Wayfaring Stranger (Holland Family Saga 1)

“I passed the test a few months back but only got promoted recently. It’s a little late for me, though. I’m fixing to retire and buy a beach home down by Padre Island.”

Grandfather worked himself up on the pillow, one hand propped behind him. The detective wore a half smile on his face. He unhooked the window screen and flipped his cigarette into the yard. “What’s an old fart like you doing by himself?” he said.

“Listening to the radio.”

“You were listening to the radio.” The detective clicked it off. “When are they due home?”

“Who?”

“Your grandson and his wife.”

“They didn’t tell me.”

“Then why did you just look at the clock?”

“I listen to Lux Radio Theatre every Sunday night.”

“It’s not Sunday.”

“That’s probably why it didn’t come on. What do you want with my grandson?”

“I’d like to make things easier for him and the little woman.” Slakely sniffed and pinched at one nostril. “What’s that odor?”

“A pot of stewed tomatoes and peppers I have on slow boil.”

“I think it’s you. Somebody hasn’t been taking care of you. You need somebody to wash you. You want me to take you to the tub and do it for you?”

Grandfather could see the neighbor’s lighted windows through the live oaks and pecan trees in the side yard. He could hear music playing on his neighbor’s radio and leaves tumbling across the yard, striking the screens.

“An old man is a nasty thing,” Slakely said. “He yellows the sheets and leaves his stink in everything he lies on.”

“How much do you want?”

“How much what?”

“Money.”

“I was thinking more in terms of stock options. You know what? I’m going to bring a washcloth in here and wipe you down.”

“Have you ever been shot?”

“A few have tried.”

“I killed six men. I wish things had worked out otherwise. But they didn’t give me much selection. Has it ever been that way with you?”

“Is there supposed to be some kind of message in that?”

“You could call it that. You’re about two seconds away from getting your head blown off.”

“Get up, old man. I’m taking you in the bathroom. I think you messed yourself.”

Grandfather peeled the sheet off his hand and forearm. “I had it converted for conventional ammunition in 1880. I shot one of Bill Dalton’s gang off a windmill with it. He fell straight down into the cattle tank.” He raised the barrel of the revolver so it was pointed at Slakely’s face. He cocked the hammer with his thumb.

“It looks like a relic to me,” Slakely said.

“If you can see into the chambers, you’ll notice there’s an ‘X’ cut in the nose of each round. It’s more or less the equivalent of getting hit with four pieces of buckshot. The exit wound is the size of a silver dollar. In your case, there won’t be an exit wound. Your skull and your brain matter will be on the wall.”

“Hold on.” Slakely stepped back involuntarily, trying not to raise his hand in front of him.