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

invaders with sticks and stones through endless summer afternoons… until the day Joe laid open an invader’s head with a well-aimed rock and they were forbidden to play there again. For a few years they obeyed. But in time, each had apparently made the same discovery—that a soft blanket on warm grass behind a concealing stone, with a panoramic view of the town and lake, was an ideal spot for a post-game picnic and hormone-fueled frolic.

He located the old fort without difficulty. The plants in the drawing were there in front of the long rock, their slightly increased height giving approximate date to the drawing and what it implied. He opened the Newcomb Guide and compared the plants in front of the rock to the ones in the marked pages. With the digital camera he’d liberated from the glove compartment of Joe’s truck, he took a dozen shots. Then gathering books, drawing, camera and thoughts, he drove fast and grim to Coldwater Hospital.

CHAPTER 25

Mary sat in the plastic visitor’s chair by the side of Joe’s hospital bed. A single metal crutch lay on the floor by her side. “Your brother’s not well,” she warned. “No more of this Billy Pearce business.”

Joe looked away and said nothing.

“There’s a guy at the end of the hall talking into his wristwatch,” said Tom. “He’s here to see Joe about ‘this Billy Pearce business,’ too. Little brother would be smart to try out his story here, and get it straight before he has to sell it to the pros.”

Joe struggled against the grip of the pillows. He pulled in shallow breaths and blew out words on the exhale. “Mom. Tommy and I… need to talk. Maybe you could go… to the cafeteria. Get something to eat.”

Mary gestured at the crutch on the floor. “And how am I supposed to do that?”

Joe sank back into the pillows and half-closed his eyes. “I suppose you’d better go ahead, brother.”

Tom handed Joe the Newcomb Guide to Wild Flowers opened to a Post It noted page. He gestured at the laptop on the table beside the hospital bed. “Mind if I borrow that?”

Joe nodded.

Removing a cable from a side pocket of the camera case, Tom connected the digital camera to the laptop and screened a close-up image of a large, green plant. “If you look at the screen and at the picture in that book, I think you’ll agree that they’re pictures of the same plant.”

Joe shrugged.

Tom pointed to the text below the photo. “Read the description.”

“‘Matricaria parthenoides… Also known as Feverfew… Many branched… with finely furrowed stems… Daisy-like flowers… borne in tight flat clusters. ’ Okay?”

“Flip to the next Post-It.” Tom ordered.

“‘Sceletium…tortuosum. Also known…as Kanna. ’”

Tom screened another close-up. “Read the description and compare the illustration in the book to the plant in this photo.”

Joe did as he was told, pausing every few words to catch his breath. “Pretty scrawny specimen,” he wheezed.

“Turn to the last page.”

“‘Hypericium. ’” Joe went through the drill one more time and after finishing snapped the book shut. “Okay… I give up. What’s this…supposed to mean?”

“All three plants produce serotonin uptake inhibitors. The stuff you said Susan claimed to be working on at NeuroGene… and the stuff in those plants you pulled up and had analyzed in that lab report you gave me to read on our way to see Willow’s partner in New York.”

Joe pressed his lips together and nodded slowly. “Okay. I remember.”

“They’re not native to this area. And they don’t grow together naturally.”

Joe’s eyes narrowed. “Where’d you find them?”

Tom screened a landscape photo of the group of plants spread out in front of a large rock. When Joe remained silent, Tom prodded. “Remember Bobby Ambler?”

Joe turned his face to the window.

Mary looked from one son to the other. “That was the little boy you two hooligans attacked with rocks! His poor mother was hysterical. The father threatened to sue us.”

“That’s right.” Tom turned to his brother. “I found them in front of our old fort, Joe.”

Joe fixed his gaze on something beyond the window. “What made you go there?”

Tom handed his mother the pen and ink drawing that he had taken from Susan Pearce’s bedroom. “Can you hand this to my brother, please?”

Puzzled, Mary looked at the drawing and then warily passed it to her younger son.

“Where’d you get this?”

“Susan Pearce’s bedroom.”

“Oh dear,” said Mary.

Joe shook his head, appearing more frustrated than guilty. Tom took back the drawing. “You told me you ran into Susan out planting on Watermelon Hill.”

“That’s right.”

“This drawing is in her hand. The rock in it’s on the other side of town from Watermelon Hill, and that’s your hat on the corner of the blanket sticking out from behind the rock.”

“What did you expect me to tell you?”

“The truth.”

“Tommy!” pleaded his mother.

“Joe’s whisper was a feeble growl. “You’re a… masochist. So I… showed a girl… a good time?”

“Joey!” Mary bleated.

Tom pointed to the rock formation at the center of the drawing. “So that’s our old fort, isn’t it?”

“I said yes.”

“And that little garden in front of the rock would be Susan’s?”

“Go on.”

“Wouldn’t it?”

“I said… go on.”

“It’s not yours, is it?”

Joe shook his head.

“And given where it is and what’s in it, it’s not likely to be anyone else’s is it?”

“Tommy, quit acting like a lawyer and make your point,” Mary snapped.

Tom gestured at the drawing and the landscape image still screening on the laptop. “There’s another plant in front of the others, taller and wider.” He took the Taylor’s Master Guide to Gardening and handed it to his mother. “Take a look at the tabbed page, Mom, and tell me if the plant on the screen here is the same as the one in the book.”

Though there was little doubt the plants were identical, Mary would only allow, “I suppose they could be.”

“And would you read the description, please?”

“‘Abrus precatorius,’” she recited obediently. “‘Also known as Rosary pea. ’” She looked up from the page. “The church used to sell