Deadfall Read Free Page B

the fall climes in northern Canada. A twisting chain of black gems hung around his neck, and another necklace made, it seemed, of old rotting teeth. A big watch clung to his wrist like a pet beetle. Resting against the watch and rising three inches up his arm was an assortment of bracelets, some metal, some thread, braided and knotted. More bracelets adorned his other wrist, stopping before they reached a colorful Oriental dragon tattooed on the underside of his forearm. His hair, the brownish color of spruce bark, appeared coifed into an intentionally messy tangle. A faint golden shadow hued his cheeks, chin, and upper lip.To Tom, he could have been one of those grunge models he’d seen in magazine ads: fashionable, edgy, not quite groomed to perfection.
    This guy said lightning? Tom thought. He had detected ozone, but the sky was cloudless. No way lightning. He straightened.
    â€œWhat do you know about this?”
    The man shrugged. “Where are the wieners and marshmallows when you need them?”
    Someone laughed.
    â€œYou were in the Hummer?” Tom’s head inclined toward the big SUV. His pistol’s grip felt solid under his palm. He considered freeing it from its holster, despite these visitors’ lack of threatening gestures. Tom was even more disturbed by their nonchalance. But equanimity was no reason to draw a weapon.
    The man turned his head to look at the Hummer, as if there were so many of the expensive vehicles in town, he wanted to make sure.
    â€œYeah,” he said slowly, “that’s ours.”
    â€œLet me see some ID.”
    The man reached behind him.Tom tensed. The hand reappeared holding a money clip. The man slipped a driver’s license from the folded bills and handed it to Tom.
    â€œDeclan,”Tom read, giving the name a sharp e .
    The girl snickered. “Deck-lan,” she corrected.
    â€œDeclan Gabriel Page.”Tom eyed him. “Seattle?”
    â€œThe Emerald City,” Declan agreed.
    Tom returned the license. He scanned the scattered visitors, then gestured to them. “All of you come on over here. If you came into town with Declan, step over, please.”
    No one moved.
    â€œCome on now!”
    Tom’s eyes moved to Declan’s. They were flat, emotionless.
    Declan’s smirk bent up slightly. Keeping his gaze on Tom, he called out, “Come say hi to the nice sheriff, boys!”
    They shuffled closer.
    Declan extended his hand to Tom. “I didn’t catch your name.”
    Tom gave a curt nod. “Constable Fuller, RCMP.” He added, “Royal Canadian Mounted Police.”
    â€œAhhh,” Declan said. “A Mountie.” He turned to the girl. “See, I told you we’d run into them up here.”
    The cameraman—still filming—and the black man stepped beside Declan. A teenage boy he hadn’t seen earlier appeared behind the girl. His thick dark hair fell to midear, curling up at the ends. Gold loops pieced an earlobe and the left side of his bottom lip. A gold rod, bent into a rectangle at the top like a sardine-can key, harpooned his right eyebrow.
    Tom wanted to know everything at once.What were their names? Why were they in town? What did they have to do with Roland’s car exploding, with Roland’s death? He wanted to tell the fat kid to get the camera out of his face. But because everything at once was a bit beyond his pay grade, and because he was already looking at the teenager, he asked, “Shouldn’t you be in school?”
    â€œWe’re tutored,” the boy said. “We have flexible schedules.”
    The girl giggled, and Tom wondered how deep this weirdness was going to get. He took in the gathering of visitors. Missing one: that other boy, the youngest of the bunch.
    â€œWhere’s—”
    â€œTom!” someone yelled— screamed —to his left. It was Old Man Nelson, who’d named the mercantile after his daughter. He stood in the