Free Sins of Our Fathers (9781571319128) by Shawn Lawrence Otto

mile or so the road turned north and the forest fell away into a high oak savanna. Then it narrowed before plunging into a woodier area. He traveled through more oak interspersed with buckthorn and birch, then a wetland full of bright yellow tamarack trees standing like fire on the water. He came around a bend and slowed as he emerged into a small settlement cut into the woods.
    On the right was a home with a mostly finished addition and a brown metal pole barn. On the left he found the lane the Whispering Pines rental agent had described to him over the phone. It climbed and then disappeared over a small hill. Her white Toyota pickup was parked in the tall grass beside the lane. He pulled off and parked next to it. Jorgenson had described this place as a trailer park, but when JW got out he only saw one trailer. It was a dilapidated blue one from the 1960s, and it sat under a stand of craggy burr oaks near the road.
    The rental agent hopped down from the pickup. Young and blonde, she held a zippered key rack in one hand and a small tube of mace in the other. JW pretended he didn’t see it.
    â€œAs I said on the phone,” she said, shifting the mace to shake hands, “these are super-affordable. The nice ones are up in back, over the hill.”
    â€œOh, so there are more of them,” he said.
    â€œOh, yeah! The view is gorgeous! People just have a hard time finding them because this lane looks like a private driveway or something.”
    â€œI see.” JW smiled.
    She began to lead him up the hill into the sun, but he stopped and looked at the houses across the street, a little worried about his belongings.
    â€œIs it okay to leave my car here?” he asked.
    â€œYeah, it should be fine.”
    â€œMaybe I’ll just lock it to be safe. It’s all my stuff.”
    She nodded, her expression clouding. “Okay,” she said, and tucked a fine wave of her sunny blonde hair back behind an ear.
    As JW returned to lock the car, he was shocked to recognize Johnny Eagle in the yard across the road. He stepped behind his car, suddenly embarrassed to be there. Jorgenson had certainly done his research, and it made JW wonder what else he had planned. Eagle was walking with a boy, and they were arguing. He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and the boy whirled away and yelled something inaudible at him. It suddenly occurred to JW that the boy resembled one of the Native kids he had seen Grossman roughing up at the convenience store. But he couldn’t be sure.
    The boy stormed away up to the house and Eagle sighed and followed.
    â€œMr. White?”
    JW turned to see the rental agent waiting, a quizzical expression on her face. He glanced back at the dilapidated baby-blue trailer down near the road. There was a sun-faded, red and white For Rent sign behind one of the windows.
    â€œLet’s see this one,” he said, and started toward it.
    â€œOkay…” said the agent. Her tone implied that she thought he was a little crazy, but she walked back down the hill toward him, and the two of them headed up a short path that led to the trailer’s grassy gravel parking spot.
    â€œI don’t even know if I have keys for this one,” she said, opening her black zippered key rack. “Oh wait, I think I found one!”
    She climbed up the two broad wooden steps—made out of some old two-by-twelves—and took out a dull pewter key shaped like a cloverleaf. She jiggled it into the stubborn lock and got it to turn, then stepped back and pulled the flimsy aluminum door open.
    The interior was straight out of the 1960s. It was clean, but set up more like a camper than a house. He stepped inside and looked around. It wasn’t much wider than eight feet, and maybe thirty feet long. To the right of the door was a gold-speckled, chrome-trimmed kitchen table with woven blue bench cushions on either side. A band of windows ran along the front end of the trailer, beyond the