Dust City by Robert Paul Weston Read Free Book Online Page A

goats.”
    “Sure.” She rises from the chair, rubbing her mouth. “I think I’ve heard enough. They only sent me out here to cool off. Think it worked, too.” She glances at the door. “Apart from chicken-winging your head of security, that is.”
    “Gunther can handle it,” Cindy tells her.
    White turns back to me. “I know you didn’t have anything to do with this, Henry. Any fool can see you’re nothing like your father.” She places her hands on the back of the chair, gripping it with her bloody knuckles. “Your shrink killed himself. End of story. It’s not that uncommon. You’d be surprised by those guys. Not as stable as they make out to be, if you know what I mean.” White turns for the door. “I’d say I’ll see you around, kid, but it’s probably best you stay outta my way.”
    She ambles for the door and throws a backhanded salute over her shoulder. Cindy and I listen to the echo of her boots fading down the corridor, heavy-soled footfalls that thump out a slow, unstoppable beat.

8
    BLOOD MEMORY OF THE SPECIES
    EARTHWOOD CEMETERY IS AN OASIS OF GREEN AT THE HEART OF THE CITY . It may be mashed in on all sides by asphalt and brick, but once you’re inside, the grounds are lush with hedges and trees and tightly cropped grass. The cemetery lies under the base of the Empyrean Skyway, spiraling above us, all the way up to Eden.
    Our buses rumble past the two gigantic guardhouses that cut the Skyway off from First Avenue. It’s impossible to tell whether the guards standing inside notice us. They’re like statues, towering and expressionless, which is typical of giants. To them, we must seem like insects. The guardhouses slide past the windows as we turn away, rolling in through the cemetery gates.
    Near the entrance, there’s a hominid funeral already underway. The mourners frown. Our old buses are too rusty, too loud, too brightly emblazoned with the St. Remus logo to belong in a noble and austere place like this. Nevertheless, here we are.
    Then, in only a moment, we’re gone. Maples and oaks and great shaggy willows swallow us up as we move through to the far side of the grounds. We park in a distant lot.
    When the guards usher us out, we see the grave is right up front, a shadowy rectangle carved from the earth with perfect precision. The coffin lies beside it, on top of what looks to be a deep red picnic blanket. Without too much ado, we take our seats.
    The priest is a slender raven. He sails above the treetops like a storm cloud. With one dignified flap, he alights between the coffin and the grave. His cassock grips tight to his body. The fabric is seamless against his tar-black feathers; you can’t see where the vestment ends and the priest begins. The two are separated only at the throat, by the stark white square of his collar. His murky eyes scan across us all, hushing us one by one.
    “Let us begin.”
    His voice crackles like an old record. “There are those who believe that when we take our own life, we do not deserve the respect of a proper burial. There are those who would stoop so low as to claim that any wolf who leaves us in this manner is performing a civic duty. But no, the death of Doctor Rufus Grey is a great loss for this city. Few citizens, no matter what their stripe, can claim to have contributed so selflessly to combating the City’s urban unrest.”
    Cindy sits down in front. She’s swaying minutely, but I can only see the barest profile of her face. She might becrying, but I can’t tell. Mrs. Lupovitz, on the other hand, down at the end of my row, is shuddering like a train off its tracks, tears streaming down her face.
    The priest recounts how thoughtful, kind, well-educated, generous, insightful Doc was. I can’t help searching for a scrap of dubiousness in his avian eye; not too many folks would deem insightfulness and generosity wolfish traits. But there’s no irony in the priest’s voice. He’s a bit monotonous, maybe, but he’s nothing if not