tea?”
“I’d love one. You have electricity?”
Otto nodded, closing the door. “Put the line in last fall. My requirements are nugatory. I’ve mounted 120 solar panels to a frame that goes up tomorrow. All my water comes from the sky or the mountain. I’ve got basins all over the place.” He handed her a Mason jar filled with iced tea. Stella sat on the weathered brown leather sofa. The cushions creaked and something hard dug into her ass. Working her hand between the cushions she retrieved a Grendel P30 .22 automatic. She looked at it for a second as if it were a turd, then placed it carefully on the wood end table with a thunk .
Steve came over and licked her knee.
“Stop that,” she said without conviction.
“Don’t lick the knee, Steve,” Otto said.
“Otto, when you said you would build a tank trap I thought you were joking.”
Otto sat in a big leather creaker angled toward her around the free-form mahogany slab coffee table. He shrugged and the corners of his mouth turned down.
“This is private property. I can do whatever I want.”
“Actually, you can’t. Although it’s private property, you would be responsible if someone trespassed and hurt themselves because you did not take reasonable precautions to remove an obvious hazard. What would have happened if I’d stepped on that thing?”
“Nothing. It’s strong enough to support a few people.”
“How would anybody even get a tank up here?”
“That’s their problem. You didn’t hike up here to give me grief about my tank trap.”
“No. I don’t suppose you know what’s going on.”
Otto smiled and stretched. “Not the slightest.”
Stella was practiced at concealing her emotions, partly through Sam’s example, partly through her work. She struggled to say it in an even tone. “Two days ago Sam died. He burst into flames at a rural Virginia resort.”
Otto’s demeanor did a U-turn as he leaned forward, arms on knees, face creased with concern. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Stella! I’m so sorry!”
He half raised himself to go to her but something about Stella’s demeanor--hostile pheromones perhaps---queered the deal. She looked drained, like she’d done all her crying beforehand. The motion failed and he sank back into the chair. “He burst into flames?”
“He’s the sixth prominent American to die by spontaneous combustion this year. The FBI is trying to determine how far back they go.”
“Okay.”
“It’s for real. The President wants you to take charge of the investigation.”
Otto peered at her.
“Why me?” he said.
“They have a computer program that matches ops with jobs.”
“Who was number two? Get him.”
“Otto,” Stella said quietly. “We’re talking about Sam. You’re an arson investigator. You’re one of a handful of people who’s actually seen this happen. You understand special ops. I’m asking you.”
Otto sat perfectly still. He’d lied about his age to join the Army, partly to piss off his old man, a university professor who taught American history. Professor Jonathan White lectured on white privilege, institutional racism, and that the U.S. was the chief engine of war and poverty throughout the world.
As each generation rebels against its parents Otto rebelled against Jonathan’s relentless America-bashing and contemptuous atheism. Even as a child Otto was fiercely independent. He looked at his father and thought here was a guy who couldn’t pound a nail hauling down big bucks to teach kids that the United States was the root of all evil.
Otto instinctively shunned his father’s values. He came to doubt his father knew the value of hard work. Otto was a throwback to his Scots Irish forbears who fought for hearth and home. In Jonathan’s house the Federalist Papers were considered seditious so Otto read them. The Declaration of Independence and Constitution were considered outmoded and irrelevant so Otto studied them. Thomas Jefferson was a slaveholder and libertine
“I’d love one. You have electricity?”
Otto nodded, closing the door. “Put the line in last fall. My requirements are nugatory. I’ve mounted 120 solar panels to a frame that goes up tomorrow. All my water comes from the sky or the mountain. I’ve got basins all over the place.” He handed her a Mason jar filled with iced tea. Stella sat on the weathered brown leather sofa. The cushions creaked and something hard dug into her ass. Working her hand between the cushions she retrieved a Grendel P30 .22 automatic. She looked at it for a second as if it were a turd, then placed it carefully on the wood end table with a thunk .
Steve came over and licked her knee.
“Stop that,” she said without conviction.
“Don’t lick the knee, Steve,” Otto said.
“Otto, when you said you would build a tank trap I thought you were joking.”
Otto sat in a big leather creaker angled toward her around the free-form mahogany slab coffee table. He shrugged and the corners of his mouth turned down.
“This is private property. I can do whatever I want.”
“Actually, you can’t. Although it’s private property, you would be responsible if someone trespassed and hurt themselves because you did not take reasonable precautions to remove an obvious hazard. What would have happened if I’d stepped on that thing?”
“Nothing. It’s strong enough to support a few people.”
“How would anybody even get a tank up here?”
“That’s their problem. You didn’t hike up here to give me grief about my tank trap.”
“No. I don’t suppose you know what’s going on.”
Otto smiled and stretched. “Not the slightest.”
Stella was practiced at concealing her emotions, partly through Sam’s example, partly through her work. She struggled to say it in an even tone. “Two days ago Sam died. He burst into flames at a rural Virginia resort.”
Otto’s demeanor did a U-turn as he leaned forward, arms on knees, face creased with concern. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Stella! I’m so sorry!”
He half raised himself to go to her but something about Stella’s demeanor--hostile pheromones perhaps---queered the deal. She looked drained, like she’d done all her crying beforehand. The motion failed and he sank back into the chair. “He burst into flames?”
“He’s the sixth prominent American to die by spontaneous combustion this year. The FBI is trying to determine how far back they go.”
“Okay.”
“It’s for real. The President wants you to take charge of the investigation.”
Otto peered at her.
“Why me?” he said.
“They have a computer program that matches ops with jobs.”
“Who was number two? Get him.”
“Otto,” Stella said quietly. “We’re talking about Sam. You’re an arson investigator. You’re one of a handful of people who’s actually seen this happen. You understand special ops. I’m asking you.”
Otto sat perfectly still. He’d lied about his age to join the Army, partly to piss off his old man, a university professor who taught American history. Professor Jonathan White lectured on white privilege, institutional racism, and that the U.S. was the chief engine of war and poverty throughout the world.
As each generation rebels against its parents Otto rebelled against Jonathan’s relentless America-bashing and contemptuous atheism. Even as a child Otto was fiercely independent. He looked at his father and thought here was a guy who couldn’t pound a nail hauling down big bucks to teach kids that the United States was the root of all evil.
Otto instinctively shunned his father’s values. He came to doubt his father knew the value of hard work. Otto was a throwback to his Scots Irish forbears who fought for hearth and home. In Jonathan’s house the Federalist Papers were considered seditious so Otto read them. The Declaration of Independence and Constitution were considered outmoded and irrelevant so Otto studied them. Thomas Jefferson was a slaveholder and libertine
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