Cold Blood by Theresa Monsour Read Free Book Online Page B

meanest ones yelled stuff down the hall in an exaggerated southern drawl. Yew-all this and yew-all that. How yew-all doin’, b . . . b . . . boy? Yew-all eat g . . . g . . . grits, b . . . b . . . boy? He worked on it and toned down his accent, but there was nothing he could do about his stutter. He’d had it all his life, since he could remember. Even in his dreams he stuttered. In elementary school, the nurse tried to get Trip some speech therapy, but his pa wouldn’t go for it. Said it would be a waste of time because stuttering ran in the family. Nothing to be done about it. Trip wondered what his pa was talking about; he didn’t know any relatives who talked like he did.
    At home, Trip hid under the hood of a truck. All the neighbors in the trailer park brought their beaters to him and he worked on them until they purred. He loved it. Trucks didn’t care whether he could dribble a basketball or what he sounded like when he opened his mouth. All they recognized was his skill and genius at work on their engines and bodies. Behind the wheel of a truck, up so high off the ground, he didn’t have to look anybody in the face. The money he earned fixing trucks he spent on his own trucks, and on drugs and knives.
    He loved fancy knives. Sharp and flashy, the way he wished he could be in public. His pa thought the knives were a waste, wanted him to get into hunting. “Buy a shotgun. Something worthwhile,” he’d tell Trip. His room had piles of catalogs with knives and swords and daggers in them. He ordered hundreds of them so there were always packages with wonderful surprises arriving at his door. Samurai swords. Battle-axes. Throwing knives. Daggers with dragons carved on the handle. Machetes. Folding knives. Stilettos. Bowie knives. A set of jackknives with Confederate officers etched on the handles, including General Robert E. Lee. He surrounded himself with his collection; they were his closest friends since Cammie. They hung on the walls of his room and rested in differentwooden cases under his bed. At night, he’d spend hours getting stoned and listening to Black Sabbath and getting those blades sharper. Loved putting a good edge on a blade while listening to his music. Sharp metal and heavy metal.

SEVEN
    MURPHY GOT UP before Jack to go for a run. Pulled on some sweats and a stocking cap and her shoes. Went out onto the dock, shutting the door quietly behind her. While she stretched she searched the decks of her nearest neighbors and saw signs of cold weather preparations. Covers draped over grills. Patio flowerpots emptied. Those who were planning to stay the winter but didn’t have well-insulated houseboats were already wrapping their exteriors in plastic. She’d recently beefed up her insulation to avoid doing that this year—one bit of practical maintenance she’d managed to accomplish. She wondered which of her neighbors would tough out another winter on the river and which would lock up their boats and get an apartment downtown. The cold didn’t get to them as much as the isolation. Even in the summer, not many people lived on the river full-time. In the winter, the numbers dropped to a hardy few. The wildlife artist and his photographer wife would stay; they utilized the scenery for their work. The architect would stay; his well-equipped boat even had a Jacuzzi in the master bath. She hoped Floyd Kvaal and histhree-legged dog, Tripod, would stay another winter. Kvaal was a garage-door salesman and a musician. In the summer, he paddled his canoe around the neighborhood and played the sax. Last winter, the neighbors took turns having him play at their houses.
    She finished stretching and thumped down the dock and through the parking lot. Took one of her usual routes. North across the Wabasha Bridge, glancing down at the Mississippi as she crossed it. The leaves on the trees lining the river were orange