Free Blood Trade: A Sean Coleman Thriller by John A. Daly Page A

couple of minutes.”
    “No!”
    “Mom!” Toby interrupted. “I can just print out the article for him and he can take
it with him. Can I do that?”
    The expression on Sean’s face twisted into one of perplexity. He looked to Toby,
completely forgetting his mother for the moment. “Are you telling me you could have
just printed that out on paper and handed it to me through the window?”
    Toby nodded enthusiastically, his face wearing a wide smile.
    “Why didn’t you tell me that before I climbed inside?”
    Toby raised his shoulders and answered, “I wanted you to see my room.”
    Joan’s face contorted with perplexity, emulating Sean’s as she twisted her head to
glare at her son.
    So painfully slow was the speed at which the printer-head glided back and forth across
the sheet of paper it had been fed that it took all the strength Sean could muster
not to prematurely yank it out of the machine. It gave him a chance to notice that
Toby’s pajamas had a pattern of dachshunds prancing along in rows. Sean used to own
a dachshund. It also compelled Toby to show Sean the notes he’d taken on the episode
of Magnum, P.I. he had been watching that night.
    Sean just wanted to leave, especially with Joan hovering in the corner of the room
like a buzzard training a scornful eye on the back of his head. She tapped one of
her slipper-clad feet, which seemed to count down the seconds until the print job
was done. Still, Toby’s account of the investigative skills he’d taken away from
the television episode forced Sean to fight back a smirk.
    Sean had long fancied himself an amateur investigator—a man with a keen eye for detail
and a knack for forming conclusions based on available evidence. Though there were
often mixed results when it came to the accuracy of those conclusions, Toby believed
Sean to be the real deal—an expert in the realm of examination and analysis. Sean
had once told Toby that he gathered those instincts from watching crime shows on
television, and the boy had clearly taken the remark to heart.
    Once the second sheet of paper, a bit crinkled from fresh ink, finally slid onto
the plastic tray attached to the printer, Joan’s raised finger pointed Sean to the
front door. Sean snatched the printed article and acknowledged Toby with the nod
of his head before briskly making his way through the narrow hallway that led through
the heart of the small house. Lots of pictures decorated the walls; all were either
of Toby alone or the boy with his mother. They spanned several years.
    Sean was outside of the front door in no time, standing on a small cement porch that
revealed another man’s footprints in the snow. The door quickly slammed behind him.
    When Sean circled around to the front of a small garage that protruded out a bit
from the house, he found Ron Oldhorse, now fully clothed in jeans and a homemade
coat that looked to be made of buckskin. He stood in the driveway close to the garage
door, smoking a cigarette that was dark in color, and definitely not store-bought.
It was probably homemade as well.
    “Is that you, Oldhorse?” Sean asked. “It’s hard to recognize you with your pants
on.”
    “Bite me,” said Oldhorse.
    “Is that a peace pipe?” Sean asked sarcastically.
    “You wish,” Oldhorse muttered. His voice exuded the same monotone depth Sean was
accustomed to from their sparse dealings in the past.
    Snow continued to fall from the dark sky above as Sean drew in closer. “So how long
has this being going on?” he asked, still trying to wrap his mind around Oldhorse’s
relationship with Joan. To him, they were polar opposites. Joan was uptight, conservative,
and very outspoken. Oldhorse was a socially inept free spirit who diligently kept
to himself.
    “A while,” Oldhorse said before taking a smooth drag on his cigarette.
    “Is it supposed to be a secret or something?”
    Oldhorse said nothing, glaring out beyond Sean’s shoulder with indifference.
    He wondered if Oldhorse