Wait for Signs by Craig Johnson

Author:Craig Johnson
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2014-10-20T16:00:00+00:00

TOYS FOR TOTS

She has always enjoyed pushing buttons; I think she got it from her mother, who was always quick to punch the ones in elevators. She likes gadgets—phones, cameras, computers—anything with buttons.

I said nothing as she adjusted the heater higher and turned the louvers in the vent toward herself, closing her eyes and savoring the warmth. The windshield wipers, set on automatic, slapped across the glass three times.

“Gimme your gun.”

“Why?”

“I wanna shoot you.”

With more than a quarter-century in law enforcement, I’m savvy to the ways of criminals and emotionally disturbed people. “No.”

She’d just arrived from Philadelphia, and we were driving down from the Billings airport to the town proper on the winding Zimmerman Trail. It was close to Christmas, and my daughter needed things. Cady pulled a few strands of strawberry blond hair from her face with a bright grin. “So . . . I’ll ask again, what do you want for the holidays?”

“I don’t need anything.”

She turned in the seat and, refusing to dim the cheer, reached back and scratched the fur behind Dog’s ears. He grinned, too. “That—is not what I asked.”

I navigated the intersection at Grand and Twenty-seventh Street. “I’d rather you saved your money.” I slowed the truck and watched the first snowflakes drift innocently down from the darkened sky, the way they always did; we were two hours from home across some of the emptiest high plains countryside, and I wasn’t fooled. “Do we have to go to the mall?”

Three more slaps of the wipers.

Cady’s clear, frank, gray eyes traveled across the defrosting windshield in my direction with a frost of their own. “You are not adopting the proper gift-purchasing and gift-giving attitude.” She let that statement settle before continuing. “No, we don’t have to go to the mall; but if you could run me down to Gillette, I’d like to get you a ton of bulk product for Christmas.”

Gillette, Wyoming—with one of the largest open-pit coal mines in the world.

“A week ago, you said we could do some shopping when you picked me up.”

I did.

“You promised.”

I had.

She stretched out a hand, the sleeve of her Burberry coat riding up her arm, and flipped on the radio, readjusting the station to “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.” “You always get like this at the holidays.” She fooled with the search button, this time coming up with Andy Williams and “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.” “What’s the best gift Mom ever gave you?”

“You.”

Three slaps.

“Besides me.”

I thought about it but couldn’t really come up with anything. I added, as an afterthought, “She bought me these Peerless stainless-steel handcuffs that are on my belt.”

“I’m not buying you handcuffs for Christmas.” She pulled the visor down, sliding open the hidden mirror I always forgot was there, and smoothed her lip gloss with her index finger. “What about your radio?”

I glanced at my dash and Andy Williams. “What’s wrong with my radio?”

Cady snapped her reflection shut and flipped the visor up with a wave of her hand.

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