Death Claims Read Online Free PDF Page B

juice, you'll never get cancer." 
    Dave tasted it and wondered how much would be enough. "Very good," he said. "Thanks. Why did you keep going back? Why did you stop after Peter Oats stopped? Why did he leave home about that time and not tell anyone — anyone living — where he was going?" 
    Cochran shrugged. "You're asking the wrong man." 
    Dave gave him a cold smile. "Not about why you kept going back to the play." 
    "I'm planning a feature on the life of Saint Paul. People said Whittington's a genius. You know, he was very big on Broadway, but when they started doing nothing but junk on Broadway he left. He made a couple films. Quit for the same reason. He's got integrity. I don't want some Hollywood hack. Those people are all corrupt. The director I hire's got to have brains and taste." 
    "And reverence?" Dave said. 
    "My team and I will supply that." Cochran swallowed more juice. "Anyway, I heard about Whittington and I went to size him up for myself. He was as good as they say, but I wasn't about to make a snap decision. This will take a couple million dollars, this picture, most of it my own. I'm walking around it a lot." 
    "Did you ask him? Will he do it?" 
    "I asked him," Cochran said. "He won't." 
    "He doesn't like the mass media," Dave said. 
    Cochran nodded. "Rather starve in that backwater, doing what he wants, what he thinks is important. Man can't help but admire that." 
    "He looks as if he gets enough to eat," Dave said. 
    "He's draining all his savings into that place," Cochran said. "My manager made inquiries. The city cut his budget this year. It wasn't but a few thousand to start with. Now it's nickels and dimes." He breathed a short laugh. "Know why he sent you here? Nuisance value. I gave him a check and he didn't like that. Oh, he kept it, but he hated me for being able to give it." 
    Dave said, "And you don't know what happened to Peter Oats?" 
    "Kids take things hard. Maybe after I turned him down he decided acting was no use. Maybe he was ashamed of failing and that's why he ran off. Didn't want to hear 'I told you so' from his folks. Lots of parents discourage their kids from acting. I thank the blessed Lord every day for giving me the mother He did." Again Cochran looked past Dave. Again Dave turned. 
    The double doors with the frond pattern stood wide. The whitehaired woman sat there in her wheelchair, the evangelist standing behind her. "Can't you quit and get in here now?" The way she turned her face toward where he wasn't told Dave she was blind. But she had a voice to holler up field hands against a prairie wind. "The Reverend will think I never taught you manners." 
    "Be right there." Cochran got up from the chaise. "Sorry I can't help. I expect when he gets over his bruises he'll turn up. You hang on to that money for him." 
    Dave rose. "It may not be payable." 
    Cochran blinked. "What's that mean?" 
    Dave told him what it meant. "No." Cochran scowled. 
    "No, you don't know him. He couldn't. Why, he's as gentle as — " 
    "With twenty thousand dollars," Dave said, "he might not need a lot of help with his career." He held out his hand and Cochran shook it. Reflexively, still scowling, troubled. Dave told him, "Your girl Katy has my telephone number. Let me know if he should happen to get in touch with you." 
    "Sure." Cochran was unsmiling. "But he won't." 
    Dave scratched the setter's ears again on the porch. A horseman rode in at the yard gate. The same rider he'd seen on the ridge. Slight. Dark. But when he neared, he turned out to be forty, the skin on his bony face brown and creased as old harness. Not Peter Oats.

5
    O VALS OF LEATHER patched the elbows of Charles Norwood's jacket. It was rugged Scots tweed and had been expensive some time ago. Soft gray fuzz sprouted on the back of his neck above a shirt collar that was frayed. A hinge screw of his glasses had been replaced by a snipped-off pin or paperclip. But his mustache was neatly trimmed, his shave was