The Deader the Better by G. M. Ford Read Free Book Online Page A

pathologist
for the King County medical examiner were nine to five, Monday
through Friday. Three weekends a month, however, she was on call and
seldom got all the way to Monday without having to make at least one
guest appearance at the morgue. Way I figured it, after failing to
cheer me up, she’d probably feel compelled to resort to gratuitous
hotel sex. What could I do? Might as well go along with the program,
huh? Wadda guy.
    “Sure,” I said. “Why not?”
    She turned right onto heading west toward the edge of the world.
The long way back to Seattle meant circling the Olympic Peninsula,
driving all the way down to Aberdeen, cutting across to Olympia and
then driving the freeway for the last sixty miles home. Maybe eight
hours of driving instead of an hour on the road and twenty minutes on
the ferry. An odd choice for a woman who detests driving in general
and freeway driving in particular. Like she explained to me years
ago, you see enough folks who’ve extruded themselves through the
windshield, you develop a terrific urge to walk.
    Mercifully, she didn’t make me figure it out. “I thought if we
got to Stevens Falls early enough…maybe we could stop and visit
J.D. and Claudia.”
    While pretending to check my watch, I searched my memory banks.
J.D. and Claudia? J.D. and Claudia? I was pretty sure they weren’t
related to me. Yeah, definitely, her family, not mine. An image of a
couple flashed on my inner screen, and I had it. Claudia O’Connor,
Rebecca’s goddaughter. Yeah. Daughter of the late Muriel O’Connor,
Rebecca’s long-ago med school friend from the East Coast. The one
who was always going to come and visit but never quite made it. Since
Muriel’s death last year, Rebecca had been making a concerted
effort to keep in touch with Claudia. Trading cards and calls. I felt
better. At least now I had an explanation why the good Dr. Duvall
would want to spend her off weekend traipsing about the wilderness. I
hate it when she’s more than three steps ahead of me.
    In my mind’s eye I could see a blurry image of Claudia. A pretty
blond girl with long hair parted down the middle. Oversized brown
sweater, long skirt and combat boots. And the wiry little guy who
stood beside her. Very neat and preppy. All angles, cheekbones and
wire-rim glasses.
    “The fisherman,” I said.
    She nodded and smiled. I was awarded style points for remembering.
    “You liked J.D.,” she said.
    She was right. I had liked the guy. The one time I’d met him—a
Thanksgiving dinner, as I recalled, a couple of years ago—he’d
seemed several cuts above most of the thirtysomethings I meet. I
remember we were standing on somebody’s back porch. Screaming kids
had driven me outside. After the football game but before the dinner.
It was raining like hell, and nobody had cleaned the gutters. A solid
wall of water ran off the porch roof. Like standing behind a
waterfall. He’d stuck out his hand. J.D. Springer. He’d handed me
a business card. Neat little picture of a guy with a fish on the
line, standing at the bow of a drift boat. Underneath J. D. SPRINGER,
FISHING GUIDE.
    As with most people who love what they do, he was more than
willing to tell his story. Originally from the eastern part of the
state. Tri-Cities area. Dad a high school English teacher. Mom the
town librarian. Grew up fishing the Columbia and the Snake with his
dad. Rainbow trout, cutthroat, salmon, sturgeon. All two quarters at
Washington State taught him was that, architecture be damned, what he
really wanted to do with his life was to fish. Used his savings to
buy a used sled boat, got himself some business cards printed and
went into the fishing guide business. I recalled what he said to me.
    He said, “I figured, what the heck, I’m nineteen years old. If
a nineteen-year-old can’t take a chance, can’t follow his bliss,
who can? Got plenty of time to be Dilbert later.” I remember how
he’d laughed at the idea of life in a cubicle. Within a couple