13 Hangmen Read Online Free PDF Page B

twenty-five pounds that never got lost.
“Just pass me the salad bowl,” Tony sighed to Angey.
    â€œThat’s not what I meant!” Julia said, flushing. “I meant: Not until you clear off what’s already on your plate.”
    Oh. The presents.
    â€œBetter get busy,” Michael said, squeezing Tony’s shoulder. “Mine’s on top.”
    Tony unwrapped a small flat box. Two tickets for the Boston History Mystery Tour. Tony and his dad had seen the commercial for it a million times while watching their favorite cable program over a bowl of breakfast cereal. It was sort of like the Freedom Trail, except a trolley with a real detective guide drove you around to sites of the city’s most famous unsolved mysteries: Whose bones were actually under the Mother Goose tombstone in the Granary Burying Ground? Did Paul Revere really ring a handbell to wake the countryside during his Midnight Ride? Did they catch the Boston Strangler—who murdered something like thirteen people—or did they blame it on some random and totally innocent guy?
    â€œAwesome, Dad, thanks,” Tony said.
    â€œYou and me, tomorrow. Right after breakfast,” Michael said.
    Tony could hardly categorize his dad’s behavior as suspicious. He was just acting like goofy old Michael: wolfing a slice of veggie-the-works pizza while serving the twins pepperoni-extra-cheese; teasing Angey that he needed a haircut more than Mikey, even though the twins looked exactly the same and had gone to the barbershop together; kissing Julia’s forehead and complimenting her on how fast she had whipped the dining room into festive shape.
    â€œMy present next,” Julia said. “It’s the blue one.”
    Tony opened it. A cell phone. He had sort of been expecting it—the twins had both gotten theirs when they had turned thirteen—but this one was a much cooler flip model. He reached over and gave Julia a big hug.
    â€œSorry about the pizza thing,” she whispered. “I didn’t think.”
    â€œThat’s way too much phone for him,” Mikey groused. “He doesn’t even have anybody to call.”
    Which was when, coincidentally, the wall phone started to ring.
    â€œThe account must still be in Zio Angelo’s name,” Michael said, reaching up to answer it. He frowned. He covered the receiver with his hand. “Won’t be a minute,” he said. He stretched the cord into the hallway and shut the door.
    OK, so that’s a little suspicious
.
    â€œOpen ours,” Angey said.
    Tony unwrapped the last gift on his plate. A new Red Sox cap. A supercool one, in fact, with a flat hip-hop brim. It must have set them back a few allowances.
    â€œWe bought it at Quincy Market after we ditched you,” Mikey said. “So you wouldn’t embarrass us by wearing that moldy old piece of crap Zio Angelo sent you.” (To be fair, neither he nor Angey knew yet that it had probably belonged to Ted Williams; Michael’s plan had been to wait and have it appraised in Boston by a real Red Sox expert before he got everyone’s hopes up.)
    â€œDo you like it?” Angey asked. Strangely, it sounded like he really wanted to know.
    First time for everything.
    Michael stepped back into the room. He hung up the phone. “Ready for a slice?” he asked Tony.
    Tony nodded. He promised himself he’d eat only one. Then he really would have salad. Michael handed him a slice of pepperoni. Tony took three huge bites. He set the rest down on his plate, slightly alarmed that it was already half gone. He frowned. He couldn’t get that crazy old fart next door out of his mind. “Who called?” he said.
    â€œNobody,” Michael said. “Just the cable guy.”
    â€œWhy did you step out of the room if it was only the cable guy?” Tony said.
    â€œTerrible echo,” Michael said. “Probably need to replace that phone.”
    â€œIs it