Adam's Woods by Greg Walker Read Free Book Online Page A

Adam attached. But he found a new ability to separate them from his death and enjoy them for their content alone. He now realized that in fixing Adam's entire existence on that one point, he had also denied any celebration of Adam’s life.
     
    “Eric? Do you want me to leave you alone for a while? I could sit out in the truck if you like. There’s air conditioning in there, so you wouldn’t have to twist my arm.”
     
    She grinned with the comment, and he smiled back, so glad that it was Mary here with him and not a stranger who couldn’t understand the root of his peculiar reactions. With exceptions of course. If JT...or John Thomas had answered the phone, he probably would have been back in Pittsburgh by now reconsidering not only his position on celibacy but on getting sloppy drunk.
     
    “No, Mary, I’d like you to stay. If you want to go out, that’s fine, but don’t go on my account.”
     
    “Okay, but I sort of feel useless here, because you know this house better than me. The paint job is fairly new, the carpet isn’t, and the furniture comes with it, if you want it. I put most of this stuff in here, I admit, and I know it’s not much but to be honest this house has been on the market for almost two years and I’d despaired of ever selling it, so anything to sweeten the deal, right? If the couch and end tables look like they came from yard sales, it’s because they did. The easy chair came from my house. I threw out the husband but kept his chair, but I didn’t really want it. It’s not that old and you’re welcome to it. If you would decide to buy the house, I mean.”
     
    “So you were married? I guess with the sign saying Collins, I assumed...”
     
    “Yes, I was married, for almost five years. Until I caught the bastard with his co-worker in a motel working a little overtime. No children, thank goodness, and I took back my maiden name as soon as I changed the bed sheets. How about you? Any past, present, or future Mrs. Kane?”
     
    Did he see interest there, beyond polite conversation, or was it the novelists’ imagination trying to direct the plot? Because, if being honest with himself, even at this time and in this place, he was feeling a wee bit smitten.
     
    “No. I never even got close. Not to say that I wouldn’t, but I’m pretty okay with my career right now, and don’t want to have someone there just to have them, you know?”
     
    “Yeah, I know. Experience is a tough teacher.” She smiled wanly, and for a moment he got a glimpse of the damage done to her heart, the glib comments like spackle that could fill the cracks but never heal them entire. And he reasoned that the tough girl persona was a more or less recent addition.
     
    The house was in decent condition, certainly livable, and the furniture a bonus. He’d begun to think about occupation, and decided he wouldn’t live here year round, would keep his apartment in Pittsburgh and maybe do summers. At least until he had gotten what he came for, or found there was nothing more to be had. It occurred to him that he had made a decision to buy.
     
    “Do you want to go upstairs?” Mary asked.
     
    “Sure,” he answered, though it wasn’t really necessary.
     
    He followed Mary up the steps, the stairs creaking under his feet, and being the creator of the dread sound instead of the victim under the blankets fascinated him. He imagined himself the murderer, tried to understand his motive and purpose for the sake of the story. He visualized a terrified little boy up in his room, but then without meaning to visualized another boy standing by the swamp and peering down at a bullfrog that thought itself well hid under some duckweed, imagined the heft and balance of the blade in his hand on the approach. He began to feel sick and stopped the exercise, not only because it was too real, but because he simply couldn’t come up with any motive that made sense. He could make something up for his tale, had already been doing