Breacher (Tom Keeler Book 2) by Jack Lively (reading well TXT) 📕

like the distant past. A long way off, in more ways than one. Made me glad that I hadn’t stopped at the third bite.

Ellie’s place was northeast of town, about a mile off the paved road. Not far from the fire tower.

The pickup truck bounced over the trail until a large cabin came into view around a turn. It was an old house, built in another century, from wood and stone. The tenons and mortice joins were roughhewn but precise, put together by experienced and knowledgeable hands. The house was set facing south, with a rise on the southwestern side. It backed into the woodland that I figured stretched up all the way to the fire tower.

When we came inside, Ellie made me take off my boots at the door. She showed me to the bathroom, tossed me a towel and shut me in. I was left with my dirty self, and there was nothing to do but clean up. I removed the few items in my pants pockets. My wallet, and the handcuffs and key I had ended up with at the prison. I laid all that up on a shelf above the sink. Then I removed the various layers of textile that had once been clothing. The t-shirt peeled off painfully, in three pieces. The shower was very hot, the water pressure strong.

Ellie had a large collection of bathroom products lined up on the tiled shelf inside the shower. The products came in many colors and odors, mostly in tubes and bottles. Like magic potions. I tried all of them, one after the other. Some had mysterious functions that escaped me, like skin exfoliator, and body butter. There were various shapes and sizes of ocean sponge. This all happened through a thick mist of steam. After the wet part, the towel was dry and absorbent. I figured that’s what a five star spa experience must be like.

Ellie knocked at exactly the right moment, when I was wondering what to do next. I put the towel around my waist and opened the door. She carried a pile of clothing, neatly folded, one on top of the other. Jeans, button-down plaid shirt, socks, underwear. She said, “It’s all clean. Bob’s stuff. He won’t mind if you take it.”

I said, “I hope not. Wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of Bob.”

She said, “Wrong, Bob’s a pussy cat. It’s his mom you have to worry about.”

Ellie held out a black garbage bag. I looked at it, then at her. Then I understood. I said, “The old stuff?”

Ellie nodded and closed the door. I saw a pair of electric beard clippers on the shelf above the sink. I figured Ellie’s son Bob wouldn’t mind. It was time the beard came off.

I came out of the bathroom a new man. Clean shaven, wearing clean clothes. Felt pretty good. But I was a hungry man. Luckily Ellie had made the correct decision regarding the bagels. Better off going for bagels in the real New York City than in a Port Morris cafe. She was in the kitchen making an omelette. Coffee was hot and black in a pot on the counter.

It was as if the shattered world had suddenly repaired itself.

I told Ellie everything, starting from the beginning, holding almost nothing back. She didn’t interrupt my telling of it, except to nod and grunt. Once in a while she got up to refill her cup, or my cup. The coffee was black and perfectly measured. Ellie had a police radio on the counter, tuned in at a low volume. Once in a while there was a squawk. She had made toast, and bacon to go with the eggs, butter and strawberry jam to go with the toast. When I was done talking, I sat back in the chair.

She said, “You want seconds?”

I said, “Does a bear shit in the woods?”

Ellie took my plate. While she was replenishing it, I could see her thinking, head down, knitted eyebrows. She set the plate in front of me again. Then she poured more coffee. She sat down across from me and started to ask questions.

“Two groups. One looking for the missing boy, the other trying to prevent them from doing so.”

I grunted through a bite of toast, affirmative.

She said, “The girl, Chapman. Any idea where she is now?”

I shook my head, negative.

“So, the missing boy. George. Looks like he is the hinge. Whatever he got involved with. And, as far as you know, there are no demands. It is not a kidnapping.”

I gulped down a mouthful of fresh and hot coffee. “Kid’s missing. Mom comes looking for him, gets pushed around, then winds up killed along with the guys she came with.”

Ellie said, “Pretty extreme response, if you ask me.”

I said, “These people are not playing around.”

She said, “The boy is supposed to be here in Port Morris. He’s a fisherman, or a tour guide or something?”

I said, “From what Chapman and Abrams told me, George is a scientist. Some kind of fancy physics. I had a look at his papers, up in the Edna Bay Apartments. The term non-linear acoustics kept on coming back. I guess that’s a field of research, although I have no idea what it is.”

Ellie said, “Hold on.” She picked up her phone and started tapping into it. I watched her get the results, a split second later. Her mouth opened in an oh shape as she read. Tough reading, the lips were moving slowly, hesitantly getting around difficult-to-pronounce words. Then she tapped a few more times and put the phone down. She said, “Something to do with sound, maybe the kind of sounds that don’t travel in a straight line. But it sure looks a hell of a lot more complicated than that.”

I said, “No doubt. The question is what was George the young physicist doing in Port Morris, Alaska?”

Ellie said, “Yes. That’s the interesting part. Now you remember what I told you up on the fire tower, about the