Ditch Rider Read Online Free PDF Page B

you.”
    â€œThank you,” she whispered.
    â€œHow many times did you pull the trigger?”
    â€œOnly once. It was an accident, like I said. I wasn’t trying to kill nobody.”
    â€œWhere did the bullet hit Juan?”
    â€œIn the heart.” She put her hands to her chest to show me the spot.
    â€œWhat kind of gun was it?”
    â€œA thirty-eight.”
    â€œWhere’d you get it?”
    â€œI can’t tell you that.”
    â€œWait here a minute.” I went and got my own Ladysmith thirty-eight, which—at the moment—was residing unloaded in my bedside table. I checked to be sure—no bullets—and handed the gun to Cheyanne. “Show me how it happened,” I said.
    She stared at the gun as if it were a centipede, curled, angry and ready to bite.
    â€œShow me,” I insisted.
    â€œDo I have to?”
    â€œYes.”
    She pointed the gun at the wall, closed her eyes and pulled the trigger with a click. Her tiny hand had trouble reaching around the handle even though this gun had been designed for women. She proved she could fire it once, although she might have had trouble firing it again in rapid succession.
    â€œWhat did you do after you fired the gun?”
    â€œI ran home and threw it in the ditch.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œBetween here and there.” She stared wistfully at my blank computer screen. “I don’t think my mom’s gonna make me go to school today. Would you mind if I played with Digital Schoolhouse or got on the Internet for a while?”
    â€œNot now,” I said. “I have to go to work. Tell your mother I’ll call her this afternoon.”
    â€œYou can’t. She disconnected the phone. She said too many boys were calling.”
    â€œThen tell her I’ll stop by after work. You stay home all day with your mother and you keep the door locked. All right?”
    â€œAll right.”
    I walked her to the door and watched until her mother opened the door and let her into the trailer. When I crossed the courtyard again I spotted Sonia’s butt on the bricks. I picked it up, took it inside and dropped it in the trash.

5
    O N MY WAY downtown I took a detour to the District Attorney’s office to visit my old friend and occasional adversary, Deputy DA Anthony Saia. He still had his creased, rumpled Sunday-morning-in-bed look, although his hair had turned Saturday-night slick. He had the kind of hair that reacted to every change in humidity and wind—before he started spraying it. He hadn’t sprayed his desk, however, and that was still a mess. Having a computer hadn’t prevented him from accumulating a pile of papers that was six inches thick and in constant motion. If he sneezed, a document would fall off. His walls were cluttered with diplomas and photos of himself at various stages of his legal career. Rowing a boat at Yale, smiling with President Clinton when the Pres came to town, eating Chinese with Raymond Ko at the Ko Palace. But the most prominent spot on the wall was occupied by a mirror tipped so that Saia could see into it without getting up from his desk.
    â€œHey, Neil,” he said. “How’s it going?”
    â€œPretty good. New hairdo?” I asked.
    He ran his hand over his helmet-smooth head. “Oh, yeah. I haven’t seen you for a while, have I?”
    â€œNope.” There was only one reason I could think of for Anthony Saia to change his look. “New woman?”
    He grinned. “That, too.”
    â€œAnybody I know?”
    â€œHer name is Jennifer Spaulding. She’s a clerk for Judge Raymond Stone.”
    â€œA law clerk?”
    â€œYeah. She works out with a personal trainer. Great abs.”
    â€œI see a few more gray ones, Anthony.” It was a lie, but a Deputy DA ought to know a lie when he hears one.
    â€œWhere?” he said, turning toward the mirror.
    â€œJust kidding.”
    â€œHa, ha. So what’s