Dead Weight by Steven F. Havill Read Free Book Online

retaliated just as promptly.
    About the time their relationship would deteriorate to the hurling-hard-and-heavy-objects stage, or maybe when one of them was thinking of reaching for a shotgun, they’d solve their problems by having another kid. That would cool things down for a while, and Sisson Plumbing and Heating would flourish and grow.
    Their prefab home looked across the street at Burger Heaven and diagonally across the intersection at the Chavez Chevy-Olds dealership—a hell of a view.
    The house was surrounded by various outbuildings and shops and a mammoth collection of junk—at least it all looked like junk to a nonplumber like me. Jim Sisson had purchased his first backhoe in 1968, and the worn-out carcass of that machine and of every other he’d ever owned since then were parked along the back of the largest shop building.
    I was sure that when Sisson replaced someone’s swamp cooler he always kept the corroded shell of the old one, probably “just in case.” Just in case what, I didn’t know.
    The board fence around Sisson’s enclave was six feet high, but I could see the emergency lights winking from two blocks away. A fair-sized crowd of rubberneckers had assembled, all of them standing in the middle of the street gawking toward the Sissons’ property, spectators to an event that everyone in town had known would come one day or another.
    Deputy Tony Abeyta, who wasn’t on the duty roster for the evening but had jumped in response to the call anyway, had parked his patrol unit across the Sissons’ driveway, beside a yellow ribbon that stretched from the corner downspout of the house across to the high wooden fence.
    One of the village’s part-time patrolmen, Chad Beuler, detached himself from a group of half a dozen gawkers and waved a flashlight at me. Chief Eduardo Martinez hadn’t arrived, but at 9:30 we were well past his bedtime. Beuler, a beanpole with a receding chin who kept twitching his shoulders as if his undershirt was binding his armpits, shook his head in deep frustration as he stepped to the curb and intercepted me.
    “We got us a hell of a mess,” he said, and waved the flashlight again. The beam caught me in the eyes, and I lifted a hand to ward it off. “Now you-all just step on back,” he barked toward the gathering of folks on the sidewalk. None of them appeared to be moving in any direction, forward or back, but Beuler liked to make sure. He walked ahead of me toward the ribbon.
    He turned to face me, still walking—not a bad feat. If I’d tried it, I’d have been flat on my back. “The undersheriff is in there,” he said, indicating the narrow driveway that ran between a slab of fence and the side of the house. “It’s a hell of a mess.”
    “Thank you,” I said, and slipped past, ignoring the four people who tried to talk to me at once.
    “And I think a couple of the bigwigs are inside the house,” Beuler called after me.
    I walked along the dark side of the house toward the artificial daylight of the well lighted backyard and shop area. As I passed under a frosted window, I could hear voices inside, one of them tight and distraught and trying to piece a sentence together around sobbing gulps of air.
    At the back corner of the house, Tom Pasquale’s Bronco was parked bumper-to-bumper with one of Bob Torrez’s personal pickup trucks, a faded red-and-black hulk with two spare tires chained in the back to the ornate iron racks.
    I could hear the heavy, clattering idle of a diesel engine, and as I made my way past the vehicles I caught a glimpse of Torrez’s towering bulk as he walked around the back of a large yellow backhoe. In the instant that my attention was diverted, my toe caught something hard, sharp, and immovable, and I stumbled hard, landing on one knee, driving the palm of my left hand into the sharp gravel that covered the driveway.
    With a string of colorful curses, I pushed myself to my feet, the shock of the fall hammering my joints and making the