Billy walked downtown. Every street lamp seemed fated to click off as he passed under. None of them did. The pimple behind the register at the liquor store didn't recognize him. Billy had graduated the eighth grade with his mother. He'd feel old except she had him four days before her sixteenth birthday. Billy tried not to sound guilty as he asked for cigarettes and rolling paper. The kid only smirked and ... +more+
He told her about the old man, about Fresno, drinking coffee, and Maria, Tommy's mother. He didn't tell her who the old man accused of killing the boys. He couldn't. It felt simply too absurd. He wasn't sure it was true yet, hadn't reasoned out all the evidence the old man had rattled off on that park bench as though listing the ingredients of a favorite family recipe. When Tamra asked ... +more+
"Is it true?" Dennis Plaster heard his 68 year old father's tired gravelbed voice coming from his own mouth. A mind blurring ache had taken up residence in his skull, he could feel the odd shade of yellow that surrounded the large black and blue bruise in his chest, but all that felt natural and ordinary on top of the waves of nausea he'd been riding since seeing Mose Brenlee's ... +more+
Sherri Sneed came to the aid of her community in this time of crisis. She arranged for the churches to open their Sunday School rooms for after school activities and day care, called parents to let them know that they had some place safe to take their children, called Mrs. Schmidt to make sure that that Mexican cop had arranged for an officer to be present at the end ... +more+
Like most old people, thinks William, old man Bergoyan can't cope with how pathetically boring most of his life has become. All of downtown Fresno is his respirator. A walk up two blocks from his apartment building - inhale, three blocks over - exhale, lunch and still more coffee at a nouveau Armenian cafe (the first of the last of its kind) - inhale, walk to the park - exhale, ... +more+
By the time Hernandez gets back to his squad car, the lower half of his pants are dry. He bags the knife he found in the canal gate as evidence. He makes notes for the report he will have to file on its discovery, trying to come up with a plausible explanation for the way he found it as he does. Investigating likely routes into the Sneed farm ... +more+
Plaster radios Winnie at the station. He knows there is a code for this. He knows the code, somewhere in his mind he knows the code. "One-seven are you there?" She asks. "Dennis?" "Yeah, we have uh... uh... we have an apparent Nine-fourteen 'S' out at the Currie house." "S". "It's not Andy." Static hisses, breaks, and hisses again. Winnie hasn't any words to send. "Winnie?" "I'm here." "It looks like Mose." More hissing and then Winnie speaks confidently, ... +more+
This headache. This darkness. Something cold and a massive heat over it. Where is his body? Where is he? Dennis Plaster brings a hand to his forehead. He rubs. His face is wet. He tries opening his eyes and catches them between his thumb and forefinger, pinching the bridge of nose. Why can't he hang on? He is coughing and trying to sit up. His hand has a hard time keeping track ... +more+
When the first of the day shift arrives - a young volunteer who fills in between six and eight a.m. - Mose leaves the firehouse in the morning without a word. He drives across town aiming for that broken metal windmill marking the Currie property. * Across town, a cowboy is punching Andy Currie in the face. Officer Hernandez is grabbing the cowboy and escorting him outside. * Dennis Plaster is ... +more+
Mose Brenlee stopped writing. He took a deep drink of tepid coffee from the thick light green plastic cup that matched all of the dishes in the firehouse, ugly, old and durable to a fault. He read over what he had written, crossing out and correcting, underlining and inserting words as he went. He couldn't be sure he was making any sense and that calmed him. He reasoned, if I'm ... +more+