul of some of them Protestant hooligans over on Hester? I’ve told him to keep well clear o’ there. Never had any trouble before.”
    â€œNo, ma’am, I’m sorry to tell you, Terrence is dead.”
    A low choking moan from behind the sheet curtain broke through the mist of Tom’s words. Patricia Bucklin put her hands up to the sides of her head as if to block the words from her ears. Her hands were clenched, her knuckles white. She turned and wandered back to a