The Outlaw Stinky Joe (Baer Creighton Book 4) by Clayton Lindemuth

Author:Clayton Lindemuth [Lindemuth, Clayton]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-03-27T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 25

Should have took a squat before leaving the mountain bunker, but I wanted gone. Now I got a load backed up so far I have to swallow every three steps. Sheer good fortune I spot a long dead log, still has some bark. In the middle, a Y sits level. If I ever see a crapper so fine in the woods again, I’ll camp beside it.

This foil suit—I doubt they got the heat sensors more than a couple hundred yards, after all this time. And it’s tore up anyhow. I tug, and it falls like it would have anyway. Crinkle it tight and drop the ball in my pocket. Ain’t so noisy to move, now.

Guts are pushing hard.

Climb over this branch and duck under that. Shed my britches and plant cheek to wood. They say dropping a good loaf is better than sex—least when you’re old.

Mebbe yesterday I’d a thought so. Truth is, I only been with—lemme count—three women, my whole life. Ruth young, Ruth old, and Tat too young. But each was markedly superior to taking a squat.

Should have grabbed some leaves or moss.

Well, damn.

Plumb my pockets and find nothing.

That load didn’t pinch clean—I can sense it. Close my eyes, and it’s this mood again. Sudden like, the mind goes dark and prickly. Just the way life’ll treat a fella.

“FREEZE!”

Shake my head. Law? Out here? Already? What the holy hell did I do? Head down, eyes closed, I sit like if I don’t see him he won’t see me. It won’t work. Just I’m not ready for this.

The killing to come.

“You’re under arrest.”

“Ahhh, piss off.”

I look up. Turn my noggin to study him straight on. He has his gun on my body so I’d take a bullet in the shoulder. Wears the navy blue jacket. Shiny shoes, out here in the leaves and dirt. Spot a black tie at the V of his neck. Glasses. Marks on his face like Gorbachev, but low where he can’t cover it with a hat.

Just ducky.

“What are you doing?”

“You said freeze.”

“I mean, what are you doing in that tree?”

“Look, my drawers are down.”

“Oh. Well, finish up. You’re under arrest for murder.”

“Murder? Nah—Sedition, more accurate. Say, you got any paper? Or maybe fetch me a handful a leaves? Grab them close off the ground, so they’re damp and not so prickly.”

“I said you’re under arrest. Climb out of that fallen timber, sir.”

What kinda law enforcement accosts a man with his drawers at his knees? Man has no respect—wants to take full advantage because he got the drop. I ain’t saying all lawmen are lying thieving force mongering thugs, but I just come out the mountain, ain’t seen sunlight close to five months, no liquor to salve the mind, living with teen girls, eating dried food and steeped in the evil called television, I confess my mood is low, and I’m quick to judge.

“Well, I heard you. But I got to wipe things clean, right? And since you’re the one in a hurry, that makes the problem yours as much as mine.

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