One Perfect Shot (Posadas County Mysteries) by Steven F. Havill

Author:Steven F. Havill [Havill, Steven F.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781615952809
Publisher: Sourcebooks
Published: 2011-12-31T06:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-two

I ground enough coffee for half a pot, and then wondered if I’d made enough. The aroma of Sumatran beans sent my hand to the cabinet, and I had the cigarette pack in my hand before hesitating. Just one butt, the narcotic habit coaxed. But the pack hadn’t been unzipped, and I knew damn well that if I opened it, one cigarette wouldn’t be the end of it. With a grunt of impatience, I tossed the pack back and shut the door. Maybe tomorrow, after breakfast.

While my seriously pokey coffee maker tried to figure out what to do, I stretched out on the old leather couch down in the library—my own personal rotunda, the circular architecture reminiscent of a kiva. The arc of cherry shelving was a pleasure to the eye and touch, loaded now with my comfortable collection that favored military history. Three volumes lay on the coffee table near at hand, bookmarks indicating that I hadn’t finished any of them.

But my eyelids had concrete blocks attached, and the soft leather reached out and captured me. I tossed my glasses on the table.

This time, the telephone didn’t awaken me. Waiting for it to do so kept sleep at bay. I’d drift off and then jerk awake, unsure whether it had rung or not, then drift off again. Why not just ignore it, one part of the mind suggested. I don’t know what little break I was waiting for, or expecting. Mulling came easy, though, and mulling brought curiosity. There’s at least one advantage of embracing the life of a hermit. Nobody held a clock to my head. The more I thought about the sheriff’s story of the flood, the more my curiosity propped open my eye lids.

“What the hell,” I said, admitting defeat. I heaved myself off the couch. Armed with a Thermos of coffee and proud of myself for leaving the cigarette pack in the cabinet, I left the quiet house. Settling into 310 seemed like the natural thing to do, and with the engine idling softly, I turned the police radio’s volume up and listened to the silence for a few seconds. The county was typically quiet for the early morning hours of this Thursday. That would shortly change as school opened its doors for another season. I thought that the tradition of starting school with only two days remaining in the week was goofy, but they didn’t ask my opinion. Maybe starting with a two-day week gave kids a little hope.

Avoiding town, I headed southeast on State 61. A dozen miles or so would put me in María, a tiny village of two or three extended families with the dubious distinction of having the border fence pass a few yards behind their back doors. The state highway was narrow, without enough traffic to mandate a huge re-engineering job. Little attempt had been made to flatten the road bed, and it followed the ocean waves of the desert. If you went fast enough, you could test the strength of your stomach.

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