him. The only thing Max knows about electronics is how to use an on/off switch. Plus, English is mostly a hard language for Max to read. Big words are impossible. What if he misses an important warning, an instruction? What if, in trying to use this meat smoker, Max burns down Bluefish’s hunting lodge?
Like Jerry always says, screw it. All Max has to do is make heat , not cook the meat . Ha-ha.
Max locates what he hopes is the main on/off switch, and then the digital control with a gauge for recommended temperatures. His thick forefinger finds and pokes the up-arrow on a switch, and presto, a red number appears. Two hundred degrees should be plenty. Today’s mark is already half-dead.
Bluefish’s meat smoker is big enough to hold two whole deer, one on each rack. But clearly Max’s job will be easier if he makes t he space as large as possible. The mark may come to life when he sees where Max wants to put him.
Max slides out the smoker’s chrome rack and sets the table-sized equipment on the floor, leaning it against the bare block basement wall. The clink of metal hitting cold cement echoes in the nearly barren room.
Max climbs the stairs and shuffles through the lodge’s big living room, across the porch and down the front steps to the Lincoln Town Car. A pale blue sky shows where the east wind lives. The air smells of coming rain and lightning.
God himself is about to get pissy.
From the Lincoln’s trunk, Max lifts the mark off the spare tire and onto his shoulders. Though limp now, the young man fought hard earlier. A tough and loyal soldier, this man didn’t make a sound or give up one piece of information when Jerry cut him.
But the mark is not so tough and loyal that Bluefish’s smoker won’t make him talk. Fire and heat make people speak for thousands and thousands of years.
Even lions make noise when fire come s. They cry like babies.
TWENTY-EIGHT
I scramble to the bedroom window again when I hear Creeper’s Jurassic weight stretch the front porch boards. Through dusty glass, I watch Creeper shuffle-skip down the front steps, the big man’s arms and hips maintaining a bouncy rhythm all the way to the Lincoln Town Car. Looks like he might be whistling.
Gee, how nice Creeper i s in such a happy mood. Skipping. Bouncing. Whistling. Maybe Bluefish wants him to strangle some puppies.
Creeper pull s open the Lincoln’s trunk. I have a good angle because of where he’s parked, and I can see a man inside, apparently dead or at least dead drunk. He doesn’t twitch as Creeper snatches him up by the crotch and neck, throws him across his bathtub-sized shoulders. I can see the guy’s black clothes and shape.
The Creeper keeps a jaunty gait as he hauls the familiar human back toward the lodge. The black sack of fertilizer on Creeper’s shoulders is dressed like, and sure looks like, Gianni or Tomas. Whichever, Mama Bones’ nephew isn’t dead yet. He lifts his head slightly, jerks his eyes open while he’s bouncing on Creeper’s shoulders.
Glad he’s not dead. But this means I have to do something. Mama Bones and those two men —Mr. Trim and Mr. Fit—pulled my ass out of a nasty spot a few hours ago. I can’t run away from their trouble.
Well, I could . A lot of stock jockeys I know would duck for an exit. And like I said before when I jumped on Rags, I’m no hero. I have no desire to test myself against Creeper. Are you kidding? It’s just that...well, if Creeper has captured Gianni or Tomas, whichever, what does that say about the present physical condition of lovely Gina Farascio and my charge, Mama Bones?
In particular, I keep thinking about Gina.
Although, maybe right now isn’t the best time. My breath comes in short shallow gasps. My heart’s clunking like a broken electric fan. Creeper does unhealthy things to my blood pressure. Worse even than General Tso’s deep-fried chicken balls.
I unzip Gianni’s bug-out bag. That takes half a minute as the camouflage
Like Jerry always says, screw it. All Max has to do is make heat , not cook the meat . Ha-ha.
Max locates what he hopes is the main on/off switch, and then the digital control with a gauge for recommended temperatures. His thick forefinger finds and pokes the up-arrow on a switch, and presto, a red number appears. Two hundred degrees should be plenty. Today’s mark is already half-dead.
Bluefish’s meat smoker is big enough to hold two whole deer, one on each rack. But clearly Max’s job will be easier if he makes t he space as large as possible. The mark may come to life when he sees where Max wants to put him.
Max slides out the smoker’s chrome rack and sets the table-sized equipment on the floor, leaning it against the bare block basement wall. The clink of metal hitting cold cement echoes in the nearly barren room.
Max climbs the stairs and shuffles through the lodge’s big living room, across the porch and down the front steps to the Lincoln Town Car. A pale blue sky shows where the east wind lives. The air smells of coming rain and lightning.
God himself is about to get pissy.
From the Lincoln’s trunk, Max lifts the mark off the spare tire and onto his shoulders. Though limp now, the young man fought hard earlier. A tough and loyal soldier, this man didn’t make a sound or give up one piece of information when Jerry cut him.
But the mark is not so tough and loyal that Bluefish’s smoker won’t make him talk. Fire and heat make people speak for thousands and thousands of years.
Even lions make noise when fire come s. They cry like babies.
TWENTY-EIGHT
I scramble to the bedroom window again when I hear Creeper’s Jurassic weight stretch the front porch boards. Through dusty glass, I watch Creeper shuffle-skip down the front steps, the big man’s arms and hips maintaining a bouncy rhythm all the way to the Lincoln Town Car. Looks like he might be whistling.
Gee, how nice Creeper i s in such a happy mood. Skipping. Bouncing. Whistling. Maybe Bluefish wants him to strangle some puppies.
Creeper pull s open the Lincoln’s trunk. I have a good angle because of where he’s parked, and I can see a man inside, apparently dead or at least dead drunk. He doesn’t twitch as Creeper snatches him up by the crotch and neck, throws him across his bathtub-sized shoulders. I can see the guy’s black clothes and shape.
The Creeper keeps a jaunty gait as he hauls the familiar human back toward the lodge. The black sack of fertilizer on Creeper’s shoulders is dressed like, and sure looks like, Gianni or Tomas. Whichever, Mama Bones’ nephew isn’t dead yet. He lifts his head slightly, jerks his eyes open while he’s bouncing on Creeper’s shoulders.
Glad he’s not dead. But this means I have to do something. Mama Bones and those two men —Mr. Trim and Mr. Fit—pulled my ass out of a nasty spot a few hours ago. I can’t run away from their trouble.
Well, I could . A lot of stock jockeys I know would duck for an exit. And like I said before when I jumped on Rags, I’m no hero. I have no desire to test myself against Creeper. Are you kidding? It’s just that...well, if Creeper has captured Gianni or Tomas, whichever, what does that say about the present physical condition of lovely Gina Farascio and my charge, Mama Bones?
In particular, I keep thinking about Gina.
Although, maybe right now isn’t the best time. My breath comes in short shallow gasps. My heart’s clunking like a broken electric fan. Creeper does unhealthy things to my blood pressure. Worse even than General Tso’s deep-fried chicken balls.
I unzip Gianni’s bug-out bag. That takes half a minute as the camouflage
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