Free Stuffed by Brian M. Wiprud Page A

hauling dead animals hither and yon I should give him a call.”
    “Well?”
    “Well, what?”
    “Well, are you tired of your stupid taxidermy racket?”
    “A stupid racket? What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
    Angie gave me a sneaky smile. “It means that if you still react so defensively to that wisecrack, you don’t hate your craft as much as you think. Not enough to toss it for some job you want just because it’s steady.”
    The problem with being in love with a smart person is that you have to put up with them being right a lot of the time. Not that I admitted it at the time, mind you.
    The motel came into view and the discussion came to a timely close. The Maple Motor Court was essentially a tavern with a crescent of tiny white cabins behind it. You checked in at the bar by the light of a Narragansett beer sign. But while the barmaid fussed over the key rack and I signed in, I sensed something amiss. Scanning the sundry plaid patrons, nothing remarkable caught my eye. Two were looking toward but not at me, the way townsfolk check out strangers. Nothing odd in that. There was a full mug at the bar stool next to them, and I heard a toilet flush. I chalked up my spookiness to
Creature Features
and one too many Hammer films, signed the register, took the key from the barmaid, and headed for Angie and the Lincoln waiting out front.
    I passed into the foyer and through the second door. I glanced back into the bar. There was someone at the empty bar stool, and he was looking in my direction.
    It was Bret Fletcher, who looked like the dean had just caught him in the girls’ dorm.
    “Son of a—” I may not have wanted to practice my pugilism the last time I saw him, but now I wanted to take a poke at him. The more I thought about it, the more I figured he must have been one of those bastards who roughed us up.
    I doubted he saw me looking back, what with the light being on his side of two separate panes of glass. I got into the Lincoln, drove us to our cabin, and told Angie I was going to step out for a beer and catch the Late Nite Show, maybe see if Aunt Jilly made the program. There was no TV in the cabin, and Angie always reads before bed.
    Creeping along the shadow of the tavern, I peeped through the darkened kitchen window and into the barroom. All I could glimpse was the back of Bret’s red plaid coat and occasionally his arm as he gestured to his cronies in some sort of animated conversation.
    A battered green pickup came rattling down the road and roared to a stop in front of the tavern, tooting its horn. Bret’s two cronies stood up abruptly and headed for the door. But before they left, they gave Bret a glare that put fresh mojo on my little neck hairs.
    These two were older than Bret, and considerably more weathered. The taller, slimmer one had pretty big teeth. And a toothpick. He wore a felt cowboy hat, atypical antlers for folks around these parts. And the hat wasn’t some sort of white job with a big red feather that ho-dad ranch-hand wannabes wear. This was sweat-stained, rain-freckled, and well worn, complete with brim nicks from barbed wire and cigarette burns from smoking in the saddle. Or in the back of a pickup. Beat up as it was, it didn’t come off shabby because he obviously worked to keep the creases sharp in the crown, and the brim had a uniform curl. He wore it at a slight angle that might lead you to believe he’d swung a few pool cues in his time. When Slim gave Bret a parting smile, those giant teeth looked ready to bite.
    Slim’s pal was short and stocky with a bush of red hair. Fiery eyebrows framed dark, button eyes. Hands in his pockets, he shouldered the door in Slim’s wake.
    I took a few steps forward to peek around the edge of the tavern as they opened the door and climbed into the cab of the truck. I couldn’t get an eyeful of the driver.
    Yep, these two could be the guys. The one who’d popped out of our basement with the gun might have been Bret. It clicked