Deadly Waters Read Online Free Page A
Author: Theodore Judson
was, and he saw the same inability to change in Wayland.
“We need to get you out of this river chill, buddy,” Bob told Wayland as he helped him along. “You could ruin your voice. What would life be around here if we didn’t have you to sing to us?”
“Really?” said the boy. “I’ve been learning some new ones, boss. For Sheriff Anderson. How do you think he feels about show tunes?”
“They would appeal to his feminine side.”
“Even stuff from Cats ?”
“He’d insist on a whole medley, were he here. He’s down in Flagstaff most of the time.”
Bob put Wayland in the back of the car and the M-1 in the trunk. Wayland was bobbing from side to side and talking about a basketball game he had seen on TV.
“You think I could play in the NBA?” he asked, and laid down in the back seat. “I mean, if I grew another two feet?”
“You’re twenty-eight years old,” said Bob. “I think maybe you’re past your growth spurt.”
“Another dream shot to hell,” said Wayland, closing his eyes. “I would have been great in the NBA. I could dye my hair like Rodman. Be one crazy warhoop with a tiger-stripe do.”
“You shouldn’t call yourself names,” said Bob from the driver’s seat.
“Everybody else does,” said Wayland. “You know what an apple is, boss? It’s somebody red on the outside and white inside. My boys call me that down in Tuba City,” he said, referring to a town on the reservation where his mother lived.
“They don’t know you well enough.”
“My old motorcycle homies, like Jeremy Russleman, they used to call me Tonto.”
“Jeremy Russleman is a punk,” said Bob. “That’s why he’s doing two to four years for distribution of narcotics. Punks end up like that.”
“I was in prison, too,” said Wayland Zah.
“For six months,” said Bob, with a trace of guilt in his voice, since he had made the drug bust that had sent his friend behind bars. “And since you are a Native American—”
“Native American!” sneered Wayland. “That’s Injun to you, kemo sabe. I’m an Injun, boss. Just a plain old vanilla Injun.”
“Since you are a Native American,” continued Bob, “you were transferred to that federal minimum security facility in California, which is hardly the same as real prison. Your permanent record doesn’t say ‘prison’, it says you got treatment.”
“I met a guy in there,” said Wayland. “He called me the other day.”
“Another…” Bob was about to say ‘ex-con’ but he stopped himself, because such a harsh term would have defeated the point he was trying to make. “You need to stay away from bad influences,” he said instead. “Are you still seeing that lady from Chinle? That’s what you need, buddy; get cleaned up, get a job, get married—”
“See, I got a tattoo,” declared Wayland, and he sat upright in the rear seat and rolled up a sleeve to show Bob his wrist through the mesh screen.
Deputy Mathers’ eyes were on the road and he could not have seen much in the darkened interior of the car had he turned to look.
“What is it?” he asked.
“A butterfly, boss. See the wings?”
Bob Mathers stopped the car and turned on the overhead light so he could see the yellow wings depicted on the outside of Wayland’s wrist.
“This means we’re blood brothers,” said Wayland. “Friends forever. He’s a Spanish dude. Not Mexican. Most people calling themselves Spanish are really from Mexico, you know. Why don’t they say ‘Mexican,’ boss? Hell, I would rather say I was from Mexico than Oklahoma.”
“What did this guy... what did you say his name was?” asked Bob.
“Can’t tell you,” laughed Wayland. “I’m sworn to secrecy. I’m the only one knows his true identity.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Bob. “The man was in prison, or rather, a facility. The authorities, they would have records of him.”
The patrol car turned onto Lake Powell Boulevard and toward the jailhouse where the Page branch of
“We need to get you out of this river chill, buddy,” Bob told Wayland as he helped him along. “You could ruin your voice. What would life be around here if we didn’t have you to sing to us?”
“Really?” said the boy. “I’ve been learning some new ones, boss. For Sheriff Anderson. How do you think he feels about show tunes?”
“They would appeal to his feminine side.”
“Even stuff from Cats ?”
“He’d insist on a whole medley, were he here. He’s down in Flagstaff most of the time.”
Bob put Wayland in the back of the car and the M-1 in the trunk. Wayland was bobbing from side to side and talking about a basketball game he had seen on TV.
“You think I could play in the NBA?” he asked, and laid down in the back seat. “I mean, if I grew another two feet?”
“You’re twenty-eight years old,” said Bob. “I think maybe you’re past your growth spurt.”
“Another dream shot to hell,” said Wayland, closing his eyes. “I would have been great in the NBA. I could dye my hair like Rodman. Be one crazy warhoop with a tiger-stripe do.”
“You shouldn’t call yourself names,” said Bob from the driver’s seat.
“Everybody else does,” said Wayland. “You know what an apple is, boss? It’s somebody red on the outside and white inside. My boys call me that down in Tuba City,” he said, referring to a town on the reservation where his mother lived.
“They don’t know you well enough.”
“My old motorcycle homies, like Jeremy Russleman, they used to call me Tonto.”
“Jeremy Russleman is a punk,” said Bob. “That’s why he’s doing two to four years for distribution of narcotics. Punks end up like that.”
“I was in prison, too,” said Wayland Zah.
“For six months,” said Bob, with a trace of guilt in his voice, since he had made the drug bust that had sent his friend behind bars. “And since you are a Native American—”
“Native American!” sneered Wayland. “That’s Injun to you, kemo sabe. I’m an Injun, boss. Just a plain old vanilla Injun.”
“Since you are a Native American,” continued Bob, “you were transferred to that federal minimum security facility in California, which is hardly the same as real prison. Your permanent record doesn’t say ‘prison’, it says you got treatment.”
“I met a guy in there,” said Wayland. “He called me the other day.”
“Another…” Bob was about to say ‘ex-con’ but he stopped himself, because such a harsh term would have defeated the point he was trying to make. “You need to stay away from bad influences,” he said instead. “Are you still seeing that lady from Chinle? That’s what you need, buddy; get cleaned up, get a job, get married—”
“See, I got a tattoo,” declared Wayland, and he sat upright in the rear seat and rolled up a sleeve to show Bob his wrist through the mesh screen.
Deputy Mathers’ eyes were on the road and he could not have seen much in the darkened interior of the car had he turned to look.
“What is it?” he asked.
“A butterfly, boss. See the wings?”
Bob Mathers stopped the car and turned on the overhead light so he could see the yellow wings depicted on the outside of Wayland’s wrist.
“This means we’re blood brothers,” said Wayland. “Friends forever. He’s a Spanish dude. Not Mexican. Most people calling themselves Spanish are really from Mexico, you know. Why don’t they say ‘Mexican,’ boss? Hell, I would rather say I was from Mexico than Oklahoma.”
“What did this guy... what did you say his name was?” asked Bob.
“Can’t tell you,” laughed Wayland. “I’m sworn to secrecy. I’m the only one knows his true identity.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Bob. “The man was in prison, or rather, a facility. The authorities, they would have records of him.”
The patrol car turned onto Lake Powell Boulevard and toward the jailhouse where the Page branch of