Countdown City: The Last Policeman Book II (Last Policeman Trilogy) Read Online Free PDF

already. I study the pages of my notebook. How the heck am I going to get ahold of a plastic samurai sword?
    Ruth-Ann, ancient and gray headed and sturdy, stops by to clear our dishes and slide ashtrays under the cigars, and everybody nods thanks. Besides the oatmeal and the cheese, the main refreshment she can offer is tea, because its chief ingredient is water, which for now is still coming out of the taps. Estimates vary on how long the public water supply will last now that the electricity is down for good. It depends on how much is in the reserve tanks; it depends on whether the Department of Energy has prioritized our city generators over other sections of the Northeast—it depends, it depends, it depends …
    “Hey, so, Palace,” says Culverson all of sudden, with practiced nonchalance, like something just occurred to him. My spine stiffens with irritation—I know what he’s going to ask. “Any word on your sister?”
    “Nope.”
    “Nothing?”
    “Nope.”
    He’s asked before. He keeps asking.
    “You haven’t heard from her?”
    “Not a thing.”
    McGully chimes in: “You’re not gonna try and find her?”
    “Nope,” I say. “I’m not.”
    They look at each other:
Such a shame
. I change the subject.
    “Let me ask you guys a question. How many miles would you say it is from here to Suncook?”
    Culverson tilts his head. “I don’t know. Six?”
    “Nah,” says McGully. “Eight. And change.” He blows out a thick cluster of smoke, which I fan away with the flat of my hand. The ceiling fan used to carry away some of the smoke, but now the fan is stilled and the thick gray cloud hangs low over the booth.
    “Why?” says Culverson.
    “A man I’m looking for, he was supposed to bike down to Suncook and pick up some chairs.”
    “On a bike? With a trailer?”
    “What man are you looking for?” says McGully.
    “A missing person.”
    “Bike them back from Suncook?” says Culverson. “What is he, a bull elephant?”
    “Wait. Hold on.” McGully cocks his head at me, his cigar burning in the V of two fingers. “A missing person? You working on a case, detective?”
    I give it to them briefly: my old babysitter, her runaway husband, the pizza restaurant by the Steeplegate Mall.
    “Guy’s a trooper?” says Culverson.
    “Was. He quit to work at the pizza place.”
    Culverson makes a face. McGully interrupts: “What’s this chick paying you? To find her runaway man?”
    “I said, she’s an old friend.”
    “That’s not a kind of money.”
    Culverson chuckles absently. I can tell he’s turning over the other thing, the trooper-turns-pizza-man element. McGully’s not done: “You told this chick it’s useless, right?”
    “I told her it’s a long shot.”
    “A
long shot
?” McGully, animated, thumping the table with a closed fist. “That’s one way to put it. You know what you should tell her, Ichabod Crane? You should tell her that her man is gone. He’s dead or he’s in a whorehouse or he’s smoking crack in New Orleans or Belize or some goddamn place. And that if he left her, it’s ’cause he wanted to, and the smart thing to do is to forget all about him. Pull up a chair and get ready to watch the sun go down.”
    “Sure,” I say. “Yeah.”
    I turn away from the conversation, look down at my hands, at the redacted menus. Dirty yellow sunbeams glow through the murk of the window glass, spreading across the tabletop like wavering prison bars. When I look back, McGully is shaking his head. “Listen, you like this chick? Then don’t give her false hope. Don’t waste her time. Don’t waste yours.”
    Now I look to Culverson, who smiles mildly, tapping his forehead with his fingertips. “Hey, I ever tell you guys that my next-door neighbor is Sergeant Thunder?” he says.
    “What?” says McGully.
    “The weatherman?” I say.
    “Channel Four at six and ten. My own personal celebrity.” Culverson starts patting his jacket pockets, looking for something.Culverson