Call Me Joe by Steven J Patrick Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Steven J Patrick
someone looks guilty and then shake vigorously. I do not have the fine hand of a surgeon. I'm more like the line medics I knew in 'Nam, doing appendectomies and amputations with a pocketknife or a bayonet sterilized over a cigarette lighter.
My first impulse, then, was to fly to London, slap the piss out of Anthony Pembroke, and keep doing that until he blurts out what he's up to.
That first impulse is always the one that gets me in trouble.
The logical alternative was to do some actual investigative work; calling business people who know about P.P.V., visiting ol' Roderick's family and friends, tracing the paper trail in Colville and Olympia. Too much work. I decided to go bother somebody.
Five
32 steps.
It was a fact Joe hated knowing.
32 steps from the east wall of his living room to the west. He knew because he counted. He counted because he had the opportunity. He had the opportunity because, for the first time in his life, he was in a quandary.
It surprised and annoyed him that he even knew what a "quandary" was. He never worried, never allowed himself even a tiny moment of indecision, never hesitated. He had always relied on his instincts to tell him what was right and they rarely failed him.
He always tried to act with purity, trusting the instinct, not allowing the ghosts of ramifications and consequences to make him weak.
Now, he actually groaned aloud, realizing that the word "ramifications" came to him so easily.
God, it's all falling apart, he thought.
Joe had always realized that he was able to be something of a perfectionist mostly because other people were weighing the consequences and making the judgments. Starting in the army, Joe's orders were the action climax of weeks, months, maybe years of thinking, considering, strategizing, and eliminating all viable alternatives.
By the time Joe was called in, everything that could have solved the problem hadn't and he was expected to wrap things up tidily which he always had.
He never had to consider, or even know about, the ramifications of his actions. His role in the little scenario was as clean as a surgeon's; cleaner, really, since surgeons usually follow up with a courtesy call.
Joe's only courtesy was making it quick.
He slumped into the window bench, forcing himself not to pace, to slow down and sharpen his focus.
The main problem was that nothing in his normal course of action applied here. This was a situation that could only become worse—and finally intolerable—if he obeyed his instincts.
The goal was clear; preserve his solitude. Whatever was being built across the valley involved the presence of a lot of people in the building and probably many, many more when it was done. If it was a road, that meant more traffic, which meant more hikers and ATV riders. If it was housing of some kind, that meant nosy kids crossing through his woods, weekend walkers, nutcases with guns and no hunting licenses.
If it was a public project, that meant perimeters, public scrutiny, even the unthinkable - a new police barracks mean dozens to hundreds of armed, hyper-suspicious men less than five miles away; extremely cautious men with a fixation for knowing all about all their neighbors.
Joe went back to the rocky pinnacle that evening at sunset, but now it was tainted. The dusky rose of previous sunsets was now blood red. The brilliant yellows, caution lights. The dark purples, the lividity of a stale corpse.
He went home that night and ate a dinner he barely tasted, skipped his two evening scotches, gritted his teeth and hooked up his satellite phone.
It was answered on the second ring. The voice on the other end betrayed no shock, no alarm, even though Joe knew he must be feeling both.
At least, Joe thought, I know what questions to ask.
He asked. The voice answered. And the call continued well into the dead of night.
By the pale light of a
My first impulse, then, was to fly to London, slap the piss out of Anthony Pembroke, and keep doing that until he blurts out what he's up to.
That first impulse is always the one that gets me in trouble.
The logical alternative was to do some actual investigative work; calling business people who know about P.P.V., visiting ol' Roderick's family and friends, tracing the paper trail in Colville and Olympia. Too much work. I decided to go bother somebody.
Five
32 steps.
It was a fact Joe hated knowing.
32 steps from the east wall of his living room to the west. He knew because he counted. He counted because he had the opportunity. He had the opportunity because, for the first time in his life, he was in a quandary.
It surprised and annoyed him that he even knew what a "quandary" was. He never worried, never allowed himself even a tiny moment of indecision, never hesitated. He had always relied on his instincts to tell him what was right and they rarely failed him.
He always tried to act with purity, trusting the instinct, not allowing the ghosts of ramifications and consequences to make him weak.
Now, he actually groaned aloud, realizing that the word "ramifications" came to him so easily.
God, it's all falling apart, he thought.
Joe had always realized that he was able to be something of a perfectionist mostly because other people were weighing the consequences and making the judgments. Starting in the army, Joe's orders were the action climax of weeks, months, maybe years of thinking, considering, strategizing, and eliminating all viable alternatives.
By the time Joe was called in, everything that could have solved the problem hadn't and he was expected to wrap things up tidily which he always had.
He never had to consider, or even know about, the ramifications of his actions. His role in the little scenario was as clean as a surgeon's; cleaner, really, since surgeons usually follow up with a courtesy call.
Joe's only courtesy was making it quick.
He slumped into the window bench, forcing himself not to pace, to slow down and sharpen his focus.
The main problem was that nothing in his normal course of action applied here. This was a situation that could only become worse—and finally intolerable—if he obeyed his instincts.
The goal was clear; preserve his solitude. Whatever was being built across the valley involved the presence of a lot of people in the building and probably many, many more when it was done. If it was a road, that meant more traffic, which meant more hikers and ATV riders. If it was housing of some kind, that meant nosy kids crossing through his woods, weekend walkers, nutcases with guns and no hunting licenses.
If it was a public project, that meant perimeters, public scrutiny, even the unthinkable - a new police barracks mean dozens to hundreds of armed, hyper-suspicious men less than five miles away; extremely cautious men with a fixation for knowing all about all their neighbors.
Joe went back to the rocky pinnacle that evening at sunset, but now it was tainted. The dusky rose of previous sunsets was now blood red. The brilliant yellows, caution lights. The dark purples, the lividity of a stale corpse.
He went home that night and ate a dinner he barely tasted, skipped his two evening scotches, gritted his teeth and hooked up his satellite phone.
It was answered on the second ring. The voice on the other end betrayed no shock, no alarm, even though Joe knew he must be feeling both.
At least, Joe thought, I know what questions to ask.
He asked. The voice answered. And the call continued well into the dead of night.
By the pale light of a
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