Death's Last Run by Robin Spano Read Free Book Online Page B

exhaled before saying, “I have to get out of here. My family belongs in a city — not in this frivolous ski town.”
    Chopper and Wade exchanged glances again.
    â€œFrivolous?” Wade said.
    â€œZoe needs a real cello teacher, someone worthy of her talent. My wife needs an intellectual community. Do you know that her book club in Pemberton actually chose a murder mystery for last month’s discussion? And I need . . .” Norris picked at his fraying cuff. “I don’t know what I need. A new jacket, for starters.”
    Wade took a sip of coffee, which he’d laced with cherry brandy to take the chill out of his bones. It was a cold winter, difficult to keep the office warm.
    Chopper said, “What’s really eating you, man? You’re not deep-throating that cigarette because of cellos and literature.”
    Norris cast his eyes around Wade’s office like he didn’t trust the Grateful Dead posters on the walls. “I hate my bosses.”
    Wade was tempted to laugh but held back. “You sound like you did when we were seventeen. Remember the first time we wanted to hit the road with Avalanche Nights?”
    â€œOf course I remember. My parents said no, as usual. Trying to keep me boxed into life as they knew it.” Wade watched Norris’ fingers curl as he spoke, clenching like he wanted to form a fist. Odd that he was still so angry, twenty years after leaving home. Odd, too, that he couldn’t bring himself to form that fist.
    Wade turned his gaze to Chopper. “Do
you
remember? When we got to Stu’s place, the truck loaded up with all our road gear, Stu came storming out of his house and said in
exactly
that voice he just used, ‘I hate my parents.’”
    Chopper gave Wade a sideways smile. “How the hell do you remember that?”
    â€œI remember that whole ten years,” Wade said, “from age sixteen to twenty-six, probably verbatim. God, I even loved the hangovers.”
    â€œMy wife calls those the lost years,” Norris said. “I tend to agree. You and Georgia should have a child. I guarantee you’ll stop pining after ten years of musical failure.”
    Wade wouldn’t call it failure, exactly. The band had had some good reviews. They just couldn’t make a living. “Did we really plan to be thirty-eight and still living within half an hour from the shit-hole where we grew up?”
    â€œWould you guys stop trashing our home?” Chopper looked at both of them sternly. “Some people think this is the most beautiful place on Earth.”
    Wade took a deep breath and said, “Richie suggested reviving the band, getting together for an event here in Avalanche.”
    â€œYeah.” Norris snorted. “He said that to me, too. What’s in it for Richie?”
    â€œCome on, Norris.” Chopper waved his hand in front of his face to move the cigarette smoke away. “Richie’s on our side.”
    â€œSo was Sacha,” Norris said. “Until everything went so fucking wrong.”
    They were all quiet. Sacha’s death had messed them all up, in very separate ways.
    Chopper said, maybe to deflect tension, “I like the band revival idea. I’m game for another night onstage.”
    Norris shook his head and muttered, “Are you two done reminiscing? We have grown-up issues here, problems that live in the present.”
    â€œSo kill the suspense, Stu. Why the hell would we have to stop production of Mountain Snow?”
    â€œSacha Westlake’s mommy,” Norris said through clenched teeth, “doesn’t like my suicide verdict. She wants the FBI to come investigate. So instead of having my back, telling the Americans to stay at home because they trust their man in Whistler, the RCMP says sure, come play in our sandbox. Let’s share the investigation.”
    â€œCan’t you just give them what they need?” Wade didn’t see the big