Here Be Monsters (Tyler Cunningham) Read Online Free PDF Page A

potentially jumping into harm's way by herself without waiting for me, was interfering with the normal functioning of my thought-process. I found it slightly interesting and very scary, as I do most new things in my life.
    When I investigate things, I don't do what police do, because the police are good at what they do, have more men and time and equipment than I do, and are trained to think and act in a logical and straightforward manner that solves the vast majority of crimes that are going to be solved quickly and efficiently. If Cynthia could be found through those means, then the police would do it; so I had to find other means. In other investigations that generally means reading everything that I can find on the matter and/or pushing on everyone even remotely involved, and watching for reactions or mistakes that lead me to a next stage, and eventually to the subject of my investigation. I needed to think about how to proceed with Cynthia as the object of my investigation, mindful of the ever-present possibility that I was wrong, and that she was at her Aunt Mo's funeral, and would be angry and hurt by my intrusion both into her house and into her affairs.
    I lay down on the couch that often serves as my bed, balancing the half-empty coke can on my forehead, and focusing on keeping it balanced to avoid a sticky mess until the conflicting opinions/feelings/worries about Cynthia quieted down a bit ( thus hopefully avoiding another kind of sticky mess ); then I moved it to the floor and went to sleep for a bit.
    I woke up nearly four hours later. I keep trying to program a clock in my head, as some characters in books I've read seem able to do. Admittedly, my brain seems as though it should be well-suited to this sort of thing, but no luck so far, so I try to come up with interesting facts about my nap lengths. I splashed my face and thought about 233 minutes of sleep... not only is it a prime number, but it's also the 13th number in the Fibonacci sequence... and a sexy prime. I was determined to try and sleep 239 minutes after getting some work done ( I don't sleep for more than two to four hours at a time, unless I'm sick ). The face-bath and numerical nerdery had me awake enough to face Frank for our informal meeting at his son's football practice. ( I've never been to an actual informal meeting that needed to identify itself as such, so I had my doubts about this one ). I grabbed a coke from the coke-fridge and a handful of jerky from the cupboard on my way out.
     

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Frank, still 9/4/2012
     
    I walked over to the football field outside of Petrova Middle School. I would have been able to pick Frank out of the crowd even if I didn't know him, he was wearing his uniform. The juxtaposition of the informal setting and official costume balanced the tenor of our meeting with a reminder ( implicit threat ) about the way the meeting could go if everyone ( me ) wasn't smart. Frank Gibson is a police officer working for the Saranac Lake Police Department, and we've been playing a careful game of cat and bigger cat since I arrived in the Adirondacks. He probably could have been chief by now, if he was more interested in doing the correct thing ( as opposed to the right thing ) and less interested in knowing the answers to questions he shouldn't ask. I was willing to bet a fridge full of coke that today's meeting was going to be all about Sadie and Jacob and the car fire unless I could derail him with something he would find more interesting.
    “A state trooper, friend of mine, saw you driving a few under the speed limit on Route 56, a bit south of Potsdam, early this morning.” Frank's opener set the tone a bit... no question as such, so I did my quiet thing. “Coming back from a birthday party?” he added, to give my comfortable silence a nudge towards worry.
    “I had to give a friend's kid a ride home.” I replied, hoping that a half-truth was better, in this case, than a full-on