The Morning After Read Online Free PDF Page B

crime?” McFee asked. “Who knows what’s inside. We dig it up and find nothin’, then what? We’ve called everyone out here on a wild goose chase.”
    “Tell ya what. I’ll go up and get the shovel and make a call to the department.”
    “You do that. Billy Dean, here, will keep me company, won’t ya, boy?”
    The kid looked about to argue, but changed his mind. “Yessir.”
    “Good. Man, it’s cold down here.” McFee rubbed his arms and looked up at the sky. Gray clouds threatened rain. As Ellis hurried up the trail, McFee took out his knife and carefully moved some of the dirt to one side. The kid fidgeted and McFee guessed he knew more than what he was saying. “You ever been up here before?”
    “Yep.”
    “Ya have?”
    “Well, not right here, but around.”
    “You been in this holler?”
    “Once. A month or so ago.”
    “You see this grave then?”
    “No, sir, it weren’t here.”
    That much McFee believed. The earth was too fresh, like turned sod in a new field. Not quite the right color of the surrounding dirt, not trampled by animals or packed by rain. There had been a downpour two days ago. Torrential. Enough to flatten this mound. But it hadn’t. Because whatever was beneath the earth was fresh. McFee scraped again with his knife. He was square in the middle of the mound, centered so he wouldn’t miss whatever was below. But as he dug, making a small hole, his blade went deep, deeper than the shaft of his knife, deep enough that he had to lean over and place a knee on the dirt. Deeper and deeper while the kid shifted his weight from one foot to the other, ran the back of his hand under his runny nose and jangled the keys in one pocket.
    “Your dog the kind that runs off?”
    “What? No, sir. Old Red, he don’t go far.”
    “Where you reckon he is?”
    “Don’t know.” His eyebrows pulled together in a scowl and his lips turned in on themselves as if he were worried. He bit at his lower lip and sniffed. “Pa’ll skin me alive if somethin’ happened to him.”
    “No reason to borrow trouble,” McFee said. He felt certain they’d found enough as it was.
     
     
    Reed’s stomach growled. Acid burned up his esophagus. He glanced at his watch and realized he’d been going through paperwork, taking calls, answering E-mail and generally catching up ever since he and Morrisette had returned from the cemetery this morning. Breakfast had been coffee, lunch nonexistent and he’d been up since six A.M. It was now two forty-five. Time for a break. He rolled his neck around, trying to crack it and break up the tension in his shoulder muscles. How long had it been since he’d been to the gym and worked out. A week? Ten days? Hell, maybe longer. Tonight. No matter what came up, he’d throw on his sweats and trek over to the old athletic club where boxers sparred, weights clanged and the smell of musk and sweat wafted to the old rafters. It wasn’t a typical today type club with fancy computer-linked treadmills and stair-step machines that calculated heart rate, calories burned and distance traveled. Nope. This was old school. Weights, weights and more weights. If you wanted to run, you jogged. If you need an upper body workout, you tackled a big bag, throwing punches to get rid of your aggression, or for faster, quicker movements, you worked with a sparring bag.
    The real macho types could don gloves and mouthpieces and go at it in the ring while the other members of the gym looked on and placed a side wager or two. Not that it was legal, but then, what was? Reed and a few others in the department chose not to see the bets going down. He imagined drug deals were transacted on those cracked concrete floors, or behind a bank of battered lockers, but he hadn’t witnessed money exchanged for meth, coke or steroids. So far. He hoped he never did.
    Stretching in his chair, he considered the note he’d received this morning. The letter was probably mailed from another nutcase getting his rocks