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

He had to dump Billy fast and get out of there before you put a spotlight on him.”

Joe lifted his head and smiled weakly. “It’s a theory. You got a bit of the old man in you after all.”

The compliment didn’t make Tom happy. “It would be nice if it happened that way. Clean anyway.”

“But?”

“There’re some pieces that don’t fit, Joe.” Fatigue lay across Tom’s shoulders like a weighted net, but his voice was firm.

“Lots of them, brother. Which ones jump out at you?”

“A dog that doesn’t bark, a boat that makes it through Wilson Cove running without lights and a bird leg.”

“I’m listening.” His voice firmed, too.

Tom held up his bandaged hands. “I got maybe two inches into Frankie Heller’s junkyard last night before Cerberus took a chunk out of my shorts. But you went down there and had a forty-five minute powwow with Frankie while I sat in your truck maybe fifty yards away. And I didn’t hear one bark.”

“Dogs like me.”

“You were out in Wilson Cove in the patrol boat. But whoever dumped Billy’s body got out of there ahead of you running without lights.” He paused for breath. “When I used to know Wilson Cove like my way to the bathroom, I put a whacking great hole in Dr. Pearce’s Chris Craft one night running without lights. Only I was only going about two miles an hour. Maybe someone who knows Wilson Cove better than I did could make a midnight run through that rock garden without lights and without hitting anything. But not at speed. Not running from a police boat.”

“Keep going.”

“A couple of days ago, I walked in on Susan when she wasn’t expecting me. She’s got this pet cockatoo that doesn’t like people getting near her. Before she could call it off, it carved a couple of chunks out of my scalp and the top of my arms where I put them over my head. Billy had one of those birds, too. They go bat-shit on anyone who even comes close to their owner.” Tom took a plastic bag from his pocket and threw it on his brother’s desk. Inside was the severed bird’s foot he’d found in the Pearce boathouse. “I’m pretty sure the one that was attached to this attacked whoever tried to get Billy out of the boathouse the night he was killed. Only whoever it was fought it off with something that sliced off its leg.”

Joe looked silently at his brother.

“I figure there’s probably enough stuff under these claws to figure out who that was.”

Joe said nothing for a long moment while he stared thoughtfully at his brother. “Got a suspect?”

It was Tom’s turn to pause. When he spoke, his voice was weary, but firm. “When you picked me up from the airport the morning after Billy was killed, you told me those cuts on your head and arms came from some thorn bushes around a dope patch you’d been pulling up.”

“That’s right.”

“But they look an awful lot like the ones I got from Susan’s bird…” He displayed the cuts on his forearms and gestured at his wounded scalp. “I don’t think anyone could have made it across Wilson Cove running without lights. But a police boat out chasing poachers could be running full-out, all lit up and nobody would give it a second thought.”

“Motive?”

“Super Trooper. This is your turf and Billy Pearce was a reckless low-life, doing something you had to stop. But quietly and in your own way.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Why wouldn’t I just arrest him?”

“I don’t know that either.”

“But you have a theory.”

Tom nodded. “You inherited Dad’s job. Maybe you inherited his sources of income as well. I don’t know. I never wanted to ask.”

“What sources?”

Tom glared at his brother. “Your little cabin in the woods is a castle, Joe. Your truck cost more than I paid for law school. You live large, just like he did. And the numbers don’t square with the salary of a small town cop.”

Brother glared at brother.

“So you think I knew something about Billy, but I couldn’t arrest him because I was taking money from him and Frankie?”

“It can add up like that.”

* * *

Tom tried to steer with one bandaged hand and dial with the other, thankful that no ditch awaited his graceless swerve to the shoulder of the road. Waiting for his breath to slow, he loosened the gauze on his hands and then tried the number again.

“Doctor Dyer.”

“Tom Morgan. I gave my brother your number. Has he called yet?”

“No. Where is he?”

“In his office in the basement of Town Hall. He said the state troopers are on their way and want him to stay there. He’ll go back to the hospital as soon as they’re through with him.”

“I’ll send someone to make sure he does.”

“That would be prudent.”

“I still need your information on that fellow whose autopsy I read.”

“Give me an hour. Where can I meet you?”

“I have a team gathering to examine the deceased’s last residence. Do you know where that is?”

“I’ll meet you there.”

Tom cradled the phone between ear and shoulder while he opened the book on the car seat and took out the folded letter. Then he dialed the number scribbled on the back.

“Couvent St. Gabriel.”

“Père Gauss, s’il vous plait.”

The click was instantaneous and followed by a dial tone. That was rude, Sister. He squeezed the steering wheel. I’ve got a serious problem in ethics here, Father. Père Gauss could really help a poor sinner, if he’d get out from behind sister’s skirts.

Tom pulled the car back onto the road and drove slowly toward a place he did not wish to go.

* * *

Mary tried to rise from the couch but had to settle for extending one arm and clutching her chest with the other. “What happened to you?”

“Frankie Heller’s dog.”

“Tommy, Tommy. I thought your brother had that family under control.”

“He does now.” Tom tried to keep his voice steady and his throat open.

“What happened?” Tom’s eyes began to fog. Pain, fatigue and