South Village (Ash McKenna) Read Online Free PDF Page B

rope bridges to make sure everything is sound.
    Once I get it twisted back up to where it’s supposed to be, twice the thickness of my thumb, I run my finger across the face of the break.
    Half of it is ripped and torn and jagged.
    The other half is smooth and uniform.
    Like it’d been cut halfway with a sharp knife.
    Just enough that maybe it’d break if someone walked across the bridge.

T ibo looks at the rope and frowns. “Man, I don’t know. I have a hard time believing someone here would do something like that.”
    I drop the rope to the ground and pull the apron off, stuff it in the belt of my shorts. The sun is slicing through the canopy and it’s so damn hot, the air thick and wet. I know the sheriff is coming and it’s probably not polite to be shirtless, but at least I’m wearing pants.
    “I think it’s at least worth mentioning to them,” I tell Tibo.
    “Disagree.”
    “Why?”
    “Foremost, you are not a rope expert,” he says, dropping into a crouch and picking it up again. “Smart money is it broke, which dovetails off my second reason, which is, do you really think anyone here is capable of murder? That’s not really the vibe.”
    “Charles Manson was a hippie,” I tell him.
    “Ha, ha.”
    “And look, Pete wasn’t beaten to death. There was no struggle. Anyone can cut a rope. It’s impersonal, so nobody had to get up close. It’s not like this took special skill or temperament.”
    “Right. But I don’t think the rope was cut.”
    “So maybe we ought to let somebody with a forensics background look at it,” I tell him.
    “I have never known you to trust authority figures,” Tibo says, genuinely surprised.
    “Yeah, well, I used to think there was shit I could handle myself, and it turns out I can’t. Maybe it’s best to leave to professionals.”
    “I’m sorry, Ash. I really believe this was an accident. I don’t mean to be unkind, but I’ve known you a long time now. You have a habit for building narratives. Getting too wrapped up in wanting to fight dragons.”
    Cheap shot, but true.
    Tibo was center-stage when Chell got killed and I tore through New York like a wrecking ball, trying to find the person who did it. By the end I was convinced it was an elaborate conspiracy, but the reality was far more benign: It was a random act of violence. A drop in an overflowing bucket. One I needed to weigh down with meaning because the only way I could process my grief was to be selfish about it, and make it all about me.
    “We can tell them your theory,” Tibo says. “But it’s going to turn into a whole thing. South Village will be crawling with investigators. Guests are going to leave. They don’t come here for that. We’re just laying down our roots and that’ll be a big blow. This place will get a rep. Not a good one. Are you really going to do that to me?”
    I start to say something, stop.
    “I don’t mean to be callous, but I just want you to be sure,” Tibo says. He looks up and over my shoulder. “And decide quick, because they’re here.”
    They come crunching through the underbrush, in khaki uniforms, buttoned-up and tucked-in, both of them with deep pools of sweat soaking their armpits. Sheriff Ford and Assistant Sheriff Corey.
    Ford is a tree stump of a man, in both shape and complexion. His skin is tanned and ridged, age showing through everywhere but his eyes. He’s in his 50s at least, maybe up in his 60s and he just eats well. His face is set in a perpetual frown. I’ve seen him around, but have never spoken to him.
    Corey is the kind of handsome people wish for. Like he rolls out of bed with his bit of stubble and his hair all mussed, ready to break hearts. I imagine he played football for the local high school, got used to the attention, couldn’t go pro, decided to take a job where people would continue to listen to what he told them.
    Tibo is right. I have an incredible distrust for authority, related to the numerous times in my life I’ve gotten