Free Twice Buried by Steven F. Havill

back.” She glanced heavenward. “Like the flu.”
    “You never know,” I said. “Where are they at?”
    “Orlando…and more power to ’em. They deserve each other.”
    I didn’t want into the middle of that one, so I just tipped a finger to the brim of my Stetson. “Well, the Hocking place is standing empty now until her son in California finds time to straighten out her affairs. I’d appreciate it if you’d kinda look over that way once in a while. If you see anyone nosing around where they shouldn’t be, I’d appreciate a call.” I started to fumble out one of my cards.
    “I know the number,” she said acidly. “By heart.”
    I left the Paradise View Trailer Park nagged by one of those little groundless fears that nevertheless wouldn’t go away. I wondered if, in fifteen years, Estelle Reyes-Guzman and her son would have to suffer the same kind of rift that separated Miriam and Todd Sloan.

10
    By late Saturday night, I’d avoided even a catnap for the better part of thirty-six hours, and even for an old insomniac like me, that was pushing the limit. I parked 310 in the driveway of my house and went inside, welcomed by the dark, friendly silence of the old place.
    With the holiday season, I had considered running a string of small Christmas lights around the recessed portal and maybe looping a strand or two over the vigas that faced the lane. A line of luminarias along each side of the driveway would have looked inviting and cheery as well, but I wasn’t in the mood. Make the place look too inviting and I’d end up having company.
    I closed the heavily carved front door behind me, knowing that I’d end up not doing any decorating until after Christmas… and then it’d be too late anyway. What the hell.
    What I really wanted was twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep. That was wishful thinking. I knew exactly what would happen if I stretched out on the bed. The initial bliss as the bones and muscles melted into jelly and the soft aroma of the bedding and the faint mustiness of the house as they blended into a cozy potpourri would be narcotic…for about ten minutes. Then I’d start tossing and turning like an old washing machine out of balance on the agitation cycle.
    I walked to the kitchen and put on a fresh pot of coffee. While the brew oozed through the calcium-choked mechanism, I considered telephoning Estelle Reyes-Guzman in Tres Santos.
    Her mother didn’t have a phone in her modest little adobe house, but the Diaz family just down the lane from Mrs. Reyes did. If my call managed to be patched through on the vague Mexican system, one of the myriad Diaz kids would sprint a message the hundred yards to the Casa Reyes .
    There was no point in bothering them with a call at this hour of the night. Estelle couldn’t do anything about her great-uncle’s dogs anyway. The old man would survive. He’d have the distraction of a visit to Tres Santos in a week, see all his relatives, then dive back into the privacy of his shack, maybe with a truckload of new Mexican puppies to raise.
    I poured myself a cup of coffee and settled into the big leather chair in the living room. I wanted a cigarette more than sleep. There were none stashed in the house and I was too tired to go after a pack. I could almost hear my eldest daughter chastising me for even thinking about smoking. I loved my children, but sometimes they ganged up on their old man.
    The Christmas before, one of my sons had decided I needed a VCR and a library of videos. He’d started by sending me a copy of The Shootist with John Wayne and Jimmy Stewart, figuring that a movie with my two favorite stars would start me off. I sensed the fine hand of my eldest daughter, Camille, in the title choice.
    My video library hadn’t grown. That one video, lonely and forlorn, sat on the shelf.
    Knowing that the results were guaranteed, I got up, switched on the set, and popped the tape in the machine. I’d watched the first part of the movie dozens of