Free The Dogs of Winter by Kem Nunn Page B

however, call Michael Peters. This he did. Peters was still in Hawaii and Fletcher called collect.
    “What is it?” Peters asked. “What’s wrong?”
    “We’ve been having a little trouble with the van,” Fletcher said. He was standing in a cramped booth at the back of a ratty little station, staring into the groves of pine that surrounded the town of Dutch Gulch. The day was cold and gray, and the tops of the trees were lost in cloud.
    “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Peters said.
    There was a kid in bib overalls standing out in back of the station, hitting a rusted piece of farming equipment with a hammer.
    “Is it serious?”
    “First a water pump. Now a tire. We’ll get there.”
    “What’s that?” Peters said.
    “What’s what?”
    “That banging. I can barely hear you.”
    “It’s some kid,” Fletcher told him. The kid looked to be about sixteen. He was still hitting the piece of equipment, grinning foolishly at Fletcher.
    “Can’t you tell him to shut the fuck up?”
    “I believe he’s retarded,” Fletcher said.
    Peters fumed for several moments in silence.
    “Listen,” Fletcher said. “I just wanted to let you know, in case Harmon calls you, wondering where we are. Tell him we’ll be there sometime this afternoon.” He fairly shouted, to make himself heard above the kid.
    “You should be in the fucking water right now, Doc. The damn ocean’s on fire. You should see it over here.”
    “If he calls,” Fletcher said, “just tell him.”
    Peters started to say something else but Fletcher hung up. It was the first thing he had done that day which pleased him. He went past the kid with the hammer and around to the front of the station, where they were prepared to hit the road once more.
    “Wha’d he say?” Sonny asked.
    “He says it’s going off like crazy over there.”
    “Shit, man,” Robbie said. “This sucks.”
    •  •  •
    The sky darkened as they approached the coast. They drove among magnificent scenery punctuated by sorry little towns hunkering among the trees as if they were no more than the detritus of some grander and larger thing which had passed unseen in the night. They took turns at the wheel and finally it was Robbie who did most of the driving, because, he said, just sitting there made him bored. Fletcher, on the other hand, discovered that he was quite content among the bags and board cases. The beer and muscle relaxants helped. In fact, he was sleeping soundly when, late on the second day of their trip, they rolled into the tiny town of Sweet Home.
    He woke to the steady drumming of rain on the metal roof of the van. He was quite alone. When he crawled to the passenger side window and looked outside, he found himself parked before a two-story building sporting a large wooden sign which named it as Bodine’s Tavern.
    Half a dozen men stood beneath an overhang which ran the length of the bar. The lot before them was streaked with puddles in which a gray sky found reflection. The men were of a kind. They wore plaid shirts, heavy dark jeans, and dark suspenders. Most were bearded. None were what you could call small. They seemed to regard the van with some curiosity.
    Fletcher was slightly disoriented. He could not immediately say how long he had slept. He was about to get out to look for his charges when he saw them exit a door and pass among the men.
    The boys had a six-pack apiece and Fletcher watched as they came down the steps and splashed through the puddles toward the van. He saw the men watching them as well, all six of them, lined up as if they were no more than mock Paul Bunyans cut from wood and cleverly painted.
    “We’re here,” Sonny said.
    The two surfers entered the van with great fanfare, shaking rain from their clothes, reeking of beer and tobacco.
    “Not quite,” Fletcher told them. For he was awake now and he could see that the road had led them inland. It remained to find the coast and Drew Harmon’s house.
    Peters had provided a map.