Coldwater Revenge by James Ross (best e reader for android .txt) 📕

lefties: and some people are mixed dominant—you know, throw righty and bat lefty. But if you establish a baseline by asking them for an obvious memory that they have no reason to make up, like the prom tuxedo question, then you can figure out what their signals are.”

“Forget Dad. We’re lucky Mom never knew this.”

“Amen.”

“So what did Sharp let slip? And how did you keep track?”

Tom moved some dishes and rested his hands on the table. “When you showed him that photo of Billy, Sharp made a big show about peering at it closely and then looking up and away, as if he was really trying to search his memory. But when he did it, his eyes went up and to the right. When you asked him if Susan had a sibling, they went the same way—up and to the right. But when you asked him where U-Labs was, his eyes went the opposite way—up and to the left. That doesn’t mean he was telling the truth when he said Montreal, but it does mean that he was searching an actual memory.”

“But he told us about Billy. He brought it up.”

“Eventually. I think one of the questions spooked him into thinking you were going to find out anyway.”

“And why would he lie about knowing if Susan had any brothers or sisters?”

“I don’t know. But it was after he didn’t recognize Billy’s photo when you showed it to him the first time, and before your questions jogged his memory.”

“Sounds like mumbo-jumbo.”

“It’s not what lawyers call admissible evidence. But if I ask you now whether Susan took her clothes off again when you gave her the anti-date rape idea, are you going to look me in the eye?”

Joe didn’t answer. He didn’t seem to be listening. His mouth hung open and beads of sweat oozed from the pores of his face. His breath came shallow and rapid.

“Hey,brother, are you okay?” Stupid question.

Joe tried to stand, but his legs buckled and he fell backward into the booth, anointing the linoleum with undigested meat loaf special.

CHAPTER 15

Joe kept heaving long after there was nothing left to expel. Tom gave him water but it didn’t stay down.

“Sheriff’s drunk!” Howls of derisive laughter erupted from the punks in the corner booth. Joe didn’t seem to hear. The waitress hovered briefly and then disappeared. The four gray heads in the booth near the bathrooms exchanged hushed whispers.

Tom lifted Joe onto a clean stool and propped him there while he fumbled with the keypad on his cell phone. Joe’s hand gripped Tom’s shoulder, and his head snapped forward retching foul air.

“Drunk as shit!”

Sliding from the stool, Joe fell to the floor and lay there breathing hard and fast. Tom dialed 911. As soon as the line opened he started talking. “Trudy’s Diner Route 6. We need an ambulance. The Coldwater Sheriff collapsed here a few minutes ago… vomiting. Can’t catch his breath… Yes, he conscious, but he can’t talk… Right. What? How soon?” Tom closed the phone and squatted next to his brother. “There’s an ambulance on the way, Joe. The waitress called already.”

Joe didn’t look up or respond. The skin on the back of his neck was a slick, clammy and white. His breath between heaves came like a collapsed sprinter’s.

Tom put a hand on the back of Joe’s suddenly soaking shirt. He didn’t look up. The hooters kept their distance, but not their tongues. “Sheriff’s shitfaced!”

The paramedics arrived before Tom’s teeth ground to stubs. They lifted a padded cart up the steps of the diner and parked it next to the cash register. One put a paper mask over his mouth and latex gloves on his hands. He took Joe’s wrist and pulse while the other asked questions.

“Has this man consumed any alcohol?

“No,” said Tom. “Nothing.”

“What did he eat?”

Tom pointed to the floor. “Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, string beans, Diet Pepsi. Same thing I did.”

From the end of the diner came a taunting duet. “He’s drunk!”

Joe opened his mouth and sucked in rapid, shallow breaths.

“He said he was feeling something in the car before we got here.”

“When did he start vomiting?”

“About ten minutes ago. He hasn’t spoken since. I don’t think he can.”

The paramedic kneeling beside Joe took a metal cylinder from his backpack, cut open a sealed bag containing a plastic mask and tube, connected the tube to the cylinder and put the mask over Joe’s face. Joe clamped a hand over the plastic and lifted his head. His breathing began to slow. Then he yanked it away, bent over and heaved air.

“Let’s load him,” said the paramedic who had given Joe the mask. He and the other paramedic scooped Joe under the arms and eased him onto the cart, then pushed and pulled, one at each end, through the door, down the steps and into the back of the ambulance. The one who had asked all the questions got behind the wheel while Tom and the other climbed in the back with Joe. The siren echoed in the closed space while the vehicle sped down the road.

Tom watched the paramedic unload boxes and bags from a cabinet on the metal wall beside the door, strap a blood pressure cuff on Joe’s arm and shine a penlight into his pupils which were now the size of dimes. Pressing a button on the plastic box strapped to his shoulder, the paramedic began to speak crisply. “Vomiting, hyperventilation.” He looked at the dial on the blood pressure cuff. “75 over 40”.

The box cackled. The paramedic took a baggie containing a pair of wires with jacks and buds at either end and plugged them into the radio. He put one in his ear and let the other dangle at his throat. The cackling stopped. “Does he have any food allergies?”

“I don’t think so,” said Tom.

“Would you know?”

“He’s my brother.”

The paramedic lifted the wire at his throat and repeated Tom’s answer into the bud. “Was he in any industrial facility today? Near any noxious