Free Ballistics by D. W. Wilson Page A

belonged to Cecil. The old bastard liked to beat on his own chest, but he lost sleep over the raising of Jack. We may not go blow for blow when it comes to the details, but I’d be doing him a disservice if I said he didn’t try. It would’ve been nice if a daughter could’ve happened to him, but you know what they say about spilled milk. Cecil was the kind of man who planned against his mid-life crisis. He was the kind of man who you could trust with your house keys. If I had to face down the maw of Hell, I can think of only one person I’d rather have at my side.
    I went the length of the bridge without encountering Jack, crossed the road at the far end, and started back toward my truck. I gave it eighty-twenty odds that Jack had gone to the park—too much likelihood he’d run into a guy he knew at the bridge; when a kid has been humiliated, the last thing he wants is to meet up with his friends. Cecil’d have his father-son chat, maybe get in a bonding moment. Someday he’d thank me for it.
    Then, halfway to my truck, a figure materialized from the darkness in front of me—the shape of a boy, wiry, with one knee bent as a rest for his arm and the other draping over the edge. I jerked to a stop and my boots scraped the road and the kid bounded to his feet, way too fast to be a fourteen-year-old. He had his fists around his face, a boxer’s stance. I smelled beer, marijuana.
    Who the fuck are you? the kid said.
    I showed him my palms. Sorry.
    He shrugged, and lowered his guard. I saw that he had a beer can in one fist. He raised it to his mouth and chugged the last, flipped the can off the edge of the bridge. I counted three seconds before it clanged against the ground. I couldn’t be sure, given our distance and given the darkness, but the kid looked to be smiling. Littering, he said. No greater crime in this country.
    Where you from?
    Oregon, he said, stepping closer. Buzz cut, field coat, army ranks stitched to the breast. I could put two and two together—this was the American, Crib. Linnea didn’t actually say he’d felt her up, but what else could set Jack off? He may not have been the most well-mannered boy, but he didn’t waltz around throwing punches.
    You don’t sound Canadian, Crib said.
    A lot of people tell me that.
    Where you from, then?
    Here.
    Really! Crib said, and rested his hip against the barrier. He pursed his mouth. Not the nicest people in this town.
    We do okay.
    Look here, he said, and leaned in, head turned sideways, to show me a dark bruise on his cheekbone, right beside his nose. With his finger, he pulled his lip up over his teeth, wiggled a loose canine. Some idiot teenager almost knocked my tooth out.
    Imagine that.
    You don’t sound surprised.
    Locals don’t take well to city boys.
    The kid scratched his nose.
    I’m not a city boy, he said. His face bent to a smile, but not the friendly kind—more like a baring of fangs. He pulled a brass cigarette case from his chest pocket and lit up without offering one over. Around his neck hung the iron crab brooch. He blew smoke up and over his shoulder. Name’s Crib.
    Archer.
    He pushed away from the barrier, just over an arm’s reach away, a jerky, hostile motion like a boxer dipping for an uppercut. Then he went bone-straight.
    Now that is an interesting name, he said. He crossed one arm over his chest, brought the other up to his mouth, as if in contemplation. I can’t think of very many people named Archer. What’s your last name?
    West.
    His face had this ridiculous who knew look to it. He shrugged with his whole upper body, not just the shoulders. There’s a new one for the list, he said.
    I put my weight on the barrier, my hands in my pockets. What brings you here?
    Just looking for a place to drink some beer.
    I mean to the town.
    He winked. Business.
    Had you pegged as a cadet.
    Done officer training, he said, waving his cigarette around. Diplomacy, mostly. You don’t sound Canadian.
    They teach you accent location in