The Dead Don't Dance Read Online Free PDF Page A

the porch, “I was sitting with Maggs when this suit from the hospital poked his pointy head through the door and asked me how I intend to pay my bills. He started to say something about how expensive it was to keep Maggie there. So I did what any husband would have done. I turned around and clocked the pointy-headed son of a—”
    Amos held up his hands. “I get the picture.”
    â€œI dragged him out in the hall, and Maggie’s nurses started looking him over. But to be honest, they didn’t seem real eager to start tending to him.” I glanced at the cut on the knuckle of my right hand. It was still puffy and stiff, so I guessed I had hit him pretty hard. “I don’t remember too much after that.”
    Amos carried me a few more steps to the house. Without looking at me, he said, “An executive from the hospital named Jason Thentwhistle, with two loose teeth, a broken nose, new pair of glasses, and one very black and swollen eye, came to the station to file a complaint against one Dylan Styles. Said he wanted to press charges.”
    Amos kept his eyes aimed on the back door, but a smile cracked his face. “I told him that I was really sorry to hear about his altercation, but without a witness we really couldn’t do anything.” He turned and held me up by my shoulders. “D.S., you can’t go around hitting the very people who are taking care of your wife.”
    â€œBut Amos, he wasn’t taking care of my wife. He was being an—”
    Amos held up his hand again. “You gonna let me finish?”
    â€œI should have hit him harder. I was trying to break his jaw.”
    â€œI didn’t hear that.” Amos wrapped his arm tight about my waist, and we took a few more steps.
    I stopped Amos and tried to look him in the eyes. “Amos, is Maggs okay?”
    Amos shook his head side to side. “No real change. Physically, she seems to be healing. No more bleeding.”
    â€œI’d drive myself, but I might have to push my truck to the station, so can you please just take me there without a bunch of conversation?” I asked again.
    Amos dug his shoulder further under mine, dragged me closer to the back porch, and said, “After your interview.” He grunted and hoisted me up onto the steps.
    â€œInterview?” I sat down on the back steps and scratched my head. “What interview?”
    Catching his breath, Amos wiped his brow, straightened his shirt, gave his gun belt another two-handed law enforcement lift, and said, “Mr. Winter. Digger Junior College. If you can survive the interview, you’ll be teaching English 202: Research and Writing.”
    It took a minute, but the word teaching finally registered. “Amos, what are you talking about? Speak English.”
    â€œI am speaking English, Dr. Styles. And in about two hours, you’ll be speaking it with Mr. Winter about the class you’re going to teach.” He smiled and took off his sunglasses.
    Amos only calls me doctor on rare occasions. I finished my doctorate a few years back, but because I quit teaching after graduate school, few knew it, and fewer still called me by the title. Although I was proud of my accomplishment, I had little reason to make sure everybody knew about it. My corn didn’t care what kind of education I’d had. It sure didn’t help me drive that tractor any straighter.
    â€œOne thing at a time,” I said, shaking my head. “Will you or will you not take me to see my wife?”
    â€œD.S., have you been listening to me?” Amos raised his eyebrows and looked at me. “Dr. Dylan Styles Jr. is soon to be an adjunct professor at Digger Junior College, teaching English 202: Research and Writing. And”—Amos looked at his watch—“Mr. Winter is expecting you in his office in an hour and fifty-seven minutes.”
    He unfolded a slip of paper from his shirt pocket and handed it to me.