Fishermen's Court by Andrew Wolfendon
Author:Andrew Wolfendon [Wolfendon, Andrew]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781684332854
Publisher: Black Rose Writing
Published: 2019-06-19T16:00:00+00:00
. . . . .
After recovering Danny’s slicker from where I stashed it, I creep up on Jeannie’s house from the rear. I’ve taken the woodland route to her place so as to avoid attention.
I shouldn’t have come here, I know; it’s far too risky. For me, for Jeannie. But I need a dry shelter to get my bearings and use the Internet, and I don’t know where else to go.
It feels invasive to enter Jean’s house without her here. Of course, it used to be my house too, but it no longer carries my energy.
After peering out the windows in all directions and closing the shades, the first thing I do is strip off my sopping-wet clothes and toss them into the dryer, then wrap a towel around my waist. Getting semi-naked in Jean’s house feels like a creepy thing to do, but I have no choice.
I need to get my business done as quickly as possible and get out of here.
For a minute I can’t remember where the dialup modem is, and then I find it on the desk in the living room. I peek out a couple of windows again—no signs of company yet—then plug the modem’s cable into my borrowed laptop.
I’m about to try to get online when my phone rings again, flooding my nerves with adrenaline. Angie. I see it was her who called while I was in the town barn, too. It’s after eleven a.m.; I guess she’s up and semi-conscious by now. I tap the Answer icon, and the call seems to come through, then disconnects. Here we go again. Cell service is still frigged.
I do need to talk to Angie, though, I realize. For reasons of my own. May as well do it now. Luckily, I have Jeannie’s landline at my disposal. I dial Angie’s number on it.
I need to handle this call carefully. My sister is acting bristly about my questioning, and now I have an even more bristle-inducing question to ask her.
“Jeannie?” croaks Angie; her first vocalization of the day. Her caller ID must be showing Jeannie’s number. “What’s up?”
“No, it’s Finn.”
“Finn? What are you—I’ve been trying your cell.” Yeah, thanks for that, sis. “Hey listen, did I call you last night? If so, forget it. It was nothing.” Ah, the Angie Saturday Morning Soft-Shoe: who did I drunk-dial last night and what did I say?
“Ange, I need to ask you a question, and it might seem weird.”
A beat passes. “Does this have to do with all that skeevy crap you’ve been poking into? I told you, no more help with that until you tell me why you’re so interested.”
“Why do you care what my interest is?” I ask, flipping the question on her. “Why are you acting so touchy about this?”
Silence. I can feel dark energy massing at the other end of the line.
“Angie? Why?”
She finally blurts out, “Because you and I both know this is not a random, innocent line of questioning!”
Ah, there it is.
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