Last Lie by Stephen White Read Free Book Online Page A

unfamiliar, unlit, unpaved roads in rural neighborhoods on hillsides. The sudden illumination of brake lights, followed by the even more sudden shift of those bright red squares to the right, confirmed what my ears were telling me--the van's rear tires had lost purchase on the first sharp curve that lay dead ahead.
    I knew from ample personal experience that there was not much margin for driver error in that particular location. If the back of that big van slid even a few feet off the center line of the narrow lane, the van's right rear tire would cross the laughably small shoulder and then it would immediately succumb to gravity's will.
    Gravity's will was, of course, reliably down. Down in that location meant an immediate slide of eighteen inches at about forty-five degrees, followed by a quick dozen feet at about thirty degrees. Once the van's tire scooted down the first foot and a half, those next dozen feet were almost guaranteed to follow. The odds of a vehicle with the van's center of gravity staying upright during that kind of sudden detour? Let's just say they were much worse than the odds of Fiji finding her prairie dog. The immutable truth was that if the right rear tire crossed the shoulder and completed the first little slide, the van was going to start to roll. And once it started to roll, it wasn't going to stop for a while.
    If the van does go off the lane, I thought , anticipating the aftermath of the almost certain disaster that was coming, maybe I'll consider going over to help after I corral my dogs.
    I had all those thoughts from the sitting position that I'd ended up in as I avoided the fender of the van. As I tried to regain an upright posture, my balance, and my bearings, the wind carried a cocktail of obnoxious fumes to my nose. Three components dominated the aroma: cow shit from Weld County, overheated motor oil, and burning tobacco leaves.
    Two conclusions were instantaneous for me. The van needed a ring job, or worse, and someone in the van--Eric or the woman in the passenger seat--needed a nicotine patch. The stockyards? No conclusion was necessary.
    The woman hadn't lowered her voice at all. The passenger-side window, open, I assumed, to release the cigarette smoke, permitted me to hear her continuing play-by-play: "The dog! Eric, stop! Stop! Go . . . back. Stop! Eric! Did you even see the little--"
    The dog?
    From my vantage, it appeared that Eric wasn't stopping. Eric didn't even seem to slow. He had instead decided to chance the application of brute horsepower to try to keep his vehicle on the lane. The van's engine roared and whined as the RPM climbed. The back wheels continued to spin faster and slide sideways in mockery of Eric's strategy.
    I suspected that Eric wasn't aware that he had yet another unwelcome surprise just ahead of him. The curve he was currently navigating, not very successfully, was only the first C-bend of an S-curve.
    S, like in shithead. I muttered, "Asshole," as I scrambled toward the other side of the lane on my hands and knees after Fiji.
    I had already tugged on the lead. I had tried to call out to the puppy but failed both times to get past the F . My vocal cords were coated by dust and smothered by pressure from my suddenly swollen heart. The rest was beyond my capability.
    I'd felt dead weight when I yanked on my end of the leash.
    Jonas doesn't need this, is what I was thinking . Jonas can't take this.
    Please. Please. Please.

5
    L auren and I were worried about Jonas's reaction to the sale of what had been his family home.
    Weeks before, on the afternoon before the sale of the house became final, I asked Jonas if he would like to spend one last night in the room where he'd slept while growing up.
    "Maybe," he said after a moment's contemplation. Way too much trauma and loss had left Jonas a tentative kid.
    "Dogs or no dogs?" I asked.
    He said, "Didn't have a dog then. So, no dogs. If . . . I decide to do it."
    Jonas was growing more cryptic as he aged. I