safe now.” She drew an arm across her forehead. “Maybe it’s an omen.”
“Actually, it’s probably not the safest thing for you to be jogging on this side of town, Patricia.”
It was particularly not safe for a striking and voluptuous young woman like Patricia. Tell had been reviewing weekly crime logs going back four months. Tuesdays through Sundays in their neighborhood seemed especially treacherous. “No kidding,” he said, “you really ought not to be running alone.”
“I can believe that,” Patricia said. “Do you run, Tell?”
“I used to, back in the day. But it’s been a good long while.”
“So start again. Run with me tomorrow?”
He could spare an hour or so for a morning run.
But hell, what was Patricia? Maybe twenty-four or twenty-five?
Marita had been twenty-seven to Tell’s thirty-seven when she died. Somehow that didn’t seem quite the age gulf it should have been.
But this was just a jog.
Yet it smacked of a mistake … and certainly an excellent way of getting on the wrong side of the local press.
He said, “Patricia …”
“It’s not safe for me to run alone, Chief. You said so yourself.”
“And that’s true. But I don’t think your boyfriend—who is scheduled to interview me in a few hours—would take it real well.”
“Not my boyfriend. I’m well past boyfriends.”
“Begging your pardon,” Tell said, “but last night Shawn said—”
“We’re not seeing each other anymore.”
“He know that, Patricia?”
“Shawn will know soon.”
“Okay. Maybe when he knows how it is, you’ll ask me again?”
“It’s just a jog, Tell. Not a date.”
“Absolutely. But all the same.”
“Tell, I’m just asking for you to go out running with me. To get all sweaty and out of breath
protecting
me. That’s all.”
“You’re relentless, Patricia.” He smiled. “Okay, sure. Tomorrow morning, this time, let’s go for a run. But only if you lay back. Like I said, it’s been a good while and I’m apt to lose my legs, fast.” He smiled. “You know CPR in case this goes really south for an old man like me?”
“Sure,
old man
. And great—great you’ll do it.” Patricia smiled and brushed more hair back from her face. “You’re on my way so I’ll knock on your door.”
“Perfect,” Tell said, half looking forward to Saturday morning, and already half regretting it.
* * *
Able Hawk sat at the breakfast table with his grandson, Amos, who was in his second year of studying criminology in neighboring Vale County. Able was frustrated he couldn’t find more time to help the boy, who he sensed was struggling with his studies.
Amos—Amos Tudor Sharp—had been living with his lawman grandfather since his junior year of high school. Able’s wife, Katy, had died after a swift but brutal bout with cervical cancer several years before. Their daughter, Nancy, driven by her mother’s sharp decline and death, had gone in for her own testing, fearing there might be something genetic at work. Nancy had checked out fine in that area, but the doctors had found a lump in her right breast. Turned out it was indeed cancer, and it had already spread to Able’s daughter’s lungs and lymph nodes. Nancy was dead in less than three months. Little better than a bald skeleton when they buried her, Able’s daughter was wasted by the disease and weeks of aggressive chemo and radiation therapy that doctors later admitted probably hastened her decline and did flat nothing to stop the course of the cancer raging through her body.
Nancy had been deserted by Amos’s father when their boy was only two months old. So Able had, in every sense, been Amos’s father for the boy’s entire life.
Chip Sharp was so long missing and presumed dead by most around Horton County that no one bothered looking when Amos was orphaned. It was a presumed thing that Able would take the boy in after the cancer killed his mother.
Amos looked like his father’s side: tall and slender with
“Actually, it’s probably not the safest thing for you to be jogging on this side of town, Patricia.”
It was particularly not safe for a striking and voluptuous young woman like Patricia. Tell had been reviewing weekly crime logs going back four months. Tuesdays through Sundays in their neighborhood seemed especially treacherous. “No kidding,” he said, “you really ought not to be running alone.”
“I can believe that,” Patricia said. “Do you run, Tell?”
“I used to, back in the day. But it’s been a good long while.”
“So start again. Run with me tomorrow?”
He could spare an hour or so for a morning run.
But hell, what was Patricia? Maybe twenty-four or twenty-five?
Marita had been twenty-seven to Tell’s thirty-seven when she died. Somehow that didn’t seem quite the age gulf it should have been.
But this was just a jog.
Yet it smacked of a mistake … and certainly an excellent way of getting on the wrong side of the local press.
He said, “Patricia …”
“It’s not safe for me to run alone, Chief. You said so yourself.”
“And that’s true. But I don’t think your boyfriend—who is scheduled to interview me in a few hours—would take it real well.”
“Not my boyfriend. I’m well past boyfriends.”
“Begging your pardon,” Tell said, “but last night Shawn said—”
“We’re not seeing each other anymore.”
“He know that, Patricia?”
“Shawn will know soon.”
“Okay. Maybe when he knows how it is, you’ll ask me again?”
“It’s just a jog, Tell. Not a date.”
“Absolutely. But all the same.”
“Tell, I’m just asking for you to go out running with me. To get all sweaty and out of breath
protecting
me. That’s all.”
“You’re relentless, Patricia.” He smiled. “Okay, sure. Tomorrow morning, this time, let’s go for a run. But only if you lay back. Like I said, it’s been a good while and I’m apt to lose my legs, fast.” He smiled. “You know CPR in case this goes really south for an old man like me?”
“Sure,
old man
. And great—great you’ll do it.” Patricia smiled and brushed more hair back from her face. “You’re on my way so I’ll knock on your door.”
“Perfect,” Tell said, half looking forward to Saturday morning, and already half regretting it.
* * *
Able Hawk sat at the breakfast table with his grandson, Amos, who was in his second year of studying criminology in neighboring Vale County. Able was frustrated he couldn’t find more time to help the boy, who he sensed was struggling with his studies.
Amos—Amos Tudor Sharp—had been living with his lawman grandfather since his junior year of high school. Able’s wife, Katy, had died after a swift but brutal bout with cervical cancer several years before. Their daughter, Nancy, driven by her mother’s sharp decline and death, had gone in for her own testing, fearing there might be something genetic at work. Nancy had checked out fine in that area, but the doctors had found a lump in her right breast. Turned out it was indeed cancer, and it had already spread to Able’s daughter’s lungs and lymph nodes. Nancy was dead in less than three months. Little better than a bald skeleton when they buried her, Able’s daughter was wasted by the disease and weeks of aggressive chemo and radiation therapy that doctors later admitted probably hastened her decline and did flat nothing to stop the course of the cancer raging through her body.
Nancy had been deserted by Amos’s father when their boy was only two months old. So Able had, in every sense, been Amos’s father for the boy’s entire life.
Chip Sharp was so long missing and presumed dead by most around Horton County that no one bothered looking when Amos was orphaned. It was a presumed thing that Able would take the boy in after the cancer killed his mother.
Amos looked like his father’s side: tall and slender with
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