The Hollow Tree at Dead Mule Swamp by Joan H. Young Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joan H. Young
channel.
At Mill Street we turned north and
crossed the bridge. A truck door on the opposite side of the street opened, and
Bert Fowler approached menacingly. He must have come home early and found Dee gone.
"What are you doing with my
boy? You've got no right, you motherf…."
"Run, Jimmie!" I hissed,
spinning around and pushing him back in the direction we had come. I hoped
Jimmie would run around the block and get Tracy or Kyle, the deputy. Or maybe
Tracy and Kyle. At least the river prevented Bert from getting around me to
reach the boy. I turned back to face the angry man.
Bert advanced. "Where's Dee?"
"Dee?" I asked, feigning
ignorance.
"You lying bitch. Don't you
think I know she's in your car at the police station?" I'd heard the
expression "mad with rage," but I don't think I'd ever realized it
could be a real condition. It seemed as if his eyes were on fire.
He sprang toward me, and I struck
with the only weapon I had, swinging the bag of food at his head. Fortunately,
the cans of soda were in my bag, making it heavier than the one Jimmie had been
carrying. The bag broke, and Bert's cowboy hat was knocked to the street. The
action must have surprised him because he stepped back. A fruit cup had burst
and bits of melon lodged in his hair. He wiped juice from the side of his face,
and a can of 7-Up rolled away into the raging water.
I saw it go out of the corner of my
eye, and I didn't like how vulnerable I felt on the bridge. The railing was as
old as the bridge itself, made of rusting, fitted pipes and very open. Not all
that high, either.
"Now you are going to learn
not to mess with me," Bert growled. He unzipped his jacket and I saw the
grip of a handgun protruding above his belt.
I stepped back, not daring to turn
away from him, and he reached for my arm. Just then, a shot rang out, and Bert
stumbled, clutching his left shoulder.
"Hold it right there, Bert
Fowler." Tracy must have come from the police station, and down Mill Street. She was now standing on the opposite side of the street to get a good angle on
us.
All in one motion, Bert reached
inside his jacket and turned to face Tracy. She shot again. I didn't see where
the bullet hit, but the force of the blow pushed Bert against the railing. His
slippery cowboy boots scrabbled on the old concrete, and he grabbed for the
railing, but his left arm, at least, was useless. Without a word, he went over
backwards into the roiling flume. The last thing I saw were his eyes boring
into mine, still filled with hatred.
You might think no one would have
attended the funeral of a man like Bert Fowler, but you would be wrong. There
was no church service, however, only a short graveside observance. Of course,
his friends from the bar were there. I only knew Bud, and at that, I didn't
know Bud's real name. But, Chief Tracy Jarvi went too, just because the police
attend local funerals. I went to be with Jimmie, who insisted he wanted to see
the man be put in the ground. The local press was represented by Jerry
Caulfield, distinguished owner, editor and primary reporter for the Cherry
Hill Herald . He stood next to me at the graveside and attempted to ask me
questions for a human interest story, before the burial service began. Although
Jerry was a nice person, I was uncomfortable answering with Jimmie at my other
side. Of course Adele was there. She never missed an important Cherry Hill event.
Dee, however, was still in the
hospital. As it turned out she was, indeed, not well. Her obesity was due, for
the most part, to serious hypothyroidism, which had gone untreated for at least
the three years she had been with Bert. They were trying to stabilize her, and
to get her medication levels adjusted. Jimmie was overjoyed that his mom was
going to get well.
The ceremony was brief, and to the
point. No one, not even Bud, had any eulogies to give for Bert Fowler.
After the service, Jerry Caulfield
and Adele walked with Jimmie and me back to our cars.
"You
At Mill Street we turned north and
crossed the bridge. A truck door on the opposite side of the street opened, and
Bert Fowler approached menacingly. He must have come home early and found Dee gone.
"What are you doing with my
boy? You've got no right, you motherf…."
"Run, Jimmie!" I hissed,
spinning around and pushing him back in the direction we had come. I hoped
Jimmie would run around the block and get Tracy or Kyle, the deputy. Or maybe
Tracy and Kyle. At least the river prevented Bert from getting around me to
reach the boy. I turned back to face the angry man.
Bert advanced. "Where's Dee?"
"Dee?" I asked, feigning
ignorance.
"You lying bitch. Don't you
think I know she's in your car at the police station?" I'd heard the
expression "mad with rage," but I don't think I'd ever realized it
could be a real condition. It seemed as if his eyes were on fire.
He sprang toward me, and I struck
with the only weapon I had, swinging the bag of food at his head. Fortunately,
the cans of soda were in my bag, making it heavier than the one Jimmie had been
carrying. The bag broke, and Bert's cowboy hat was knocked to the street. The
action must have surprised him because he stepped back. A fruit cup had burst
and bits of melon lodged in his hair. He wiped juice from the side of his face,
and a can of 7-Up rolled away into the raging water.
I saw it go out of the corner of my
eye, and I didn't like how vulnerable I felt on the bridge. The railing was as
old as the bridge itself, made of rusting, fitted pipes and very open. Not all
that high, either.
"Now you are going to learn
not to mess with me," Bert growled. He unzipped his jacket and I saw the
grip of a handgun protruding above his belt.
I stepped back, not daring to turn
away from him, and he reached for my arm. Just then, a shot rang out, and Bert
stumbled, clutching his left shoulder.
"Hold it right there, Bert
Fowler." Tracy must have come from the police station, and down Mill Street. She was now standing on the opposite side of the street to get a good angle on
us.
All in one motion, Bert reached
inside his jacket and turned to face Tracy. She shot again. I didn't see where
the bullet hit, but the force of the blow pushed Bert against the railing. His
slippery cowboy boots scrabbled on the old concrete, and he grabbed for the
railing, but his left arm, at least, was useless. Without a word, he went over
backwards into the roiling flume. The last thing I saw were his eyes boring
into mine, still filled with hatred.
You might think no one would have
attended the funeral of a man like Bert Fowler, but you would be wrong. There
was no church service, however, only a short graveside observance. Of course,
his friends from the bar were there. I only knew Bud, and at that, I didn't
know Bud's real name. But, Chief Tracy Jarvi went too, just because the police
attend local funerals. I went to be with Jimmie, who insisted he wanted to see
the man be put in the ground. The local press was represented by Jerry
Caulfield, distinguished owner, editor and primary reporter for the Cherry
Hill Herald . He stood next to me at the graveside and attempted to ask me
questions for a human interest story, before the burial service began. Although
Jerry was a nice person, I was uncomfortable answering with Jimmie at my other
side. Of course Adele was there. She never missed an important Cherry Hill event.
Dee, however, was still in the
hospital. As it turned out she was, indeed, not well. Her obesity was due, for
the most part, to serious hypothyroidism, which had gone untreated for at least
the three years she had been with Bert. They were trying to stabilize her, and
to get her medication levels adjusted. Jimmie was overjoyed that his mom was
going to get well.
The ceremony was brief, and to the
point. No one, not even Bud, had any eulogies to give for Bert Fowler.
After the service, Jerry Caulfield
and Adele walked with Jimmie and me back to our cars.
"You