Scott Free by John Gilstrap Page B

through his things, pulling out a pint bottle of clear liquid before putting everything back together. “Are you a drinking man?” he asked.
    Maurice smiled and patted his enormous stomach. “I’ve been known to take a sip or two.”
    Teddy handed him the bottle. “Here, then, have this.”
    Maurice laughed. “What is this, moonshine?”
    â€œI guess. That’s what it looks like to me. A guy gave it to me in my travels, but I don’t really partake. I’d like you to have it.”
    Maurice looked at him skeptically. “I don’t know…”
    â€œPlease,” Teddy said. “Otherwise I’ll just pour it out. Be careful with it, though. You probably don’t want to be driving this big rig with that stuff in your veins.”
    â€œWhy, thank you kindly,” Maurice said, accepting the bottle and slipping it into his pocket. “I’m staying just up the road a piece. Maybe this’ll help me sleep.” Suddenly, he seemed anxious to be moving again.
    Teddy smiled. “Thanks again, Maurice. I really appreciate the kindness.” With that, he swung the door closed and waited on the shoulder, waving as the rig pulled away.
    There was indeed a house at the end of the lane, but Teddy had never visited it. He never needed to. The owner was an old moonshiner and hermit named Pembroke. For the tidy sum of $200 a month, Pembroke allowed Teddy to store a dirt bike and a snowmobile on his property, housed in a shed that was so carefully camouflaged that sometimes even Teddy had a hard time finding it. His arrangement with Pembroke was simple: Teddy sent the cash monthly to Pembroke’s post office box, and the old man never asked any questions.
    Of course, Pembroke would never associate the name Teddy with the man who sent him the money every month. That man was known as Kevin Clavan, who just happened to be the same man who people in town knew as Isaac DeHaven.
    In this weather, he didn’t even bother to try the electric starter on the snowmobile. After four pulls and a little adjustment on the choke, it fired right up.
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    S HERRY STARTED TO POUR another scotch, but Larry snatched the bottle from her. And then the glass. “Not tonight,” he started.
    â€œGive that back,” Sherry protested. “You’re not my mother.”
    Larry fired what little had made the glass down his own throat, then headed toward the kitchen with the bottle. “Maybe not, but I’m your keeper, and tonight, you need to keep your head right.”
    â€œLarry! I’m in a crisis.”
    He pivoted to face her, his hands on his hips. “Yes, I know. And we’ve established that it’s my fault. I’ve offered profuse apologies, none of which have been accepted, and now you want to get hammered to make it all go away. I’m not going to let that happen. Brandon has called three times, and sooner or later you’re going to have to talk to him. If you slur your words, he’ll go ballistic.”
    Sherry recoiled at the thought. “I do not slur my words.”
    Larry spun and resumed his strut to the kitchen. “Oh, that’s right. I keep forgetting that the sky is green in your world.”
    The phone rang.
    â€œDo you think Scotty is okay?” Sherry asked, laying her head on the arm of the sofa.
    â€œNo, I don’t think he’s okay. I think he’s been in a plane crash.” The phone rang again. “Are you going to get that?”
    Sherry draped her forearm over her eyes. “No. I know it’s Brandon, and I don’t want to deal with him right now.” She heard him make his exasperated growling sound as he picked up the receiver in the middle of the third ring.
    â€œSherry, it’s for you,” he said. Then, under his breath, “Gee, imagine that, this being your chalet and all. It’s Audrey Lewis.”
    Now, that got her attention. Sherry