Free Sketcher in the Rye: by Sharon Pape Page A

tryin’ to drum them into my rebellious little head.”
    Rory was having a hard time imagining Zeke as a boy. All sorts of questions were bubbling up inside her, but she tamped them down. Talking about his childhood was bound to be a lengthy conversation, one best left for a time when there was less on their schedule.
    ***
    â€œIt was downright neighborly of James to call,” Zeke said from the passenger seat.
    â€œNeighborly?” Rory repeated with surprise. “I think he’s working on some angle, and I’ve been trying to figure out what that is.” They were on their way to interview James Harper. At thirty-four, he was the oldest of Gil and Ellen Harper’s children. According to Gil’s information sheets, James lived with his own young family minutes away in Halesite, the area of Huntington where Nathan Hale had been hanged by the British during the Revolutionary War. As soon as Zeke heard they’d be conducting an interview there, he’d been as jubilant as a schoolboy on the first day of summer vacation. He’d recently taken to researching American history, the perfect hobby for the marshal, who’d played his own small part in the country’s past.
    â€œEveryone has an angle, darlin’,” he said, “even you.”
    â€œBut most of us wait for trouble to come knocking. We don’t put out the welcome mat and invite it in for tea.”
    â€œOkay, here are your two possibilities. Either James is innocent and wants to put the speculation behind him, or he’s guilty and thinks he can push us in another direction by bein’ one of the first to talk to us.”
    â€œThanks, that’s very helpful,” she said dryly.
    â€œI was merely tryin’ to point out that we’re not goin’ to know the answer until we speak to the man. And maybe not even then.”
    Rory slowed and pulled onto the shoulder of the road beside a pole with a small bronze plaque at the top.
    â€œWhy are we stopping here?” Zeke asked, turning so far to the right, then the left, that the motion more closely resembled an owl than a person.
    â€œHuman beings can’t swivel their necks like that,” she reminded him, “unless they happen to be possessed by the devil.” At her suggestion, the marshal had been using television to reeducate himself in the movements of the living. It had worked well enough until he tried out some moves he’d seen on the Syfy and FX channels and wound up traumatizing an elderly couple in the supermarket. After that she’d banned him from watching any show that featured nonhuman life-forms or strange, paranormal beings.
    â€œRight, like in
The Exorcist
,” he mumbled, still trying to figure out why they were parked on a street of small businesses.
    â€œWe’re stopping here because you demanded to see the place where Nathan Hale was hanged,” she told him.
    â€œHow far away is it?”
    â€œAbout two feet to the right.”
    Looking even more perplexed, Zeke opened the car door and got out. He was paying so much attention to moving correctly that he almost smacked his head on the bronze marker. Rory winced in anticipation of disaster. An impact with a solid object would scatter his image, and there were too many people around to witness it. Thankfully “almost” didn’t count. The marshal spent a minute reading the sign, then folded himself back into the car with a look of disgust and disappointment.
    â€œThat’s it?” he grumbled. “The man was a patriot, a hero, and that tiny sign’s the only tribute to him?”
    â€œI’m sure there are other places where he’s more properly honored,” Rory said off the top of her head. “This sign just marks the place where he died.” The marshal would probably research the topic until he was satisfied, but for now she needed to focus him on their case. He sat sullen and brooding as she pulled