Killing Cassidy by Jeanne M. Dams Read Free Book Online Page B

the most of him at the end, make sure he was well and happy—oh, I suppose just make sure there was nothing I could have done. I know it doesn’t make sense, but he was good to me, too, Jerry. I loved him.”
    The bearded face split in what might have been a smile. The whiskers made it hard to tell. “Lady, you’re mebbe all right after all. You want to know about the professor, you come with me. I can tell you anything you want to know. Come on, then!” he said impatiently.
    He turned his back and stomped off. I looked at Alan. He raised his eyebrows fractionally, then shrugged and jerked his head.
    We followed Jerry into the woods.

5
    A LAN’S eyebrows rose again, a little higher, when we reached our destination.
    Jerry’s home, though only a few yards away from Kevin’s, was well hidden. It was a trailer. “Mobile home” didn’t suit it at all. This was a 1950s-era trailer. Not that it would ever trail behind anything ever again. The tough, wiry vines of bindweed had knitted it firmly to the ground.
    It was surrounded by junk. An old television and a front-loading washing machine leaned drunkenly against each other. Their two large, mismatched glass eyes stared out at us. Broken furniture, a bedspring, discarded cans and bottles, and several rusting hulks of cars sketched a sadly familiar scene of rural poverty. The only vehicle that looked to be in running condition was a motorcycle, an elderly but still mean-looking Harley Davidson. All in character.
    The trailer itself, however, was not quite what one would expect. The concrete blocks for a doorstep, the sagging door, the torn screen, yes. But the body of the trailer—
    â€œSurprised you, huh? The professor give me the paint. Nice ’n’ bright, ain’t it?”
    It was. Jerry’s home was painted a vivid glow-in-the-dark orange.
    â€œI’ve never seen anything like it,” I said with the utmost sincerity.
    â€œIt ain’t the right kind of paint, the professor said. It’ll wear off pretty soon. But he give me plenty, so’s I can keep fixin’ it. Kind of a memorial to him, like. Well, come on in.”
    I took a deep breath of what was likely to be the last fresh air I’d get for a while and followed the giant into his den, Alan behind me.
    â€œYou gotta bang the door.” Jerry turned back and did just that. “It don’t shut good. Got to fix that one of these days.”
    I wished he’d left it open. It was as dirty inside as I’d feared, and as odorous. The smell of stale food and unwashed human was no match for the pervasive smell of cat. The couch was covered with a fine collection of clothes, jumbled together with several weeks’ worth of TV
Guides
and the crumbs of a good many meals. Jerry scooped it all off and dumped it on the floor on top of a pizza box with a couple of dead slices still in it.
    â€œTake a load off your feet. Want a beer?”
    It still lacked an hour or so till noon. I shook my head, but Alan said, “Yes, thank you very much. My throat’s quite dry. Dorothy will have one, too. She was only being polite.”
    â€œAlan!” I said in an undertone as Jerry rummaged in his refrigerator.
    â€œI know, and you don’t actually have to drink it, but I think we must accept his hospitality. If we refused beer he might offer something else, and at least beer comes in clean cans or bottles.”
    Jerry gave us our beers, took a long pull of his own, and sat himself down in a battered recliner.
    â€œWhere are the cats?” I asked brightly, as I inhaled a strong reminder of their presence.
    â€œAround. They don’t cotton to strangers much. Prob’ly under the bed, if they’re not outside huntin’ theirselves a snack. Say, that reminds me. I shot a couple of rabbits last night and made me some stew. You want some? It’s right good. I’m an okay cook, doin’ for myself all these