Free Clouds without Rain by P. L. Gaus

masks make me nervous.”
    “We knew there’d be trouble from that crowd someday,” Branden said. “My concern is that word about me is going to get out.”
    “You think anyone knows?”
    “Just two families. One where I borrow the rig, and one where I water the horse.”
    “There should have been gossip by now.”
    “Hasn’t seemed to be, yet,” Branden said.
    “You’ve probably got only a few more rides before those kids find out.”
    “I might need only one or two more, Bobby.”
    Newell drummed his fingers on the desk and said, “Ricky Niell thinks he knows a way to track ’em down.”
    “The sooner the better,” Branden offered.
    Newell said, “OK,” and came around from behind the desk. He gathered up the papers and said, “Let’s go see Ellie.”
    Out at her dispatcher’s station, Newell asked, “Ellie, is this the kind of stuff you do for Robertson?”
    Ellie took the stack of papers and forms from the captain, fanned through the top ones, and said, “These should have been done already.”
    Newell said, “Can you do them?”
    “You don’t think Bruce does them himself?” Ellie said, laughing.
    “Well, then. I’ve got my own sack of rocks to carry,” Newell said, and disappeared into the locker room at the far end of the hall.
    Ellie waited until he had gone and said, “I suppose I’ve got you to thank for this, Professor.”
    Branden smiled mischievously. “I thought you could use the distraction.”
    “Thanks a heap, Doc,” Ellie said and started whistling softly as she sorted the forms and papers.

8
    Wednesday, August 9
3:45 P.M.
     
     
    WHEN the doorbell rang at the Brandens’ house, the professor was lying motionless on a long couch in the living room, with the lights turned off and curtains drawn. For nearly an hour, he had been thinking about J. R. Weaver’s death and Britta Sommers’s financial triumph. He rose slowly on stiff legs and opened the front door. In the bright light, he saw a man and a woman in upper middle age, holding hands. They were both dressed haphazardly, as if the cares of recent days had not permitted them the luxury of careful grooming. The woman had evidently applied some makeup, but her mascara was running.
    “I’m Denny Smith,” the man said, “and this is my wife Lenora. May we speak with you, Professor?”
    As Branden hesitated slightly, the woman’s eyelids fluttered, and a sheen of new tears appeared. She held a tissue beneath her eye and dabbed mascara from her cheek. “It was our son Brad who died in the fire out on 515,” she whispered.
    Branden held the screen door open, and motioned them inside without comment. When he had closed the door against the outside heat, he ushered them into the darkened living room and turned on a small lamp on a table next to two swivel-rocker Lazy Boys opposite the couch.
    “I’ve been keeping it cool,” he said, “but we can turn on more lights if you prefer.”
    “Not on my account,” Mrs. Smith said, and sat in one of the chairs next to her husband.
    Branden asked, “Can I fix you something cold to drink?”
    They both declined, so he sat down on the edge of the couch and said, “How can I help you?”
    “We want to hire you,” Mr. Smith said.
    “Why, Mr. Smith? Because of your son?”
    “Please, it’s Denny. And yes, to investigate our son’s death.”
    “I’m already doing that, Denny. In a somewhat official capacity.”
    “We want more,” Mrs. Smith said forcefully. “That truck driver was drunk.” Anger seemed to replace her tears, and she sat up straight on the edge of the rocker and eyed Branden with determination.
    “I can tell you what we learn, as the investigation proceeds,” Branden said.
    Denny Smith said, “Please, Professor. We can get that ourselves from the sheriff’s office. We want someone to go to Chicago. Track down this trucking company. Find out what you can about that driver.”
    “It sounds like you’re building a case,” Branden said.
    “We want