Hornet's Nest Read Online Free PDF Page B

do you live way the hell in Davidson?” she asked.
    “I went to school there.”
    “I guess you must be smart.”
    “I get by,” he told her.
    The gleaming Crown Victoria turned onto Main Street, which was what its name suggested in this charming college town. Homes were genteel, white frame and brick, with ivy and sprawling porches and swings. West had grown up outside of Charlotte, too, but heading in a different direction, where there wasn’t much but red clay and fathomless farmland. She couldn’t have afforded to go to a college like Davidson and doubted her SATs would have impressed anybody in a positive way. Brazil’s college was sort of like Princeton and other places West had only read about.
    “While we’re on the subject,” she said, “I don’t remember any police stories by you.”
    “This is my first day on the beat.”
    She couldn’t suppress her growing dismay over what she had been saddled with this night. A dog barked and began chasing her car. Suddenly, it was raining hard.
    “So what’d you do for a year?” she investigated further.
    “The TV magazine,” Brazil added to his resume. “A lot of overtime, a lot of stories nobody wanted.” He pointed, releasing his shoulder harness. “It’s that one.”
    “You don’t take your seatbelt off until I’ve stopped the car. Rule number one.” West pulled into a rutted, unpaved driveway.
    “Why are you making me change clothes? I have a right . . .” Brazil finally spoke his mind.
    “People wearing what you got on get killed out here,” West cut him off. “Rule number two. You don’t have a right. Not with me. I don’t want anyone thinking you’re a cop. I don’t want anyone thinking you’re my partner. I don’t want to be doing this, got it?”
    Brazil’s house hadn’t been painted in too long to tell the color. Maybe it had been pale yellow once, maybe eggshell or white. Mostly now it was gray and flaking and peeling, like a sad old woman with a skin condition. An ancient,rusting white Cadillac was parked in the drive, and West decided that whoever lived here didn’t have taste, money, or time for repairs and yard work. Brazil angrily pushed open the car door, gathering his belongings as he got out, and halfway tempted to tell this deputy chief to get the hell out of here and not come back. But his BMW was still in Charlotte, so that might pose a problem. He bent over, peering inside at her.
    “My dad was a cop.” He slammed the door shut.
     
    West was typical brass, typical anybody who had power, Brazil fumed as he strode up the walk. She didn’t give a shit about helping somebody else get started. Women could be the worst, as if they didn’t want anybody else to do well because no one was nice to them when they were coming along, or maybe so they could pay everybody back, persecute innocent guys who’d never even met them, whatever. Brazil imagined West at the net, a perfect lob waiting for his lethal overhead smash. He could ace her, too.
    He unlocked the front door of the house he had lived in all his life. Inside, he unbuttoned his uniform shirt and looked around, suddenly conscious of a dim, depressing living room of cheap furniture and stained wall-to-wall carpet. Dirty ashtrays and dishes were wherever somebody had forgotten them last, and gospel music swelled as George Beverly Shea scratched How Great Thou Art for the millionth time. Brazil went to the old hi-fi and impatiently switched it off.
    “Mom?” he called out.
    He began tidying up, following a mess into a slovenly old kitchen where milk, V8 juice, and cottage cheese had been left out by someone who had made no effort to clean up or hide the empty fifth of Bowman’s cheap vodka on top of the trash. Brazil picked up dishes and soaked them in hot sudsy water. Frustrated, he yanked out his shirttail and unbuckled his belt. He looked down at his name tag, shiny and bright. He fingered the whistle on its chain. For an instant, his eyes were filled with