Misisipi By Michael Reilly
Copyright 2012 Michael G. Reilly
Smashwords Edition
April 2013. Ref: 26-3-4
All rights reserved.
‘Misisipi’ is a work of fiction, based on recorded historical events. As such, any actual persons, events, locations, situations, businesses, or organizations referenced herein are incorporated in an entirely fictitious context and no other inference is intended beyond this context. All other characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. This electronic book is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the original purchaser only. It should not be duplicated, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means which violates the terms of sale as stated by the original authorized seller at time of purchase.
If you would like to share this electronic book with other parties, please purchase an additional copy for each intended recipient or direct them to a suitable authorized seller.
Copy - Wrong
If you are in possession of this electronic book and did not purchase it from an authorized seller, then, “Tut-tut. Naughty you. But, to be honest: I know. I get it. I’ve been there myself. Time’s is tough, Bruddha. How bout this then? When you finish reading, if—and only if—you enjoyed the story and agree that the experience is worth paying somebody something, then check out the deserving organizations listed at the end of the book; make a contribution—$1… $2… $5… whatever you think this ‘free’ book is really worth to you after—and we’ll call it even-stevens. And if point-and-click charity is beyond your ability then remember our deal when next you encounter a street collector for the Salvation Army, Red Cross, Big Issue, Simon Community, Shelter, SVdP or whatever worthy cause the tin rattled under your nose happens to be for. Both Harold and I will appreciate the gesture, and we’ll be sure to say so when we see you in another life.”
[18+] Age Suitability
The author has identified the recommended reading age of this work to be persons aged 18 years and over. It addresses adult themes and situations and is intended for mature readers. The work contains material which persons of a sensitive nature may find disturbing, upsetting, or offensive. This includes—Frequent extreme strong language, including strong sexual references and strong racial references—Sexual activity with strong detail—Strong violence—Sexual violence. Reader discretion is advised.
Table Of Contents
Copyright
Chapter 1.
Chapter 2.
Chapter 3.
Chapter 4.
Chapter 5.
Chapter 6.
Chapter 7.
Chapter 8.
Chapter 9.
Chapter 10.
Chapter 11.
Chapter 12.
Chapter 13.
Chapter 14.
Chapter 15.
Chapter 16.
Chapter 17.
Chapter 18.
Chapter 19.
Chapter 20.
Chapter 21.
Chapter 22.
Chapter 23.
Chapter 24.
Chapter 25.
Chapter 26.
Chapter 27.
Chapter 28.
Chapter 29.
Chapter 30.
Chapter 31.
Chapter 32.
Chapter 33.
Chapter 34.
Chapter 35.
Chapter 36.
Chapter 37.
Chapter 38.
Chapter 39.
Chapter 40.
Chapter 41.
Chapter 42.
Chapter 43.
Chapter 44.
Chapter 45.
Chapter 46.
Chapter 47.
Chapter 48.
Chapter 49.
Chapter 50.
Chapter 51.
Chapter 52.
Chapter 53.
Hardy
Chapter 54.
Chapter 55.
Chapter 56.
Chapter 57.
Credits
Author Info
The Book Of Adam
The Feather
For protection
Chapter 1
1997 - Arizona
Highway 10, east of Oatman
Thursday May 29
Julianna Putnam sat on a heap of worn truck tires and sucked on the Marlboro she had sneaked from Christy’s bag. With her back propped against the shaded side of the fleapit gas station, she considered the straight-line shadow the single isolated building, alone in the dusty nowhere, made on the ground. Where Julianna sheltered was oppressively cloying, but in the open farther out, the exposed earth appeared to smolder under the sun’s blistering assault. The sizzling beneath her neck and arms, areas she took care to keep from touching the wall behind, reminded Julianna that the day had already made merry murder of her and it was barely noon now. She hocked a loogie from back of her throat and spat it out onto the cracked cement, drew on the Marlboro, and watched the wet stain burn to nothing.
“You could just buy yourself a whole pack instead of stealing Christy’s by degrees.” Kyra’s sudden appearance at the corner startled Julianna into a mid-inhalation choking fit. When she recovered, Julianna gave Kyra a sinner’s smile, but it only raised a rebuking pout from her more serious travelling companion.
“I’m working up to her level of excess,” Julianna explained. “Baby steps. Though I may draw the line at cellphones. I’m not sure I like the idea of Dad knowing how to get hold of me at all times.”
“The tire’s fixed and back on the tail,” reported Kyra.
“Good, good.” Julianna nodded. “How’s Storms-In-A-Teacup doing? Is she back on the reservation yet?”
Kyra looked over her shoulder. “Christy? Doubtful. She’s a special cup of crazy and this morning’s fun sure didn’t help. At least she’s still asleep in the car. I’m going to brave the washroom and clean myself up.” Kyra had dirt and oil streaks on her arms, evidence of their grist-grilling effort in changing the blown tire a few hours earlier. The red burns spreading across Kyra’s shoulders looked as painful as Julianna’s felt.
“Thanks,” added Kyra as she turned to depart.
“Whatever for?”
“Coming along for the ride. For what it’s worth, I think it’s rotten form on Christy’s part, talking you into coming without checking if the events company even had a third opening. I hardly know you and I seem more pissed by the whole thing than she does. Are you sure you’ll be ok when we get to LA?”
“It’s all good. When I rang Dad yesterday, he came through with a friend of his in Bakersfield. Seems they’re in the market for a French-fluent intern for the summer. Failing that, I can hitch to Paris now I know it’s in Texas, not France. Duh.”
“Well, like I said, if you hadn’t tagged along, I’d probably have killed her by now. There’s no way I could have changed that puncture and dealt with her histrionics by myself.”
Julianna nodded. “She really loves you, you know. All she could talk about all last semester was this trip with you. I know she’s hard work but she’s the real deal when it comes to her friends. Take it from someone who’s learned the hard way.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t get to know you better back in Wellesley,” replied Kyra. “You seem like a totally cool person. You’re always quiet. You really must have your crap tied down when the rest of us are losing ours.”
Julianna waved the cigarette about. “Probably why I’m trying to tap into my inner bad girl. Go wash. I’ll watch the car til you get back.”
“Catch,” Kyra alerted her, tossing a store pack of Lights to Julianna before retreating around the
corner.
Julianna smiled. It had been the longest exchange—without Christy butting in—she and Kyra had enjoyed since setting out from Boston. In the last four days, Julianna had grown to like the girl even more so than she ever did Christy, her dizzy-headed college classmate for the last four years. Kyra had even cracked a half-smile at the Paris reference just now. Julianna looked at the fresh cigarette pack and regretted how, as in most cases, her jokes only came hot on the heels of her lies. They were her social camouflage, fig leaves to deflect attention from the naked guilt she was sure was apparent in her face whenever she served up such half-truths or worse.
Not that this one really mattered. Julianna wasn’t going to be around Kyra and Christy for much longer. They had all just graduated. Christy and Kyra had their summer arrangements made for when they got to LA and Julianna was running away—again. Well, that had been the plan; until she discovered how, somewhere between Indiana and Missouri, her father had frozen her credit card. The telephone call to him from St. Louis had been testy. As Jonathan Putnam no doubt slumped into his chair at his downtown Boston law office, he was made listen as his errant daughter argued her case with an assuredness which likely made him rue the gilt-edge education lavished on her.
Yes. She should have told him she had skipped town.
No. This wasn’t like last time. It was not a cry for help or another act of defiance. Twice in seven years hardly constituted acute recidivism, now did it? Anyway, she was 21. She could make her own choices now and better understand the reasons for them.
No. She was not going to get on one of the blasted trains he could hear in the background, but she would come home before the Fall if he would wire her enough money today to sustain her for one month when she reached the west coast.
Yes. That was a promise.
No. She wasn’t going to put him through anything like the drama of Dallas again. It had never been about him or Penny. He had to believe that. Could he please not cry now. Don’t… Dad, please.
No. She didn’t want his help in getting a summer job or anything else. It should reflect well on his parenting that she could advance and succeed on her own wits and merits, shouldn’t it?
Yes. She would call again from Los Angeles.
No. She did not want to speak to her mother.
Yes. She knew it was common knowledge the entire Diller family was bi-polar but she’d be shot of Christy soon enough.
After the call, Julianna remained in the Western Union, awaiting his cash wire. She seethed at this one particular play of her father, the emotional arm-twist to extract from her the promise of her return. Her father knew damn well how when Julianna made promises she kept them. So she rarely promised anyone anything. Now he had her. Julianna knew exactly who had suggested that strategy to him.
At about the same time back in Boston, her father took a small measure of comfort from the same assurance. He then took a large measure of his prized sixteen-year-old Lagavulin scotch and telephoned an old friend who pointedly told him to quit fretting. The friend reminded Jonathan that some battles couldn’t be won and some rivers couldn’t be dammed.
Julianna hopped off the tire pile and crushed the cigarette underfoot. As she started back to where Kyra's Rav4 mini-SUV was parked beneath the front canopy of the gas station, a banging sound from the highway made her turn.
She watched a yellow Ford Tempo roll to a dead stop out on the road. Steam billowed from its front grill. Through the heat haze and white plumes, she saw the indistinct figure of the driver contemplating his new predicament.
Another adventurer rolls into the Gas Station of Lost Souls—almost, she thought.
Breathes of burning air eddied about where Julianna now stood. Looking out, the impression she had of the stricken car was that the very atoms of it were being evaporated, one-by-one, by the searing light. She waited to see what the driver did next.
Suddenly, his head disappeared down behind the dash, staying hidden for what seemed a fretful length of time to Julianna. It was long enough that she considered braving the open ground, to see if he had merely passed out or actually passed away. She was on the verge of heading out when the driver jerked back upright. Julianna took a step backward, wary she might be considered rubbernecking. She really ought to check on Christy anyway.
Just then, the Tempo's door opened and the driver emerged. He scrambled his weight behind the frame in a punishing effort to push his car to the cover of the station. Beneath the open door, Julianna saw his sneakers biting into the ground, his ankles twisting to maintain his footing and resist the vehicle rolling back. He had about 40 feet to conquer and his grimaced expression didn’t bode well.
Julianna strode into the open. The heat beat on her exposed legs immediately. She marched past the driver and gripped the corner of his trunk. He turned and looked at her quizzically.
“Save your breath until we get you up there,” she hollered. “Now move your ass!”
They wrestled his car to the sanctuary of the canopy and the driver put it into park beside the nearest pump. Julianna joined him, her hand on her breast, breathing rapidly.
“Whoa,” she joked. “Rescued by a wimpy woman. You’re never going to live this one down, Mister.”
Panting, sweat cascading from his brow, Scott Jameson could only manage “A-huh,” as he collapsed against the side of his car.
Chapter 2
Scott propped his elbows on the roof of his car, watching his winsome rescuer as she rummaged in the footspace of her Rav4. He flexed his calves to alleviate the cooking sensation within them. He wanted to collapse into his seat but the compulsion to marvel at her striking form kept him standing. As she bent into the SUV, her tummy-tied sleeveless shirt rode up her waist and Scott’s gaze travelled the topography of her exposed midriff. The knuckles of her spine arched, like the nearby peaks of Sitgreaves Pass. Having appreciated both today, Scott decided her terrain was much the more commanding. He negotiated the sunkissed curving of her waist, let it lead him to the teasing of her taut white shorts, the perfect orbits of her hips and ass beneath. She stretched one long leg to adjust her stance, pencil-thin with a hint of calf, disappearing into the large green sneakers which swallowed her feet. A white bra-strap slipped suggestively from beneath the ragged shoulder of her shirt, and Scott’s wandering imagination was about to reposition on her North Face when she suddenly straightened from the Rav4. He ducked down and sat sideways onto his own driver seat, prayed she hadn’t caught him staring. She came round and kneeled beside him, beaming as she offered him a water bottle.
“It’s warm but wet,” she said.
Scott tried to suppress the juvenile grin this prompted.
“Wha-aat?” she drawled playfully, reading his mind anyway.
He gulped the bottle, a relief to his burning gizzards and an excuse for not answering.
“What happened to you?” she asked.
“I think the fan belt seized. Started about four miles back. Didn’t imagine there was a gas stop in this hellhole,” he explained, as he studied her up-close, ignoring the salty beads of sweat trickling from his thick brown bangs into his eyes. Her dark complexion was more than just suntanned, he could see that now. It spoke to heritage of a wilder hue, one Scott couldn’t put his finger on. But even it paled in comparison to the oil-slick luminescence of her raven-black hair. It was styled in a short blown-out bob, more a funky version of Monica than another of the endless Rachel-Wannabes. This was more than just fine with Scott.
“Ow! Eyes,” he suddenly yelped, screwing his lids shut as the stinging sweat kicked in.
Julianna removed one of her wristbands and soaked it from the bottle. “Here. Let me. You’re all gritty. It’s a wonder you can see straight.” Kneeling up, she put a hand on Scott’s shoulder and drew the wristband gently across his eyelids. It felt like frozen silk on his skin.
“Why didn’t you hitch?” she asked. “I’m sure someone would have picked you up.”
“Dunno. It hadn’t given
up then. I thought I least oughta see where I’d get to. Used all my water to get it this far.”
“Tenacity. That can be terminal in some people,” she smiled.
“Well, when it is, I’ll know not to make the same mistake again,” he quipped.
She chuckled at his quick sarcasm. “I’m Julianna.”
“Scott Jameson.” They shook. “So, Julianna…?”
“Putnam. Julianna with two ‘N’s. The spellchecker loves me.”
“Then you’re safe with me. I don’t know how to use a computer.”
“You’ll be a dinosaur soon enough then. Haven’t you even heard of the Net?”
“The college back in Albany has a site. Looks like another outlet for geeks and nerds to me.”
“So you’re from there?”
“No, Ithaca. How bout you?”
“Boston. Dover. On the west side.”
“You don’t sound like a Kennedy.”
“Few of us do.” Julianna settled back on her haunches. “North Carolina originally. I’m a mishmash. My parents died when I was small. I was adopted by the Putnams. Lived there ever since.”
“Jeez. I’m sorry,” he sighed. “That must’ve been hard. Do you remember them?”
“Not really. They died in a car crash. I can’t picture them properly. It’s probably for the best.”
“Well, I hope it worked out ok. I mean, s’not ideal but—ya know.”
“They’re good people. Jonathan—Dad—is a big financial lawyer. I never wanted. I’m luckier than most.”
“And your adopted Mom? Fairy godmother or evil stepmother?”
“Penny? Oh, neither. When the booze and Xanax kick in, she’s bearable.” Julianna looked suddenly at Scott, her mouth aghast. “Oh my god. You did not need to hear that.”
“Honesty. That’s always terminal in everybody.” Scott grinned an ‘It’s cool’ assurance.
“I’ve died a thousand deaths by now then,” she said.
“Are you heading to LA too?”
“Yes. With two friends. Kyra’s getting cleaned up. The body in the back”—Julianna gestured to the Rav4’s open tail where one of Christy’s feet protruded—“is Christy. We may yet bury her in a shallow grave off the highway: dead or alive.” Julianna rolled her eyes.
Misisipi Page 1
