The Detective's Garden Read Online Free PDF

rode with their own thoughts past a bonneted woman hanging clothes on a thin wire. They rode behind two women on bicycles, an ancient tractor, a team of six pale horses. They rode without speaking. They rode without fear. They rode through a countryside that they felt was their own. They rode together as they’d done a hundred times before over a short barren mountaintop, beside a dry round-stoned creek, through a crease of a valley lined with violet crocuses.
    When the boxy sheriff’s car pulled behind them, the spin of tires cast stones into the woods. A siren sounded once in a short strain. Lights flashed. Dominick’s eyes were hard and narrow. He said, “It’s Dallas Pope.” He gunned the Ford and then gently braked. He pulled halfway onto the shoulder and then accelerated back onto the road. The tires squealed. The brakes clutched like the arms of a nervous parent before the truck shot forward again and they skimmed across the county on a road bordered by no houses. Parallel to the road, a line of reddish-gray rock rose up into occasional cliffs. The sun glared down painfully, the sky was a baked late-winter blue, and every one in the Ford F-150 squinted at the squad car behind them.
    “Dad,” Clarke said, “are you going to pull over?”
    Their father failed to answer. His eyes shifted back and forth. His foot rose above the pedals, poised in indecision. Then the truck pulled to a stop on the side of the road. The sheriff’s car angled to a stop just behind.
    “Kids,” their father said. He turned and leaned halfway over the seat toward them. The red and blue lights altered his face. A thin film of moisture veiled his lips. “Kids,” he said, “I need you to trust me.”
    “I do,” King said.
    Clarke’s leg jumped against the floor mat.
    “Listen,” their father said, “I’m headed back to talk to him.”
    “What about?” Clarke asked.
    “I need you to listen to me,” their father said. “Especially you, Clarke. Right now I need you to do what I ask. You stay right here.”
    “Okay,” King said.
    “And you close your eyes.”
    Clarke and King looked at one another. Clarke shivered and the tremor brought the far-back memory of his father shak ing him gently awake in the dark. Clarke had sat up in his bed and the quilt pooled around his waist and the air was night cold. His father, rucksack over his shoulder and fishing pole curved in his hand, told him to get up, to put some pants on. Clarke trusted his father. He reached over the side of the bed toward the pile of clothes on the floor. Like always, he did as he was told. Where had they gone? A pool deep in the woods where trout seemed to jump onto their lines.
    In the cab of the truck, Clarke swept the goose bumps on his forearm with a hand. He looked at King again. The decision he had to make felt bigger than he, out of his control. There was no way he was going to do as his father asked. Not this time. Not with the lights of the sheriff’s car flashing behind.
    His sister nodded and put her hands over her eyes. When his father opened the door, Clarke refused to close his eyes but he looked straight at the road in front of them and didn’t glance toward the wing mirror. Wouldn’t it be okay, this one last time, to choose to be a child?
    With their eyes turned away, their ears opened to receding bootsteps. A muffled voice. The honeybee that circled the truck round and round. A low voice followed by a period of quiet. The knocking of a woodpecker against a hollow tree. A whis per and a thud and a metallic scrape. A lull. A grating sound. Heavy thumps as things were tossed into the truck bed. The bounce of the shocks. The crinkle and pop of unfolding plastic. The whisper of their father’s hand on the handle of the door. The concussive closure. The engine choking into a semblance of life. Wheels spinning against earth.
    They drove for less than ten minutes before Clarke broke. He felt split wide open with the twinned impulses to question