The Family Plot Read Online Free PDF Page A

alongside her. Gabe looked bored. She said, “All you need to know about Bobby is this: good work, completed on time, zero bitching. Pick two.”
    â€œGotcha.”
    Her cell phone rang, vibrating beside the gearshift with a tinny rattle. It was Gabe. He waved at her from the other truck.
    She waved back, and answered the call. “You guys need a pit stop?”
    â€œDad wants coffee. I could use a Coke.”
    â€œThere’s a McDonald’s at the next exit; I’ll see you there.” She hung up and asked Brad, “You want anything?”
    â€œI wouldn’t say no to some coffee.”
    â€œMe either. I’m not usually up this early.”
    When the brief detour was accomplished, she took the lead again. Somewhere around Monteagle, Bobby drew up to pass her, but she gunned the engine and wouldn’t let him. She could practically hear him swearing back there, undoubtedly deploying one of his favorite expressions, stolen from a T-shirt, something about how if you’re not the lead dog, the view never changes. He was probably trying to turn it into a life lesson for his son, who—thank God—was smart enough to recognize bluster and bullshit when he heard it.
    She hoped.
    The trucks took the Lookout Mountain exit around nine o’clock, and rolled under a railway pass into Saint Elmo a few minutes later.
    It was a cute little place, in Dahlia’s opinion—a Victorian enclave built around a tiny town center, nestled against the foot of the mountain. The Incline passenger railway launched from the middle, across from restaurants and a coffee shop. At first she didn’t see anyplace to pull over and regroup, but then she spied a big, half-empty pay lot beside the Incline tracks. She pulled over there, and waited for Bobby to draw up beside her.
    When he did, they rolled down their windows in unison. He asked, “Do you know how to get to this house?”
    â€œOnly sort of,” she confessed. “You know Dad’s handwriting. You want me to try and find it, then come get you? The road’s not paved, and we might have trouble turning both trucks around if we get lost.”
    â€œSounds like a plan.” Bobby was always happy to sit around with his thumb up his ass while someone else did the work. “Do you think they’ll try and make us pay for parking?”
    â€œNot if you’re still sitting in the cab. Pretend you pulled over to take a phone call or something, if anybody asks. One way or another, I’ll be back in ten.”
    She rolled up the window and reached over Brad to fish around in the glove box. She pulled out a red spiral-bound notebook that was beat all to hell, and opened it up to a page her dad had dog-eared. “South Broad Street,” she translated. “That’s the road right there. There ought to be a stoplight around the bend. The road splits, and the highway goes up the mountain. I think.”
    â€œYou don’t really know, do you?”
    â€œWorst-case scenario, I’m wrong, we get lost, and we’re eaten by cannibal rednecks.”
    â€œDear God .”
    â€œOr we could just stop and ask for directions.”
    â€œOr that.” He gazed out the window at a row of buses. “I don’t know. This looks like a little tourist town, or something. Probably not a lot of cannibalism. Only a few banjos.”
    â€œThat’s the spirit.”
    Dahlia put the truck into gear and pulled back out of the lot, leaving the directions sitting in her lap. She found the stoplight, marked with a historic designation sign, and a couple of stone monuments she didn’t have time to read. Then up the mountain she went, on a crooked two-lane road that was steep enough to slide down, and barely wide enough to hold the twenty-six-foot truck’s wheels between the lines. One tire skidded on fallen leaves and ground them into a slippery goo on the median. She swore, pulled closer to the middle, and