The Clinch Knot Read Online Free PDF Page B

yesterday.
    “We are treating it as a murder, followed by a suicide attempt,” Chubbuck said. The sheriff said Sneed will be arraigned today.
(continued)
    The dead woman, 22-year-old Jesse Winifred Ringer, was a former Livingston High School Homecoming Queen and Forest Service smokejumper who had been dating Sneed while the pair worked as guide-shuttle drivers in the Paradise Valley. An acquaintance discovered the body of Ringer and subsequently pulled Sneed from his vehicle in a state of severe carbon monoxide poisoning.
    Ringer is survived by her father, former bull rider and Livingston fishing guide Galen Ringer, who in 2003 was convicted of murdering a fellow guide on the Yellowstone River and currently awaits appeal of his death penalty sentence.
    Chubbuck told reporters in a press conference Sunday that Sneed apparently shot Ringer after a domestic dispute. Finding no more ammunition in the pistol, Sneed then sealed himself inside the vehicle and used a small charcoal grill to attempt suicide, Chubbuck said.
    A spokesperson for the Livingston Memorial Hospital would not confirm reports that Sneed was in critical condition as hospital officials seek to contact next-of-kin.
    Death penalty advocates in Helena, where Montana’s capital punishment law is under legislative review, called for Sneed’s trial and execution.
    Meanwhile, in Livingston, residents mourned the death of a popular and spirited young woman who overcame a troubled life to …
     

Can Pronghorn Jump?
     
    “Dog?”
    My tax guy back in Boston, Harvey Digman, croaked his surprise into my ear.
    “Is it really you?”
    In my state of blinding anguish, the old man’s question confused me. Was it really me? I fumbled some non-answer down at the cruddy floor tiles.
    “Dog? Where are you?”
    I looked up and around. I was in the back hallway of a mini-mart or some such location, between the doors to the toilets. I could not remember getting there, but booze and grief will take you to places like this—and beyond.
    “Yeah, Harv. It’s me.”
    “You sound like hell, buddy.” Harvey turned down the volume on what was very likely a vintage Jane Fonda jazzercise tape. “Tell me you’re finally coming home.”
    I lurched out to the end of the phone cord. “Dane Tucker,” I blurted. These words turned the head of a shape-free young woman scooting into the toilet on snapping yellow flip-flops. She gave me a pinpoint glance—
What about Dane Tucker?
—before she let the door swing.
    “Can you—” I lowered my voice “—Harvey, can you do me a big favor? Can you look up Dane Tucker on the internet?”
    “What? You call me for the first time in a year and want me to Google a guy?”
    I was thinking in pictures: Harvey Digman was at that moment sending a hurt look across the exercise mat to his personal trainer, some lovely Stephanie. With death upon me, with death squatting in my heart and lungs and gut, I was reminded that Harvey Digman planned to live forever.
    “You mean the actor?
Force Factor?
That poor man’s Chuck Norris? What for?”
    I plugged quarters. Toilets flushed and towels hanked out. The phone was oily, slick as a chub in my palm. I tried to center on some statement I was sure about.
    “I’m in Montana, Harv.”
    He sighed. “Well, gee, Dog. That explains everything.”
    “The guy has a ranch here in the Paradise Valley.”
    “A ranch. Well, then of course. The man must be Googled.”
    But instead of keyboard tappings, I heard the telltale sound of a file drawer running out and slamming the end of its track. That was all me in there, file after file, a long and complicated mess.
    “I know I’m broke, Harvey. I’m not calling for money. Just Google the guy.”
    “You’re more than broke. Last month Miss Mary Jane sued for your half of the condo at Cape Cod. You lost.”
    “I’ve already spent my equity.”
    “I know you have. I cooked that book already. I can’t do this for you anymore, Dog. Come home. Get a job.