CSI: Crime Scene Investigation: Skin Deep by Jerome Preisler

Author:Jerome Preisler
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pocket Star Books
Published: 2010-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

Hoppe hoppe Reiter,

Wenn er fällt, dann schreit er,

Fällt er auf die Steine,

Tun ihm weh die Beine.

Hoppe hoppe Reiter,

Wenn er fällt, dann schreit er,

Fällt er in den Graben,

Fressen ihn die Raben.

Hoppe hoppe Reiter,

Wenn er fällt, dann schreit er,

Fällt er in den Sumpf,

Dann macht der Reiter… plumps!

At the rhyme’s conclusion— plumps! —Gunter had abruptly swung Bockem off his lap and across his body with both of his wide, strong hands, the boy’s legs flying horizontally through the air before he was set down standing on the carpet.

Bockem had let out high squeals of laughter when his uncle tricked him like that. He recalled hearing his mother laughing as well from the hallway, where she’d stood watching. Father, though, had looked just faintly amused, if even that, smiling quietly from his favorite chair against the wall opposite the sofa. He had never been demonstrative with his affection.

It was after the nursery rhyme ended that Bockem had wanted to show off his running ability. Gunter had asked his father if it would be all right in English, then repeated the question in German as if to make sure it would not be misinterpreted—“ Wäre ei in Ordnung?”

Father had looked steadily at the boy as he gave his conditional approval, saying he could run back and forth between his armchair and the sofa only once—and reminding him to be careful.

His hands out behind him, Bockem had pushed off from the sofa beside his uncle and darted over to his father, tagging up with his knees, then turning to sprint back across the room.

He did not immediately realize what had happened when he fell. He only knew that one moment he was running toward his uncle, and the next his feet had flipped up underneath him, and he’d felt a hard shove between his shoulder blades. Then he was sprawled on the parlor floor, his nose and mouth mashed into the carpet.

Red-faced with embarrassment, Bockem had stood up, gathered himself, then registered his uncle’s dismayed expression and turned to see what he’d stumbled over.

Still watching Bockem with dispassionate eyes, Father had sat there with his leg stuck straight out, patting it above the ankle to show where he’d tripped him.

“You should trust no one, Junge,” he said. “And beware of life’s random cruelties.”

Bockem had not forgotten that lesson. And if ever he’d done so, Father’s many subsequent reminders would have drilled it into him.

Now he pulled his eyes from the coyote, got out of his vehicle, went around back to open the hatch, and folded back the blanket he’d thrown over the large plastic storage bin in which he’d transported his raw skins from the park. He had laid them out flat in the opaque blue bin, separating them with multiple sheets of waxed paper, then carefully placing another layer of waxed paper on the top skin before the cooling packs went in. Colder than ice, the packs could burn a skin if pressed directly against it, marring its artwork.

Bockem felt the skins slide a little

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