Dark Debts Read Online Free PDF

obviously worshiped Will. Will Landry was not comfortable with anyone’s affection, and made it a point to punish those who bestowed it.
    It suddenly dawned on Jack why he was thinking about them. He’d had that dream again. It had been worse than usual, in some way he couldn’t remember. It would come back to him, though. The bad stuff always did.
    The phone rang. It had to be Rick, the guy who owned the temp company through which Jack usually worked. Rick was the only person who had this number; the only reason Jack owned a phone (let alone an answering machine) was to find out whatever he needed to know about his next job. The machine picked up. He cringed at the sound of his own voice, as always, and waited for Rick’s.
    â€œYeah . . . Jack . . . This guy called here looking for you . . . I told him I’d check with you and call him back. He sounded kinda . . . official . . .”
    Jack picked up the receiver.
    â€œI don’t care if he sounded like the president, Rick! How many times do we have to have this conversation?”
    â€œWell, he said it was important.”
    â€œWhat do you think he’s going to say? ‘This is an asshole reporter’?”
    â€œI just thought . . . I mean, do reporters still call you?”
    Jack sighed. No use explaining to Rick why that wasn’t the point. “This year is the tenth anniversary,” he said with forced patience. “Reporters love crap like that.”
    â€œOh. God. Sorry. I didn’t think of that.”
    â€œWell, start thinking. And don’t give anyone my phone number. Anyone. Ever. No exceptions.”
    Rick apologized again and hung up.
    Jack wrenched himself out of bed. The day was off to a lovely start.
    He headed for the bathroom, hoping there was a bottle of aspirin in the medicine cabinet. He should keep a record, he supposed. Did he always wake up with a headache after the dream? If the headaches got any worse, he’d have to go back to the pain clinic in Atlanta, and they’d ask him about things like that.
    There were two aspirin left in the bottle. He swallowed them without water. He closed the cabinet and glanced at his face in the mirror. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all. Felt like it, too. At least he didn’t have to be anywhere early. The job he’d been working had finished yesterday, and he didn’t start a new one until Monday. He might pick up something for today if he went and stood in front of the Western Auto with all the other day-labor candidates. He didn’t have to worry about getting there early. The black and Hispanic guys might sit out there for hours, but the minute a white guy showed up—even him—half the town would remember odd jobs that couldn’t wait. Blond hair was all the résumé he needed.
    He really didn’t care whether he worked today or not. It had been a good month, and it wasn’t like he needed to save for anything. Maybe he’d go down to the coffee shop. Maybe a decent breakfast and half a pot of black coffee would be enough of a bribe for his headache. Besides, the thought of being around other people was not as repulsive to him this morning as it usually was.
    Half an hour later he was dressed and headed down Route 36, hands in his pockets, his work boots crunching the loose gravel on the side of the road. The early-morning sky was a dull gray, and the fine mist that was falling felt good on his face. If it turned into a steady rain, he’d have a guilt-free excuse for not working.
    â€œMen in the Rain.” A poem Ethan had written when they were in school. Something about walking along beneath John Deere hats . . . dirt disturbed . . . a final destination . . . Their mother had taped it to the door of the refrigerator. (Lucy had always gone out of her way to encourage their artistic pursuits. Anything to keep them inside,