Blood Trail Read Free Page A

muscle to catch the ladder and send it clattering straight backward from the house to the lawn as if it had been shot. And there he was, stranded on the roof of a house he really didn’t even want to live in, much less own.
    The wind went away just as suddenly as it had appeared.
    “Sheridan?”
    No response. She was very likely back in bed.
    “Sheridan? Lucy? Marybeth?” He paused. “Anybody?”
    He thought of stomping on the roof with his boots or dangling a HELP ! message over the eave so Marybeth might see it out the kitchen window. Jumping from the roof to the cottonwood tree in the front yard was a possibility, but the distance was daunting and he visualized missing the branch and thumping into the trunk and tumbling to the ground. Or, he thought sourly, he could just sit up there until the winter snows came and his body was eaten by ravens.
    Instead, he went to work. He had a hammer and a pocketful of nails in the front of his hooded sweatshirt. And a spatula.
    As he secured the loose shingles he could see his next-door neighbor, Ed Nedny, come out of his front door and stand on his porch looking pensive. Nedny was a retired town administrator who now spent his time working on his immaculate lawn, tending his large and productive garden, keeping up his perfectly well-appointed home, and washing, waxing, and servicing his three vehicles—a vintage Chevy pickup, a Jeep Cherokee, and the black Lincoln Town Car that rarely ventured out of the garage. Joe had seen Nedny when he came home the night before applying Armor All to the whitewall tires of the Town Car under a trouble light. Although his neighbor didn’t stare outright at Joe, he was there to observe. To comment. To offer neighborly advice. Nedny wore a watch cap and a heavy sweater, and drew serenely on his pipe, letting a fragrant cloud of smoke waft upward toward Joe on the roof as if he sent it there.
    Joe tapped a nail into a shingle to set it, then drove it home with two hard blows.
    “Hey, Joe,” Ed called.
    “Ed.”
    “Fixing your roof?”
    Joe paused a beat, discarded a sarcastic answer, and said, “Yup.”
    Which gave Ed pause as well, and made him look down at his feet for a few long, contemplative moments. Ed, Joe had discerned, liked to be observed while contemplating. Joe didn’t comply.
    “You know,” Ed said finally, “a fellow can’t actually fix T-Lock shingles. It’s like trying to fix a car radio without taking it out of the dash. It just can’t be done properly.”
    Joe took in a deep breath and waited. He dug another nail out of the pocket of his hooded sweatshirt.
    “Now, I’m not saying you shouldn’t try or that you’re wasting your time. I’m not saying that at all,” Ed said, chuckling in the way a master chuckles at a hapless apprentice, Joe thought. The way his mentor-gone-bad Vern Dunnegan used to chuckle at him years ago.
    “Then what are you saying?” Joe asked.
    “It’s just that you can’t really fix shingles in a little patch and expect them to hold,” Ed said. “The shingles overlap like this.” He held his hands out and placed one on top of the other. “You can’t fix a shingle properly without taking the top one off first. And because they overlap, you need to take the one off that . What I’m saying, Joe, is that with T-Lock shingles you’ve got to lay a whole new set of shingles on top or strip the whole roof and start over so they seat properly. You can’t just fix a section. You’ve got to fix it all. If I was you, I’d call your insurance man and have him come out and look at it. That way, you can get a whole new roof.”
    “What if I don’t want a whole new roof?” Joe asked.
    Ed shrugged affably. “That’s your call, of course. It’s your roof. I’m not trying to make you do anything. But if you look at the other roofs on the block—at my roof—you’ll see we have a certain standard. None of us have patches where you can see a bunch of nail heads. Plus, it might leak. Then