Memorial Day: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Novels) Read Online Free PDF Page B

Cool. Did you just make that up?"
    "I doubt it. Anyway, thanks for the caffeine."
    " De nada . Want to grab a bite to eat after the rehearsal?"
    "Sure, let's do it, but give me a couple of hours. See you, kid."
    I walked the maybe quarter-mile stretch up Main Street. I saw Glen Bass, the tall, weathered Sheriff. He was on the upstairs porch of his two-story office, faded boots up on the railing. We exchanged nods. I strolled by as if I'd never seen a body and last night had never happened. It was already hot, and growing hotter by the moment.
    As I passed Margie's Diner, a young woman with short, dark hair peered out through a dusty pane of glass that was spider-webbed with cracks. She used one hand to shade her face as she followed me with her eyes. She pulled the curtains when I stared back.
    The ragged band music from the little park grew louder and climaxed: Sousa honked by elderly amateurs. The band finished rehearsing. I stepped over the narrowest part of the shallow creek that rimmed the park, and out onto the surprisingly green grass. All around me townspeople were picnicking, roughhousing, and enjoying the sunny morning. I strolled around the half-empty, rectangular grounds; the picnic tables with fading paint near small clumps of stubborn trees.
    I saw two cardboard targets pinned to tall bales of hay, large concentric circles with numbers. Someone had placed signs warning people to stay clear of the contest area. Nearby sat a collection of bows; two were large aluminum Caribou Reflex, 46 inches in length. Someone else had a dark crossbow of unfamiliar design, fully camouflaged. The last bow was an Oneida Stealth Eagle four-pounder with one hellacious pull. I stopped to watch.
    The first archer was a big blonde kid who looked like he might have played defensive lineman. He was tall, beefy and handsome in a country-hick way. Two slightly scraggly-looking young groupies gave him rapt attention. One was the thin girl wearing long beads who had walked out of Jerry's motel office.
    The kid took the Oneida and let fly three arrows, tipped blunt for target practice. He scored big.
    "Go Bobby! Go," the girls squealed.
    The next kid, a Latino, had a silly goatee, jet-black hair and eyes. Real macho, empty-faced, probably antisocial. He swept up the crossbow; squinted and stuck out his tongue. Two out, one in. Jerry's friend, the thin, dark-haired girl in blue jeans and beads, called the boy "Mex" and giggled. He blew a raspberry.
    " Oh boy, oh boy !" The last shooter was tall, about my size, lean as a pro wide receiver. He was jumping up and down and screaming obscenities, oblivious to the scowling families nearby. He had dyed blonde hair all spiked up; some body piercing, a gold earring, and a little wisp of dark chin fuzz intended to make him look dangerous. He grabbed the other Caribou bow and three arrows, saw me.
    "You got a problem?"
    I smiled and shook my head. "Nope." I allowed the smile to widen, seem genuine. "No problem, just watching."
    This kid had an extraordinary body, a dim intellect, and something to prove. His eyes made me think of an old Emily Dickinson poem about a man who made her feel 'zero at the bone.' In a blur of motion, the kid loaded the bow and aimed it right between my eyes. My vision slammed into close-up and I couldn't see anything but the wicked, barbed tip of a real hunting arrow. My stomach dropped to China and my heart stopped beating. The crowd of kids immediately fell silent and time slowed, stuttered, and ground to a complete halt. I didn't dare blink.
    "Donny Boy, cool it." The big blonde jock.
    Donny Boy cocked his head and looked at me the way a vulture looks at a dying animal; no animosity or emotion, just hunger. He was breathing rapidly. After a moment I came to my senses and looked away, conceding the turf.
    He chuckled, turned and fired at the target.
    Donny Boy was a hell of a shot, almost as good as Bobby. He put all three in, and the wickedly barbed tips blew the target to