Worse Angels by Laird Barron

Author:Laird Barron [Barron, Laird]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Mystery & Detective, Hard-Boiled, Thrillers, Suspense, Crime
ISBN: 9780593084991
Google: mDTgDwAAQBAJ
Amazon: B07XCGHD2V
Goodreads: 49646661
Publisher: G.P. Putnam’s Sons
Published: 2020-05-15T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Morning came along in a hurry.

I showered, dressed for trudging in the woods, trailer parks, and abandoned towns, then splurged for breakfast on my tab in the enormously expensive hotel restaurant. The plan was to head home that afternoon and table the legwork aspect of the investigation until I’d successfully withstood the holidays.

The boys awaited me at the motel. Decent weather; bright and cold. I presented Bellow a sack of donuts and hot coffee from a chain shop. His eyes were watery and owlish. Otherwise, he was tip-top and raring to charge. Lionel, conversely, looked like he’d toppled off the back of a speeding garbage truck. The motel wall kept him upright until he staggered forward and performed a Chaplin-esque face-plant into the backseat of the SUV.

“He went to bed in those clothes,” I said.

“Same clothes, same face,” Lionel said without raising his head from where he’d tucked it between his knees. Two days without shaving and he had the makings of a beard. “Those girls last night. They had an interesting comment about the Jeffers site.”

“Don’t you puke in here, soldier.” I might have gunned the engine and peeled rubber with slightly more exuberance than exiting the motel lot warranted. “You were blabbing about the case with a pair of barflies? Go on.”

“Amigo, I was investigating. One of ’em said the collider site gets active after sundown. People see unusual lights and hear odd sounds out there at night.”

“Patrols,” I said. “Night watchmen doing their rounds.”

“The girls said there aren’t any night watchmen.” He breathed heavily. “I think we got ourselves a Hardy Boys mystery on our hands. Curse of the Collider.”

“Lord, he slept in the tub,” Bellow said to me under his breath.

“Lucky you,” I said. “I’ve fished him out of the toilet as the bubbles were getting smaller.”

“Today will be a day of suffering,” Lionel said.

“He happens to himself,” I said to Bellow.

“I could use a drink,” Lionel said, muffled. “Hair of the dog.”

“Lionel, there aren’t any fucking drinks left,” I said.

“Guys. I may have to execute a Technicolor yawn.” He remained in the duck-and-cover position, to my consternation. “Um. What goes down will come up. Curse of the Tequila Shots!”

I urgently pressed the power window controls.

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