Read Online Twice Buried by Steven F. Havill - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Steven F. Havill
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list, mind you, but it was damn near that bad.
Not a bad custom—talk the old, rich padrino into buying the kid’s first suit of clothes. That was the first step. Estelle had known Augustina Baca for years, and the old woman had agreed to sew the tiny little tunic that the kid would wear to his baptism. The corners of Mrs. Baca’s eyes had crinkled up with pleasure at her assignment. Or maybe it was pleasure at knowing the price tag.
“Ah,” she had said, waving tiny wrinkled hands. “The bautizo is so important.” She clasped her hands as if in prayer…or reckoning. And then she’d explained to me in terms far beyond my patience for listening every detail of the tiny garment that would be the talk of Tres Santos—for one day. What the hell. Estelle and her kid were special to me.
There would be more hidden expenses for the padrino , I had no doubt. Estelle had even mentioned one custom where all the cute little niños of the village cornered the defenseless padrino and threatened his life until he tossed fistfuls of coins to them. I’d have to change a couple bucks into pennies before I headed south.
A car door slammed somewhere behind me and jerked me back to the field and the present. I realized I had walked nearly to the small arroyo and the row of Russian olives that formed the back boundary of the pasture…and I hadn’t even noticed where I had stepped, let alone seen anything significant.
I glanced toward the trailer park and saw the rear end of a dust-colored sedan pulled up in front of Miriam Sloan’s place. Deputy Torrez had said he hadn’t been able to talk to either the woman or her boyfriend earlier.
I turned and crossed the fifty yards of scrub to the trailer court fence, took one look at the four strands of barbed wire, and grimaced. The wire was too high and tight to straddle and I was too fat and stiff to squeeze through.
With a quiet curse I turned and made my way back to the patrol car.
Miriam Sloan’s trailer had seen better days a decade before. Now it was a faded, depressing shade of blue with little fake wings on the back that had been intended to make it sporty but only looked silly. Holes in the aluminum siding had been crudely patched with discarded printing press plates from the local newspaper.
Someone had started repainting the trailer at one back corner and progressed a dozen feet with the deep blue enamel before running out of either effort or paint…or both. Even that paint was beginning to fade. I guessed the dark blue was the same vintage as the whopper-jawed porch that jutted out from the doorway and then angled down four or five steps to the gravel of the parking lot.
At least the place was neat and orderly. I figured Miriam Sloan to be on the welfare dole, and that monthly check wouldn’t cover much in the way of home maintenance.
I parked behind the tan Oldsmobile and by habit jotted down the plate number on my log. One of our part-timers, a college kid, was sitting dispatch, and chasing plate numbers on the computer was good practice for him. By the time I hung up the mike, the door of the trailer was open and Miriam Sloan was standing on the top step, one hand on her hip and one eyebrow cocked heavenward.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Sloan,” I said, stepping between 310 and the Oldsmobile. She didn’t say anything until I reached the first shaky step of the wooden porch.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” she asked. Her voice was low and husky. I guess there was good enough reason for her calm sarcasm. One officer or another from our department had paid her a dozen visits over the past six years, thanks to the escapades of her son, Todd.
We had extended the kid every chance too many times—maybe that was part of the problem. Still, the state pen wasn’t the place for most fifteen-year-olds. Miriam Sloan could have been just a little bit grateful.
“I hope we haven’t been too much of a nuisance around here the last day or so,” I said. I tried for my
Not a bad custom—talk the old, rich padrino into buying the kid’s first suit of clothes. That was the first step. Estelle had known Augustina Baca for years, and the old woman had agreed to sew the tiny little tunic that the kid would wear to his baptism. The corners of Mrs. Baca’s eyes had crinkled up with pleasure at her assignment. Or maybe it was pleasure at knowing the price tag.
“Ah,” she had said, waving tiny wrinkled hands. “The bautizo is so important.” She clasped her hands as if in prayer…or reckoning. And then she’d explained to me in terms far beyond my patience for listening every detail of the tiny garment that would be the talk of Tres Santos—for one day. What the hell. Estelle and her kid were special to me.
There would be more hidden expenses for the padrino , I had no doubt. Estelle had even mentioned one custom where all the cute little niños of the village cornered the defenseless padrino and threatened his life until he tossed fistfuls of coins to them. I’d have to change a couple bucks into pennies before I headed south.
A car door slammed somewhere behind me and jerked me back to the field and the present. I realized I had walked nearly to the small arroyo and the row of Russian olives that formed the back boundary of the pasture…and I hadn’t even noticed where I had stepped, let alone seen anything significant.
I glanced toward the trailer park and saw the rear end of a dust-colored sedan pulled up in front of Miriam Sloan’s place. Deputy Torrez had said he hadn’t been able to talk to either the woman or her boyfriend earlier.
I turned and crossed the fifty yards of scrub to the trailer court fence, took one look at the four strands of barbed wire, and grimaced. The wire was too high and tight to straddle and I was too fat and stiff to squeeze through.
With a quiet curse I turned and made my way back to the patrol car.
Miriam Sloan’s trailer had seen better days a decade before. Now it was a faded, depressing shade of blue with little fake wings on the back that had been intended to make it sporty but only looked silly. Holes in the aluminum siding had been crudely patched with discarded printing press plates from the local newspaper.
Someone had started repainting the trailer at one back corner and progressed a dozen feet with the deep blue enamel before running out of either effort or paint…or both. Even that paint was beginning to fade. I guessed the dark blue was the same vintage as the whopper-jawed porch that jutted out from the doorway and then angled down four or five steps to the gravel of the parking lot.
At least the place was neat and orderly. I figured Miriam Sloan to be on the welfare dole, and that monthly check wouldn’t cover much in the way of home maintenance.
I parked behind the tan Oldsmobile and by habit jotted down the plate number on my log. One of our part-timers, a college kid, was sitting dispatch, and chasing plate numbers on the computer was good practice for him. By the time I hung up the mike, the door of the trailer was open and Miriam Sloan was standing on the top step, one hand on her hip and one eyebrow cocked heavenward.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Sloan,” I said, stepping between 310 and the Oldsmobile. She didn’t say anything until I reached the first shaky step of the wooden porch.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” she asked. Her voice was low and husky. I guess there was good enough reason for her calm sarcasm. One officer or another from our department had paid her a dozen visits over the past six years, thanks to the escapades of her son, Todd.
We had extended the kid every chance too many times—maybe that was part of the problem. Still, the state pen wasn’t the place for most fifteen-year-olds. Miriam Sloan could have been just a little bit grateful.
“I hope we haven’t been too much of a nuisance around here the last day or so,” I said. I tried for my
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