But he wasn't a daddy to David. It was difficult for him to show affection. He couldn't be silly for silliness' sake. He seldom laughed. David's constant activity annoyed him. Worse, he let his annoyance show.
He never spoke of his first marriage, or of the problems it had created, or of that summer when all the difficulties came to a head. It was as though his life had begun in 1976 and the years prior to that had belonged to another man. Wishing to forget that life, he had buried the bad memories deep within himself. No doubt there were days when he actually did forget them. Unfortunately, Carl Herbold's escape from prison yesterday had brought them to the surface.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"N ot many biting, Ezzy. Too damn hot." Burl Mundy flapped open a brown paper sack and dropped a bag of Fritos and a Peanut Pattie into it.
"You're probably right, but I needed something to do."
"Ain't you adjusted to retirement yet?"
"Don't think I ever will."
"I know what you mean. I've been running this bait shop here at the point practically all my life. They'll carry me out of here feet first."
"I'll need some of those crickets," Ezzy said. "And put a couple of soda pops in here." He set a portable cooler on the cloudy glass countertop.
"How 'bout a coupla beers instead?"
"No way. I gotta go home tonight."
Mundy chuckled. "Cora's still against drinking, huh?"
"Baptist to the bone." Ezzy paid in cash. "That ought to cover the gas, too." He'd pumped fuel into the motor of his small bass boat before coming inside. He picked up his sack of snacks, the carton of crickets he'd bought for bait, and the cooler, which now contained two Dr Peppers.
"Thanks, Burl."
"Happy fishing, Ezzy." Before Ezzy got through the door, Burl had readjusted his oscillating fan and returned to his recliner and a well-thumbed Louis L'Amour paperback. Ezzy set his purchases in the bottom of his boat, where he had already stowed his fishing gear. It wasn't expensive or sophisticated equipment; he was an indifferent fisherman. Because emergencies arose on every day of the year and at all hours, scheduling leisure activities was impossible for a county sheriff in a poor county. Ezzy's office had always been understaffed and over budget. Consequently, for fifty years he'd been overworked and on call twenty-four, seven, three-hundred-sixty-five.
Even if his demanding schedule had allowed him more time for recreation, he doubted he would have indulged in fishing, golfing, hunting, or any of the hobbies that other men lived for. He just flat wasn't interested. Nothing had engrossed him more than his work. He had loved it. His life had revolved around it. Even when asleep, he had thought about it.
Today, as he trolled the river, he yearned to be working still.
The spring had been uncustomarily dry, so the water level was low, the current sluggish. The river seemed in no hurry to empty into the Gulf waters a few hundred miles south. Sunlight turned the still surface into a glaring mirror that put his RayBans to the test. Where the river narrowed, tree branches formed a shady canopy. Those patches of momentary coolness were welcome. There was no breeze. Not a leaf stirred. Plants along the banks had wilted in the oppressive heat, making the landscape look forlorn. Turtles and water snakes were detectable only by their heads barely breaking the surface of the murky waters near the shore. They were too listless to swim. Even the cicadas were halfhearted in their music-making. Ezzy's shirt was soaked with perspiration by the time he angled his craft toward the riverbank. Stepping from the boat, he pulled it into the tall, dry reeds. He hadn't even had to search for the spot. It was as familiar to him as his own face. Actually, he had spent much more time exploring this terrain than he'd ever spent looking at himself.
Over the past twenty-two years, he had lost count of the number of times he had come here alone. Like a pilgrim to a shrine, he faithfully returned. He
He never spoke of his first marriage, or of the problems it had created, or of that summer when all the difficulties came to a head. It was as though his life had begun in 1976 and the years prior to that had belonged to another man. Wishing to forget that life, he had buried the bad memories deep within himself. No doubt there were days when he actually did forget them. Unfortunately, Carl Herbold's escape from prison yesterday had brought them to the surface.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"N ot many biting, Ezzy. Too damn hot." Burl Mundy flapped open a brown paper sack and dropped a bag of Fritos and a Peanut Pattie into it.
"You're probably right, but I needed something to do."
"Ain't you adjusted to retirement yet?"
"Don't think I ever will."
"I know what you mean. I've been running this bait shop here at the point practically all my life. They'll carry me out of here feet first."
"I'll need some of those crickets," Ezzy said. "And put a couple of soda pops in here." He set a portable cooler on the cloudy glass countertop.
"How 'bout a coupla beers instead?"
"No way. I gotta go home tonight."
Mundy chuckled. "Cora's still against drinking, huh?"
"Baptist to the bone." Ezzy paid in cash. "That ought to cover the gas, too." He'd pumped fuel into the motor of his small bass boat before coming inside. He picked up his sack of snacks, the carton of crickets he'd bought for bait, and the cooler, which now contained two Dr Peppers.
"Thanks, Burl."
"Happy fishing, Ezzy." Before Ezzy got through the door, Burl had readjusted his oscillating fan and returned to his recliner and a well-thumbed Louis L'Amour paperback. Ezzy set his purchases in the bottom of his boat, where he had already stowed his fishing gear. It wasn't expensive or sophisticated equipment; he was an indifferent fisherman. Because emergencies arose on every day of the year and at all hours, scheduling leisure activities was impossible for a county sheriff in a poor county. Ezzy's office had always been understaffed and over budget. Consequently, for fifty years he'd been overworked and on call twenty-four, seven, three-hundred-sixty-five.
Even if his demanding schedule had allowed him more time for recreation, he doubted he would have indulged in fishing, golfing, hunting, or any of the hobbies that other men lived for. He just flat wasn't interested. Nothing had engrossed him more than his work. He had loved it. His life had revolved around it. Even when asleep, he had thought about it.
Today, as he trolled the river, he yearned to be working still.
The spring had been uncustomarily dry, so the water level was low, the current sluggish. The river seemed in no hurry to empty into the Gulf waters a few hundred miles south. Sunlight turned the still surface into a glaring mirror that put his RayBans to the test. Where the river narrowed, tree branches formed a shady canopy. Those patches of momentary coolness were welcome. There was no breeze. Not a leaf stirred. Plants along the banks had wilted in the oppressive heat, making the landscape look forlorn. Turtles and water snakes were detectable only by their heads barely breaking the surface of the murky waters near the shore. They were too listless to swim. Even the cicadas were halfhearted in their music-making. Ezzy's shirt was soaked with perspiration by the time he angled his craft toward the riverbank. Stepping from the boat, he pulled it into the tall, dry reeds. He hadn't even had to search for the spot. It was as familiar to him as his own face. Actually, he had spent much more time exploring this terrain than he'd ever spent looking at himself.
Over the past twenty-two years, he had lost count of the number of times he had come here alone. Like a pilgrim to a shrine, he faithfully returned. He
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