Wounded Animals
Page 15
At least they’d found Alan’s parents safe and sound in Ohio. I’d read about their rescue online, and the blame for their kidnapping had been placed on some local religious cult. As far as I could tell, IntelliCraft had been able to wash their hands of that whole thing. No idea how they kept getting away with this.
And I also wrestled with the notion of whether or not it was my job to expose IntelliCraft for the things they’d done. Part of me wanted to put the whole mess behind me.
But then, Kareem’s dying words bounced around in my head. Tell him that I have failed. Tell who? And what was Kareem’s task he was trying to accomplish? There had been no closure on what message I was supposed to take from that.
And what about the confusing conversation about an inheritance? He’d said my dad left me some money, but it had nothing to do with Grace’s kidnapping. Any time I tried to piece it together into a coherent narrative, my stomach twisted into knots and I couldn’t make all the points meet.
I parked the car and as soon as I hit the button to lock the door behind me, the dog’s furry face appeared in the window. Bushy tail wagging, nose fogging up the glass. A smile lit up my face before I’d even realized I was doing it. There’s something so nice about having a roommate who is always excited to see you come home, no matter how long you’ve been away.
I waved at him and his tail went into overdrive. I tried to jiggle my brain into coming up with names for the dog, but I kept landing on the most pedestrian and boring options imaginable. Dave. Charles. Steve. Who names a dog Steve?
I popped over to the mailbox to gather today’s mail, then started to flip through the pile as I walked to the front door. Bill. Mailer. Catalog. Christmas card from cousin somebody-or-other.
Then I stopped in my tracks, dropping the catalogs and Christmas cards. Last in the pile, a letter stared back, addressed to me. No return address. Instead, a single word occupied that spot.
Kareem.
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Books by Jim Heskett
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For Lisa, my tolerant wife and the mother of my child. This book wouldn’t have existed without your patience and support.
About the Author
Jim Heskett was born in the wilds of Oklahoma, raised by a pack of wolves with a station wagon and a membership card to the local public swimming pool. Just like the man in the John Denver song, he moved to Colorado in the summer of his 27th year, and never looked back. Aside from an extended break traveling the world, he hasn't let the Flatirons mountains out of his sight.
He fell in love with writing at the age of fourteen with a copy of Stephen King's The Shining. Poetry became his first outlet for teen angst, then later some terrible screenplays, and eventually short and long fiction. In between, he worked a few careers that never quite tickled his creative toes successfully, and hasn't ever forgotten about Stephen King. You can find him currently huddled over a laptop in an undisclosed location in Colorado, dreaming up ways to kill beloved characters.
He believes the huckleberry is the king of berries and refuses to be persuaded in any other direction.
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