Meadowlarks by Thomas Holladay (novels to improve english TXT) 📗

No, not like here.

People here lived long in years and stayed healthy. Jethro and Mary Lou had both lived more than a hundred years and Jethro had died before his time.

Look at Willis. How long?

This valley of wonder.

Enough. Time to prepare.

He opened his medicine bag and poured out his small sticks, smooth stones and chips of bone.

AT 10:44PM, KIRBY SAT in his car with the engine running and the heater on high, cold as dry ice. He looked at the half empty bottle of whiskey on the passenger seat, a constant invitation take a long pull. He shook his head. "No, no, no."

Stay sober. 

God, it's cold out here.

“To hell with it.”

Hands shaking from the cold, he spun off the cap and tilted up the bottle, holding it away from his chattering teeth, pouring whisky all the way back to his throat.

“Jesus!”

He’d splashed some down his chin and shirt. He jerked a little and spilled more into his crotch. He spun the cap back onto the bottle and set it on the passenger seat.

Small wonder he felt so cold. His pants, socks and shoes were still soaking wet from walking in fresh snow. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at the rifle, upright against the front of the passenger seat. The stalk rested on the floor.

The oak stalk had a nice polish, hand rubbed linseed oil. He leaned across and felt the stalk, hot from the car heater.

“Idiot!”

He slipped off his wet Bruno Magli loafers and put them on the passenger side floor, under the heater and next to the oak stock of the M1 Garand. He pushed his seat back and lifted his wet pants and stocking feet as high under the dash as possible, close to the driver’s side heater, getting hot already. The large interior would take time to heat. He’d only been out here fifteen minutes.

It’s a Bentley.

It would get warm. It had been warm enough driving up to this stupid place.

He turned on the car radio and hit the scan button. The digital frequency numbers flashed through two rotations without stopping. He opened the center consol and pulled out a CD, didn’t matter what. He pushed it into the slot.

Middle of the Road by the Pretenders blasted too loud. He turned it down.

Funny how he’d never thought about it. His father had had a wide range of tastes. Kirby had forgotten that he'd liked the Pretenders. He'd liked the Beatles too, and the Stones.

He turned on the dome light and flipped through CDs. The rest were either classical or bluegrass, hillbilly crap, and the two Manheim Steamroller he’d thrown in to impress Carolyn.  He turned off the light, closed the console and settled into his seat.

By the time the Pretenders hit their second cut, snow had completely covered his windshield. Snowfall now came too fast and thick for the defroster to keep up. He hit the wipers and brushed it off.

Great.

Now he could watch falling snow.

One of those stupid birds landed on the snow covered hood and looked at him, bringing back that ominous touch of dread.

He tried to ignore the stupid bird then another one landed next to it, both looking in at him. Maybe they wanted to come in and get warm.

Ha-ha.

Who cares? 

Moon must be up.

He looked back through the driver's side window. A glow from beyond snow and clouds rested above the roof of the barn.

He settled back in his seat and looked at the half empty bottle of whiskey.

Not now. 

Ah.

The car had warmed and his feet felt toasty. He switched all the heat to the windshield and watched the snow melt. The defroster kept up now, melting snow as quickly as it fell.

“Damn.”

Three birds now sat on his hood, all looking at him. His heartbeat quickened and his gut tightened. They might be attracted by the heat from his engine.

No.

Not with Bentley insulation. Snow hadn’t melted on the hood.

Turning into another long night, 11:28 already.

He settled back, getting comfortable. His eyes grew heavy, nice and warm now.

A bird smacked into his windshield and he bolted up, wide awake. Its wings slapped against the glass and it pecked, tat-tat-tat. Tom remembered that movie by Hitchcock, the one he'd watched on TV when he was a kid.

The Birds.

There were several birds now, all looking at Kirby as if trying to tell him something.

"What, you want to come inside? Get stuffed and roasted.”

His stomach twitched, instinctive fear, and he looked at the bottle of whiskey.

No, you idiot.

Stay frosty.

He needed to kill this thing, whatever it was. He could still win Carolyn. They’d stay up here during the summer, go fishing with the kid. He’d have access to all that money. He could keep that little lady down in Bridgeport, a nice piece on the side.

Fantastic.

Yeah, right.

That sense of dread hammered at his chest, impossible to know why.

Mona. Think about Mona.

They could keep it a secret from Joanne, see Mona whenever her daddy was on the road. With Carolyn's money, he could buy a nice motor home and keep it parked down in Bridgeport.

Jesus.

Of all the daddy’s in the world, hers had to be a mountain ops instructor.

Badass Marines.

With her full, ripe body, Kirby had difficulty believing she was so young, the way she hungered for his manhood. In two or three years, when her daddy wasn’t around, they wouldn’t need to hide from the stepmother. She’d probably be afraid to say anything anyway. Kirby would make sure Mona took the pill, of course.

Kirby leaned across and found his shoes, dry enough. He slipped them on and looked outside, all quiet except for the birds, too many now to count. Most of them looked at him. Some of them flew and flapped against the windshield.

Jesus.

Fear gripped him, more than just these birds, hard to understand.

Stupid birds.

He needed to think about something else, in spite of the noise from flapping, pecking birds.

Unfamiliar guilt pushed in, his actions toward Carolyn, his drinking, his gambling, his