Page 67 of Overkill

She turned and walked back to her car.

Even as she drove away, I couldn’t believe it. I had lived in fear of my pending arrest for so long. Now, it was over. The weight had been lifted.

But the phantom fear remained.

The phantom fear, and the sound of raindrops on a metal roof as thunder crashed somewhere above the valley.

It wasn’t over. It couldn’t be. I didn’t believe it.

Chapter 23

This Is Justice

Vedder

Old Man Smithy’s real name was Jonathan Smith, and he may or may not have been as old as the valley itself. I almost wanted to ask him what he thought when George Washington marched through on his way to the Battle of Saratoga. He was gruff, short on words, and shorter on politeness. Just a big-ass grump of an old man in general.

I kinda wanted to be him when I got older.

He was waiting for me on his small porch with his arms crossed, his white hair barely combed. I was greeted with a grunt when I approached, then he walked inside, leaving his front door open. I guess that was an invitation to come inside?

I stopped at the threshold, peeking into the old cabin. It contained a single big living space with a kitchen, a small living room, and a breakfast nook near the window that overlooked the river bank. I could see his boathouse was just a stone’s throw away.

The rain obscured the mountain on the other side.

“Coffee?” he huffed. “How do you take it?”

“Just black, thanks.”

He gave a little “hm” which must have been a sound of approval. I guessed that he was not the kind of man who respected coffee embellishments. Probably not a pumpkin spice kind of guy.

He walked over to the cabinet, pulling down a chipped mug before filling it. A bit of coffee sloshed out as he placed it in front of me, leaving a black circle on his dark-stained wooden table.

“Braun sent you to talk to me,” he said. As he leaned back, his broad shoulders showed evidence of an active life. “So talk.”

He loudly sipped from his mug. I pulled a small notebook and pen out of my back pocket and dove right in.

“Could you talk me through what you saw the morning we found Luke Gray?” I was doodling on the page. I had no real intention to take notes.

“Hmm,” he groaned. “I saw that son of a bitch. Recognized his shirt. He wore it a lot on that stupid boat of his. The man was an ass on the river as he was in life. Made a lot of noise, scared the fish.”

I tapped the pen against the pad, wanting to write it down but also not sure if this was important.

Old Man Smithy didn’t like the Luke. As far as I saw, neither did Melody.

No one seemed to like him, really. Except his own brother. In that sense, he was better off than I was. I couldn’t imagine what my siblings thought of me after all these years.

“You didn’t like him?” I said idly, trying to build rapport so we could get to the good stuff.

“Like him?” He scowled. “You been in the Catskills much, boy?”

Boy. As a grown man well over thirty, being called boy was almost a compliment.

“Naw,” I drawled. “I’m from Kansas.”

He looked at me with disdain. Like Kansas was hell itself.

It kinda was.