The Last Kind Word Read Online Free PDF

I’ll call later.”
    Skarda hung up the phone.
    â€œMy dad,” he said. “He’s…” Skarda shook his head.
    â€œCrazy?” I said.
    â€œOld.”
    â€œI think I’d rather be crazy. Let’s go.”
    *   *   *
    My intention was to get back on the road as soon as possible— keep moving, my inner voice chanted—but the aromas wafting up from the bakery were too enticing.
    â€œI haven’t eaten all day,” Skarda said. “How ’bout you?”
    â€œWell, if you’re going to insist, we could grab something and take it with us.”
    â€œOr we could eat here.” Skarda gestured at the café on the other side of the bakery. It had a cozy, hometown feel to it, as if it were trying to channel the corner drugstore where Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney once shared a soda. It might have managed it, too, if not for all the damn hanging plants.
    â€œQuickly,” I said.
    We bellied up to the rounded glass display cases and started searching for bakery. I was thinking something simple, like a crispy elephant ear. I bent to take a good look at it. Plain or filled, I debated. That’s when the deputy from the Pine County Sheriff’s Department walked in. I saw his brown and tan uniform reflected in the glass before I saw him. He called out the name of the cashier, which I didn’t get. She called his name in return. “Pat.” I rose slowly and casually stepped aside, giving him room to search the glass case.
    Skarda didn’t notice the deputy at all until he nudged him while examining the cake donuts.
    â€œExcuse me,” the deputy said.
    â€œS’okay,” Skarda said. Then he saw the uniform, saw the badge, saw the gun in the black holster. He stood upright and still, a look of alarm across his face. I was terrified that he would do something stupid, like run, or worse, just stand there with that idiot expression until the deputy noticed and asked what his problem was, so I attempted to distract the cop.
    â€œI always thought that thing about cops and donuts was a myth,” I said.
    The deputy kept looking through the glass, answering as if he had heard the remark a thousand times before.
    â€œIt started because for a long time the only places that were open past 10 P.M. besides bars were donut shops,” he said. “So that’s where officers working the third shift went on their breaks. Plus, they tend to be located in centralized areas, the donut shops, so they can be used for briefings.” The deputy turned and smiled at me. It was a nice smile; made me want to contribute to the Police Benevolent Association. “Besides, who doesn’t like a fresh donut?”
    â€œNo true God-fearing American, that’s for sure,” I said.
    I watched Skarda over the deputy’s shoulder. He took a step backward and swiveled his head back and forth as if he were searching for an exit. If I could have slapped him, I would have.
    â€œWhat’ll you have, Pat?” the cashier asked.
    â€œGimme a couple of fudge cake donuts and a café hazelnut.”
    â€œComing up.”
    The cashier put the donuts in a small white bag with the name Tobies printed on the side and poured the coffee while the deputy reached in his pocket for his wallet. It was then that I noticed the name tag above his pocket read GARRETT.
    â€œYou know what,” I said. “I got this.” I put my hand in my own pocket and produced what was left of Chad’s $187.
    â€œAre you sure?” the deputy asked.
    â€œIt’s my pleasure. Thank you for your service.”
    â€œThank you,” the deputy said.
    A moment later, he left the bakery.
    â€œThat was nice of you,” the cashier said.
    â€œI’m a helluva guy.” I turned to Skarda. “So, Dave. See anything you like?”
    â€œI don’t feel well.”
    And he didn’t feel well again until I got him outside, into the