The Watcher (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)
Page 16
For a moment we looked at each other. Then, together, we smiled.
“They’re never going to believe it, until I show them those old fang marks,” Darrell said. His eyes were shining. His face glowed. “Paul and Rickey and Charlie and all those other guys, they’ll never believe it. But then I’ll show them those old fang marks. And then, when they see that old snakeskin hanging over my bed, they’re going to turn green. In Michigan, they don’t even have any rattlesnakes.”
I began laughing—and discovered that I couldn’t stop.
Twenty-one
I PUSHED OPEN THE door marked AIRPORT SECURITY. Seated behind the desk was the same secretary with whom I’d argued Tuesday, trying to drop off my revolver. The encounter started the same—but ended differently. Minutes later Darrell and I were standing together at American Gate 6. We’d been delayed in traffic, coming to the airport. Passengers were already boarding Flight 82 for Detroit.
Darrell and I stood silently, facing each other as travelers moved impatiently around us. In my mind, I’d rehearsed this moment a dozen times driving to the airport. Now I reached out and shook his hand as I said, “I guess it was a vacation you won’t forget for a while.” I was satisfied with the pitch of my voice: easy, but not too casual. The words, too, had sounded right: man to man, not adult to child.
But his answering smile was tentative. During the past few minutes, leaving Security and approaching the boarding gate, I’d sensed a tightening in Darrell’s manner. As our time together came down to minutes, his speech had become diffident, suddenly strained.
Would we part as we’d met, trying not to be strangers?
After everything that happened?
I realized that, suddenly, I had nothing more to say to him. I could only hold his hand a little tighter.
Then I saw his eyes quicken. He was, I knew, remembering something that had happened to us in Lake County. Suddenly he was smiling—widely, warmly.
“Boy, I’ll never forget that old lamp exploding. As long as I live, I’ll never forget that fire.”
Answering his, my smile was widening, too. “I know.”
A moment of silence followed. I realized that he was deciding how to say something more. Finally, with a trace of embarrassment, he said, “You were really okay, Dad. Up there, I mean. In the woods. I—ah—just wanted to tell you.”
“You were okay, too,” I answered. Gripping his hand harder, I added, “And that’s not just a proud parent talking. That’s a cop talking, too.”
“Some cop.”
“Thanks.”
For a moment we stood silently together, smiling. Then he turned and walked through the boarding gate. He was limping slightly.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1978 by Collin Wilcox
Cover design by Michel Vrana
978-1-4804-4716-5
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