The Edge of Justice Read Online Free PDF Page A

in the middle of a giant broken boulder with a hand and foot smeared against the opposite sides, I feel like an eagle soaring far above the earth, gazing down on the granite, aspens, and pines before me, owning the whole place. My brother must feel something like this when the needle slams home.
    Ten minutes later I find Oso in the growing dark, but the girl is gone. I look around for her as the heavy dog pushes his shoulder against my thigh and licks the blood from my fingers. I bend and rub the beast's chest, watching to see if she'll reappear. The only sound is the hum of the wind through the trees and me murmuring to Oso about what a good old fellow he is. I pull a sweatshirt over my head. I sit for a few minutes and drink half a quart of water, then slowly pour the rest for him while he slurps at the trickle. It's only then that I notice the woven necklace of alpine daisies entwined in Oso's collar. I'm surprised he would let a stranger that close.
       
    Headlights, taillights, and neon signs reflect off my windshield as I move my truck with the evening traffic on Grand Avenue. Oso has his huge head out the passenger window, drooling again down the door and drawing smiles from the other drivers. The white petals from the flowers on his collar are blowing off in the wind and swirling around the truck's interior like victory-parade confetti.
    Brightly flashing blue and red lights slow the traffic. Like the other drivers, I twist in my seat to see what's going on. A massive uniformed man who could only be Jefferson Jones is yelling orders to other deputies as they wave the traffic past. Curious, I pull in behind two patrol cars and get out, telling the dog to stay. I walk up to one of the uniformed officers, who immediately challenges me.
    “Get back in your car and keep moving, sir,” he snaps at me.
    I ignore him as Jones approaches.
    “You sure came back to Laramie on an exciting day, QuickDraw—I mean Anton,” Jones says, rolling his dark eyes at my sensitivity to the nickname and waving at the uniform to let me across the invisible crime scene line.
    “What's going on?”
    “Just a little more freakiness. Icing on the cake, the way things have been going around here lately. Take a look for yourself—we've got a drunk Klansman in a tree.”
    I look down the residential street in the direction Jones points and see he's telling the truth. A few houses away there is a white-robed figure perched high up in a skinny oak that shades someone's front yard. It's an old man, with wisps of white hair streaming in the wind. The spotlights from more police cars illuminate him as if he's an acrobat about to perform a trick. Below him are three uniformed deputies yelling for him to get his ass down from there. A police dog, a lean German shepherd, stands on hind legs with its front paws planted on the trunk, growling upward.
    “You're not kidding” is all I can say.
    “C'mon, my man, check it out.” Jones leads me down to the action. As we walk, Jones asks, “Where you been lately?”
    “Up in Cody. My assignment in this end of the state didn't make me too popular around here.”
    “Lord, I know. Read about it. Still reading about it.” The big man shakes his head and laughs. “You sure showed 'em that you DCI guys can shoot, though.”
    I ignore his comment, saying, “There's a hearing for summary judgment next week. My lawyer's hopeful it'll settle then.”
    When the hoodless Klansman spots Jones's approach, he begins to shout, “You get the fuck out of here, nigger! Go back to Africa, you big spade!” Then calmer, to the officers below, “I ain't coming down till the nigger's gone.”
    Jones chuckles and holds up his hands toward the tree in a gesture of surrender and begins to back off. He says to me, gesturing at my freshly torn hands, “Looks like you're still doing that Spiderman shit—why don't you go up and get him for us?”
    Before I can respond there's a loud crack. We both jerk our heads up at the