Bone Rattle by Marc Cameron (best ereader for pdf .TXT) 📕

She was thinking about her novel, which was to say that she was thinking about her failures. It would be a compelling dumpster fire of a book to be sure. Every journalist she’d ever met wanted to write a book, but most seemed to struggle to find something to write about. Lori was sure the tragic soap opera that was her own miserable life would make for a New York Times bestseller. It was the nature of human beings to want to stand and watch other people’s misery – and her sad sack of a life could certainly provide readers with plenty of that. The trouble was, other than her journal, she’d never written anything longer than the copy for a radio story. In the end, she thought she might be able to fictionalize the journal – not make it more sensational. Oh, hell no. She’d have to tone it down from reality. No one would believe that one life could be so raw.

Joseph dribbled his soccer ball a few yards ahead, pitting himself against the periodic rock that stuck up from the gravel. Every now and then, he stooped to study some interesting tidbit on the beach, often popping them in his mouth. Like her, he was a person of the water. He’d been able to identify limpets, oyster grass, and the tiny holes in the sand from the digging foot of the razor clam by the time he was four. When the tide was out, the table was set, and despite her many shortcomings as a mother, Lori had worked very hard to pass on the knowledge of her ancestors. She’d fed Joseph from the water since he was old enough to chew. His father had been grossed out the first time Lori pried a little hat-shaped limpet shell off a rock, dug out the sweet flesh inside, and fed it to their son. But he’d come around – like he always did.

Joseph was remarkable at soccer, but his oversize gumboots wreaked havoc on his aim.

Lori apologized to a crazy-eyed lady when he sent the ball flying her way, and had just settled back into her novel-writing stupor when she heard Joseph yelp. Apparently, the woman decided she wasn’t done with her screaming fit.

Lori shielded Joseph with her hip and stammered out another apology. It went against her nature to grovel, but there were three women, each easily half again her size, and she had her own child to think about. It was a soccer ball for crying out loud. People kicked them. But this woman had the scrunched-up face of a person who was looking for something to be pissed about. The two cows sitting beside her and the meth-head-looking dudes who’d come over from the picnic table all looked too twitchy for her to say what she was really thinking. Sometimes it was better to bite your tongue and offer the verbal equivalent of rolling over and showing your belly.

The crazy-eyed lady continued to curse over the top of Lori’s apology. She picked up the soccer ball with two beefy hands, grunting at the effort of bending at the waist, and then threw it as far as she could into the ocean. She didn’t have much of an arm, but the water got deep enough fast.

The men from the table egged the big woman on, taunting Lori with jibes because she was Indian. It was bizarre behavior, out of place in Juneau even for a couple of meth-heads. The men edged closer, crowding within a few feet of Lori, goading the other woman not to “put up with her Native shit.”

And then a very large blond man came running down the beach, directly toward them, growling like an enraged bear.

Startled by this stranger’s sudden appearance, Lori assumed he would stop a dozen yards out. She recognized him from court, one of the deputy marshals. He was obviously the chivalrous sort, and having seen the others gang up on her, he would now try to deescalate.

But he kept coming, on a collision course with the two men.

The marshal appeared to home in on the largest of the men, who at six-two was about the same size. He slowed to a walk a dozen yards out but didn’t stop advancing.

“Get behind me,” he said. Not the least bit out of breath, his voice was as calm as if he’d just walked up to ask the time.

The larger of the two meth-heads took the man’s slowing for a stutter in his resolve. “You’re kinda outnumbered here. This bitch disrespected our friend and—”

“I saw what happened,” the marshal said. “You all need to step back.”

The big woman in short shorts scoffed. “Or what?”

The marshal motioned to Lori. “How about you go wait with my friend by the fire?”

The tall meth-head took a tentative step forward, looking like he might shove the marshal in the chest. He was sorely mistaken. He believed they were still in the dance-like, posturing stage of a conflict, but the marshal wasn’t the sort to dance. The marshal established his dominance with a straight jab to the tip of the tall aggressor’s nose, hitting the staggering man twice more in the face before he slumped to his knees.

Meth-head number two bowed his head and rushed forward, bellowing something nonsensical, and earned himself a knee to the face, which laid him out flat in the gravel.

One of the women had started to take a video with her phone.

The wide woman who’d started it all bent to help the taller meth-head to his feet. “Get up and kick his ass, Gino—”

A Polynesian woman with her T-shirt rolled above her muscular arms trotted up and stood beside the blond man.

“Police,” the Polynesian woman said. “US Marshals. Recommend you stay down, Gino.” She strode toward the gaggle of women who were crowding in around Lori again. Like her blond friend, this Polynesian marshal plowed ahead, flat handing two of the big women when they came at her. Her raw power