The doctor he’d spoken with had brought his fingertips together as if in tentative prayer, awarded Stranahan his professional smile, spoken briefly, and left. Stranahan had followed suit. He had to attend to Killer and needed a drink, though not in that order. At the inn, Doris brought Stranahan a Trout Slayer Ale. She took a chair, hooked a leg to pull another closer for a footrest, and shut her eyes tight. “Long night?” Stranahan asked. “They’re all long.” “Want to hear a story?” “Is the Mississippi nightingale in it?” Stranahan pursed his lips. “That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question,” he said. As Stranahan drove Sam’s rig along the gravel ruts that led to the trailer, he rolled down the window, listening for Killer’s bark and not quite knowing how to handle the beast. But the trailer yard was eerily quiet. Stranahan switched off the ignition and doused the headlights. Five minutes later he was still listening to the ping of the engine as it cooled down.
What do You think about The Royal Wulff Murders (2012)?
