Mad Dog and Englishman: A Mad Dog & Englishman Mystery #1 (Mad Dog & Englishman Series)

Mad Dog and Englishman: A Mad Dog & Englishman Mystery #1 (Mad Dog & Englishman Series) Read Free

Book: Mad Dog and Englishman: A Mad Dog & Englishman Mystery #1 (Mad Dog & Englishman Series) Read Free
Author: J M Hayes
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fountain, like the plaque, had vanished. Old valves have a way of seeping, and the lush state of the grasses, saplings, and weeds made that end of the park Eden-like in comparison to any part of Benteen County not adjacent to the North Fork of the Kansaw or one of its tributaries, or land which was regularly irrigated. And then there were the evergreens that must have been imported from some especially desolate climate, since they were surviving quite nicely in fitful clusters throughout the park, their spacing ideal as a windbreak for winter storms behind which massive drifts of snow could build to block the street at the south side of the square.
    ***
     
    Peter Simms normally skirted the park and its hazards unless he was in a hurry. Fantasies of moving several large fans from the church auditorium back into his small office and testing their potential to turn the sweat that was already drenching him into the evaporative cooling system nature designed prompted him to the direct approach. Oblivious to the seeds and burrs that began attaching themselves to his pants legs, he entered the park on what had once been the north promenade. There was a path of sorts that led toward his church.
    He heard the jogger before he’d gone more than a few steps. There weren’t many joggers in Buffalo Springs, and fewer, to the best of his knowledge, who chose such an early hour to test the treacherous footing of Veteran’s Memorial Park. Reverend Simms peered curiously behind him. The runner was following the same route he’d chosen so he stepped aside to avoid blocking the narrow track.
    It was very dark among the saplings and evergreens. The moon did little more than turn some distant clouds opalescent around the edges and the heavy atmosphere blocked out all but the most determined starlight. Street lights didn’t help much. The county had given up replacing the bulbs that were regularly shot out by customers leaving The Bisonte Bar or The Road House after exchanging bets about their respective marksmanship with the rifles that hung in the window racks of their pickups. County revenues were off—so were most of the lights.
    The jogger was a trim figure moving with an easy rhythm that Simms envied. As the runner approached, the Reverend tried to guess who it could be.
    “Good morning,” he said. The jogger just reached out, slapped Simms lightly on the cheek, and disappeared into a thick copse of trees.
    “One,” a voice whispered from where the jogger had gone.
    Peter Simms was taken aback. “Who is that?” he demanded of the darkness, ready to join the joke that was being played on him as soon as he understood it.
    Just a little afraid, he stepped back out on the path and peeked around the trees. A hand flashed out of nowhere and slapped him lightly on the other cheek.
    “Two,” the soft voice said.
    “Two what?” Simms inquired in a voice a couple of ranges higher and tighter than normal. No answer. No sound.
    Peter Simms decided to leave the park, get back out in the open where his tormenter would be more visible, where it was just possible the sheriff or one of his deputies might drive by on some mysterious nightly errand. Back on the street, logic and reason might again prevail, and, if not, there were houses nearby where he could seek help.
    He only managed a couple of steps before the night runner passed him again, this time swatting him hard on the seat of his trousers.
    “That’s three,” the jogger said.
    “What are you doing?” Simms asked, his voice leaking hysteria.
    To his surprise, this time he got an answer. “Counting.”
    The sound seemed to come from somewhere behind Simms even though the darkly clad figure had just disappeared into the shadows ahead.
    “Counting what?” Simms voice was a little more under control this time, now that the joke was apparently moving to its climax.
    “Counting coup,” came the reply, just over his shoulder. He turned and saw something flash out of the night and

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