Prolonged Exposure Read Online Free PDF Page B

property, not the Apodacas’.” I sighed and straightened up. “I could deed them a few dozen square feet, and we could put an old iron fence around this, and it’d be just fine.”
    Camille hooked her arm through mine and bumped my shoulder with her head. “That’s sweet,” she said. She pointed off to the west where an orange tag fluttered from one of the tree limbs. A metal stake was driven into the ground below it, with another tag, this one blue and white. “Except for the utilities,” she added.
    I grimaced. “I suppose.” I turned and looked off to the east, searching for another tag. “It wouldn’t kill ’em to put a little bend in the line, though.”
    “You think they’d do that?”
    “Probably not.” I shrugged. “The village attorney will make a fuss. And the housing-development lawyer will fuss.”
    “Let ’em fuss,” Camille said, frowning. She bent so that she could see through the bushes to the house across the street. “How could he think this was his property, though?” Camille asked.
    “Easy enough. He’s lived across the way for a long time. That neighborhood was there before the interstate went through on the property behind them. Even the street here—Escondido Lane—was just a dirt two-track as recently as 1972, when we moved here.
    “And Apodaca lived in that old house long before that. He stepped off his front porch, and what’s he see? This property over here, just across the dirt lane. It was never developed, and then he got old and confused like the rest of us, and he just decided that the property was probably his.” I shrugged.
    “Who the hell knows. Maybe at one time, he actually did own the lot. Maybe he’s forgotten that he sold it off. I don’t much care, and when I bought this place in 1971, I didn’t bother to do a title search beyond what the real estate deal required.”
    Camille looked sad. “And now I suppose the village is going to want her moved?”
    “I don’t know that,” I said. “I really don’t know what the law is for burials. It’s not something that the department deals with every day.” The cool, damp air was beginning to seep through my jacket and I shivered. “Let’s walk back on the road.” As we strolled along the broken macadam of Escondido, I kept looking toward the south. In only one spot was the vegetation thin enough that I could see, a hundred yards or more away, the dark hulk of my house.
    Camille stifled a yawn, and it was contagious. I realized I was more tired than I cared to admit.
    “Well, we’ve toured a trashed house and waded through the jungles to tour a grave site. Those are the highlights of current Posadas County attractions,” I said. Camille laughed, but I got the impression that she probably agreed. “Mind if I take a few minutes and stop by the office?”
    I felt her arm tighten in mine. “As a matter of fact, I do mind,” she said. “You promised. And what I want to do most is go home and have a nice long, hot bath. I’ve been stuffed in a supersonic tin can, chauffeured on the interstate by a kid who thinks he’s the next Unser, sorted dusty old books, and hiked through the mud.” She managed a grin. “I’m tired and hungry, and that means you’re ten times that. Let the office wait, Dad.”
    I shrugged. “I was just eager to find out from Estelle what’s going on.” That sounded about as flimsy as excuses come, and Camille waved it aside.
    “She’s probably still up on the mountain, and when she comes down, she’ll be more wet and cold than we are. She’ll call when she gets a chance.”
    I knew that, but patience wasn’t one of my virtues. Still, Camille was tougher than I was, and I had promised. I reached over and patted her hand just as we walked into my driveway. “Commercial jets aren’t supersonic, by the way,” I said. “And you mentioned hunger. How’s the Don Juan de Oñate sound after we get cleaned up?”
    “Sounds fine,” Camille said without hesitation, and