Read Online Witness To Kill (Change Of Life Book 1) by Kent Keefer - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kent Keefer
Ads: Link
his mouth. L’addition never came.
She noticed the man watching intently as they crossed to the
sunny side of Decatur, then stride right toward them. He sported a bow tie, the
upper sleeves of his striped shirt were bunched by garters, a small piece of
paper gripped between the thumb and forefinger of one hand.
Sherry saw him too and stopped to wait on the other curb.
“Sherry?” The man raised his hand and cried from a half
block away in a banjo-strung voice. His head was bald on top, the pale oasis
surrounded by a salt and pepper fringe, his eye-brows were pink and jumpy over
round, bulging eyes. He was short with a tense, bandy frame that quavered when
he talked. “Can I get a minute?”
Sherry nodded while the man’s hands chopped air like a band
director.
“That big’un, one with the arm thing. He was back down at
the joint yesterday . . . askin’ morea the same questions. Had another one with
him . . .” He licked his lips and flicked his eyebrows at Mary nervously.
Sherry nodded again.
“Gave me this.” The man bounced on his toes and pushed the
paper at Sherry like it was contaminated. “Told me to call him when I wanted to
tell him somethin’ . . . somethin’ he could use was how he put it.”
Sherry listened, leaning on the back of his heels and
blinking at the business card. Without trying to, Mary saw it was identical to
the one in her purse—the one Agent Ruggle had made her take at the cemetery.
“Made a big show outa nosin’ all ‘round the place,” the man
continued. “Writin’ down the license numbers . . . made me give’em my
accountant’s name. Hell, he asked if my wife was parta the business, my
kids. All that crap. Told me he’d personally see ‘I come to my senses’ was how
he put it.”
The man thumbed toward the handkerchief pocket where Sherry
had stuck the card. “I don’t need that. I got nothin’ to say. Nobody down
here’s got nothin’ to say.”
The men continued talking with their heads drawn close.
Sherry held one arm across his chest like a priest listening to a penitent,
reassuring the animated man with soft grunts and little nods, pats on his arm.
But Mary saw that his own face had lost a degree of its rose.
Mary stood aside and waited, trying not to invade their
conference.
Almost lost in the clotted shadows of an overgrown park
across the street, the robot smoked a cigarette on a bench that looked out over
the river valley. It was bent at the waist, the nonsmoking arm hugged around
spindly legs pulled up to his chest like a child’s. The funnel and geometric
body components were strewn on the walk in front of him, the coffee can lay
turned on its side under the bench.
She glanced back and in the brief moments Sherry seemed to
have shortened, gotten heavier; he stood slack-faced, shifting and hitching up
his pants over splayed feet as he stood watching the other man walk away. She
regarded Sherry for a long moment and understood he was seeing more: more than the hyper little man; more than the bustling old-world tableau the
little man was walking through. More than her .
Not wanting to make him uncomfortable with her staring, she
turned back to the robot.
Illuminated by a watery shaft of light piercing the milky
dusk, his head looked middle-aged gray and weary, his body frail and frangible.
His eyes glowed as he drew on the cigarette and they lifted to follow the
shining arc carved around the city—the crescent of the crescent city. Below them, the river snaked south under the falling light, slicing the
alluvial plain to the white blur of horizon—and even beyond. The man sat
hunched over the cigarette, the only movement the subtle rise and fall of his
shoulders as he squinted toward the unseen waiting sea. Unseen but waiting ,
certainly. As certainly as tomorrow’s shadow waits behind today’s prescient
shining arc; as certainly as the silver running river proves an ocean waits
beyond perception
She noticed the man watching intently as they crossed to the
sunny side of Decatur, then stride right toward them. He sported a bow tie, the
upper sleeves of his striped shirt were bunched by garters, a small piece of
paper gripped between the thumb and forefinger of one hand.
Sherry saw him too and stopped to wait on the other curb.
“Sherry?” The man raised his hand and cried from a half
block away in a banjo-strung voice. His head was bald on top, the pale oasis
surrounded by a salt and pepper fringe, his eye-brows were pink and jumpy over
round, bulging eyes. He was short with a tense, bandy frame that quavered when
he talked. “Can I get a minute?”
Sherry nodded while the man’s hands chopped air like a band
director.
“That big’un, one with the arm thing. He was back down at
the joint yesterday . . . askin’ morea the same questions. Had another one with
him . . .” He licked his lips and flicked his eyebrows at Mary nervously.
Sherry nodded again.
“Gave me this.” The man bounced on his toes and pushed the
paper at Sherry like it was contaminated. “Told me to call him when I wanted to
tell him somethin’ . . . somethin’ he could use was how he put it.”
Sherry listened, leaning on the back of his heels and
blinking at the business card. Without trying to, Mary saw it was identical to
the one in her purse—the one Agent Ruggle had made her take at the cemetery.
“Made a big show outa nosin’ all ‘round the place,” the man
continued. “Writin’ down the license numbers . . . made me give’em my
accountant’s name. Hell, he asked if my wife was parta the business, my
kids. All that crap. Told me he’d personally see ‘I come to my senses’ was how
he put it.”
The man thumbed toward the handkerchief pocket where Sherry
had stuck the card. “I don’t need that. I got nothin’ to say. Nobody down
here’s got nothin’ to say.”
The men continued talking with their heads drawn close.
Sherry held one arm across his chest like a priest listening to a penitent,
reassuring the animated man with soft grunts and little nods, pats on his arm.
But Mary saw that his own face had lost a degree of its rose.
Mary stood aside and waited, trying not to invade their
conference.
Almost lost in the clotted shadows of an overgrown park
across the street, the robot smoked a cigarette on a bench that looked out over
the river valley. It was bent at the waist, the nonsmoking arm hugged around
spindly legs pulled up to his chest like a child’s. The funnel and geometric
body components were strewn on the walk in front of him, the coffee can lay
turned on its side under the bench.
She glanced back and in the brief moments Sherry seemed to
have shortened, gotten heavier; he stood slack-faced, shifting and hitching up
his pants over splayed feet as he stood watching the other man walk away. She
regarded Sherry for a long moment and understood he was seeing more: more than the hyper little man; more than the bustling old-world tableau the
little man was walking through. More than her .
Not wanting to make him uncomfortable with her staring, she
turned back to the robot.
Illuminated by a watery shaft of light piercing the milky
dusk, his head looked middle-aged gray and weary, his body frail and frangible.
His eyes glowed as he drew on the cigarette and they lifted to follow the
shining arc carved around the city—the crescent of the crescent city. Below them, the river snaked south under the falling light, slicing the
alluvial plain to the white blur of horizon—and even beyond. The man sat
hunched over the cigarette, the only movement the subtle rise and fall of his
shoulders as he squinted toward the unseen waiting sea. Unseen but waiting ,
certainly. As certainly as tomorrow’s shadow waits behind today’s prescient
shining arc; as certainly as the silver running river proves an ocean waits
beyond perception
Similar Books
