Strange Weather: Four Short Stories by Hill Joe

Author:Hill, Joe [Hill, Joe]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Horror, Fantasy, Science Fiction, thriller, Anthologies, Adult
ISBN: 9780062663115
Amazon: 0062663119
Goodreads: 34066621
Publisher: William Morrow
Published: 2017-10-24T07:00:00+00:00

10:28 A.M.

When Kellaway steered his Prius into the courtyard of crushed white shells, Jay Rickles was already in the cab of his pickup, sitting in the open door with his feet on the chrome running board. Kellaway got out of his ride and climbed up into the chief’s.

“That the same thing you were wearing last night?” Rickles asked, slamming the driver’s-side door and starting the truck.

Rickles wore a crisp dress uniform: blue jacket with a double row of brass buttons, blue uniform pants with a black stripe down the sides, Glock on his right hip in a black leather holster that looked as if it had been oiled. Kellaway had on a rumpled blue blazer over a polo.

“It’s the only thing I’ve got I can wear on TV,” Kellaway said.

Rickles grunted. He wasn’t the grinning, grateful, wet-eyed grandpa today. He looked sunburned and irritable. They took off in a bad-tempered lurch of speed.

“This was supposed to be a hero’s welcome,” Rickles said. “You know you and I were going to lay a wreath of white roses together?”

“I thought we were each just lighting a candle.”

“PR thought a wreath would look nice. And the CEO of Sunbelt Marketplace, the guy who manages the Miracle Falls Mall—”

“Yeah. I know him. Russ Dorr?”

“Yeah, him. He was going to give you a Rolex. I don’t know if that’s still happening now. People get skittish about pinning medals on wife beaters.”

Kellaway said, “I never touched Holly in my life. Not once in my life.” It was true. It was Kellaway’s belief that if you reached a point where you had to use your knuckles on a woman, you had already shamefully lost control of the situation.

Rickles slumped a little. Then said, “I’m sorry. I take that back. That was uncalled for.” He paused and said, “I never pointed a gun at my wife, but I used a belt on my oldest daughter, when she was seven. She wrote her name all over the walls in crayon, and I went ballistic. I snapped my belt at her, and the buckle hit her hand and broke three knuckles. This was over two decades ago, but it’s still fresh in my mind. I was drunk at the time. Were you drinking?”

“What? When I threatened her? No. Sober as you are now.”

“It would be better if you had been drinking.” Rickles tapped his thumb on the steering wheel. The police scanner under the dash crackled and men talked, calling out codes in lazy, laconic voices. “I’d give anything to take it back—what I did to my little girl’s hand. Most horrible thing. I was blasted and feeling sorry for myself. Defaulted on a loan. Had my car repoed. Hard times. Do you go to church?”

“No.”

“You might think about it. There’s a part of me that will always carry a bruised heart because of what I did. But I was redeemed through the grace of Jesus, and eventually I found the strength to forgive myself and move on. And now I have all these amazing grandchildren and—”

“Chief?” came a voice on the scanner.

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