Heads You Lose - Lisa Lutz [18]
“What happened to your shoes?” Paul asked.
“My footprints were all over the second dump site. I got paranoid and decided to get rid of them.”
“Where?”
“I tossed them in the Diner dumpster in Emery.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, Lace?”
“No.”
NOTES:
Dave,
While this is the first time I’ve indulged in a traditional whodunit, I do know that we should be sprinkling the story with clues, to move things forward. You have to admit you have a tendency to become infatuated with characters at the expense of story.
Still, I think we’re generally heading in the right direction. Good luck dealing with that plane crash. If you’re having trouble sorting it out, let me know and I’ll help.
Lisa
P.S. Can we meet Terry Jakes, please?
Lisa,
Thank you for your generous offer of help. But keep in mind that it’s still early. Try to be patient. I’m reminded of all the weak lukewarm tea you’ve served me because you couldn’t wait for the water to boil.
Don’t worry about Terry. Once you meet him you’re going to want to feature him in all your chapters.
As for the road trip, I would think after all this time you’d have a few fond memories of it. I know I do.
Dave
CHAPTER 6
Late Saturday morning Paul stood at the base of a thirty-foot wooden ladder in the forest, looking up.
“So this is your idea of irony,” he shouted up at the platform above him. “Lying low above it all.”
No response.
“Terry!” he shouted.
“Terry no here! You come back later!” came the answer from above, in a ridiculous accent alternating between Beijing and Edinburgh.
“I’m coming up,” Paul shouted. At the top of the ladder, he nudged his head up through the wooden hatch. It landed with a whack as his head popped up through Terry’s floor.
“Hey, little brother,” Terry said to the head.
“Sheriff Ed’s looking for you,” said Paul. He smelled chili, Terry, and gin, in that order.
“And I’m all the way out here. What a coincidence. What did he say?” He was slurring his words.
“Nothing, just if I’d seen you.”
“What’d you tell him?” Terry asked.
“The truth.”
“Hmm. An interesting gambit. I’ll look into that,” Terry said, offering his hand to Paul and helping him up into the shed.
The forest service fire observation tower was Terry’s retreat whenever the pressure of work, ex-wives, or the “powers that be” tripped his hairtrigger instinct for self-preservation. Not that he was selfish—when Terry had taught Paul the business, he did so with no expectation of reward. “You don’t owe me shit,” he once told Paul. “I take that back. When I’m old and pissing myself, you got to pull the plug.” Even early on, he never asked Paul about his parents. Terry knew he was no one’s idea of a father figure, and he never tried to fill that role. As a result, in a weird way, he partly did.
Paul took a seat at the tiny wooden table. The shed was just big enough for the table, a stool, a cot, and the hatch. Surrounding the shed was a rickety observation deck. The whole thing felt like a crow’s nest on a pirate ship.
“So what brought you out here? Hard time from the ex-wives club?” Paul asked.
“Just protecting the citizenry, as usual,” Terry said. His voice was shaky, and not from the gin—Terry usually got louder and more articulate when he drank. “Me and Smokey taking care of business.”
“Glad you’re okay. I—”
“You’re just in time for happy hour,” Terry interrupted. “I forget—how do you take your martinis?”
Paul thought for a second, taking a seat on the stool. “Warm, bone-dry, not shaken or stirred, served in a plastic Thermos cap. Preferably Winner’s Cup. Failing that, Bombay Sapphire.”
“That’s a can-do,” said Terry, and poured them a round. “Here’s to the survival instinct,” he said, tapping his camping cup against Paul’s Thermos cap and spilling a little gin.
They knocked their drinks back. Paul grimaced and Terry refilled them.
“So. Catch the fireworks yesterday?” Terry asked, trying to sound casual.