The Dead Past by Tom Piccirilli Read Free Book Online Page B

Harraday's home I stopped at a two-pump gas station and asked directions. Turns out I wasn't in the general vicinity after all— Harraday lived to the east of Warner fork, where the peak of the hills met the river as the waters curved south along the grade, washing down into the valley. There weren't many road signs; some had been blown down in the storm, and some were probably still standing but invisible in the snow. The rest had been shot to pieces. I made a few more mistakes, the worst of which was when I followed a muddy trail to a dead end and had to drive a half mile in reverse back to the main road because the path was too narrow to turn around on.
    Finally I spotted a mailbox someone had dug free from the snow: MILNER. I kept going another quarter mile to the next place. The mailbox there stood covered by layers of ice, which served to magnify the name: HARRADAY. I pulled up and parked at the bottom of a long, partially graveled driveway with only a single tire track cutting across the ground. Tons rode a motorcycle, even in winter.
    Though it was more than a mile away, I could clearly hear the chops of the river. Broghin had said Richie Harraday was a creep from a long line of creeps; that could be true, but apparently Harraday's father at least had once been a logger. Lumberjack houses had the same general structure to them: mostly brick and mortar, with stone foundations, as if knowing how easy it was to cut down wood they set themselves inside homes with more permanence. Off to one side of the house a trailer sat on cinder blocks, like a newly added room slapped onto the cramped quarters.
    Before I could start for the house I heard the rough sound of running behind me, chunks of snow kicking up. I spun and two Dobermans that had never had their ears pinched stopped on a dime and stared at me without emotion. They didn't growl or bark or advance, and their nubby tails didn't wag in the slightest. They looked odd without their ears pointed, a tad friendlier maybe, but their yellow eyes gave multitudes of reasons why Dobermans are not man's best friend. They're also just about the only breed of dog that can look completely ferocious without baring their fangs. Not even Anubis can do that.
    These two were brothers, a team, standing equidistant from my left and right sides, fifteen feet away. I did my best not to swallow, blink, or breathe. All three of us were very good at playing statue and we stayed like that for a good three or four minutes, which, relatively speaking, seemed like an hour's worth of real time. If I ran I wouldn't even make it to the Jeep.
    Cripes, didn't anybody own poodles or basset hounds anymore?
    Another two or three minutes passed and I was getting tired and cold; I lifted my foot up to take a step and they both began to growl . I put my foot back on the ground very carefully and decided I wasn't really that tired or cold.
    A large man wearing a ripped, red flannel shirt and a leather vest came out of the house and casually walked up behind the Dobermans. The dogs didn't turn, their gazes nailed on me. I felt the ridiculous urge to shriek yahoos! and cover my crotch.
    He let me stew a while longer, enjoying himself. He stood at least six foot five, muscular, but with a fair amount of fat around the middle, built for the mountains.
    He had tiny features scrunched into the center of a wide face and a well-trimmed beard.
    Sweat rolled down my spine and made me itch like hell. He lit a cigarette and said quietly, "I suppose you got a reason for sneakin ' around my property."
    "I wasn't sneaking." At the sound of my voice the Dobermans inched closer.
    "Fred and Barney made sure of that."
    "Are you Tons Harraday ?"
    "Yeah," he said. "Who're you?"
    I told him my name and my reason for being here; I did it without moving my lips and put Edgar Bergan to shame. The story was strange and involving, and explaining it to Tons was like making my lists again, coming up short with limited information. I