Otherworld Read Online Free

long, but the heater in his car was a poor performer.
    Â 
    Graham left Officer Petrie in the Dickeys’ quaint country living room and went to steal Pops away from the horde of reporters. He found them not standing in front of the porch as before but moving in one large group toward the old man’s barn. The old man himself led the way, talking all the while. Graham ran. He covered ground quickly and came up on them in time to invade their circle and get close to Pops.
    He spoke in the farmer’s ear. “Excuse me, Mr. Dickey, but could you come answer some questions for us?”
    â€œRight now?” Pops asked. He wasn’t looking at Graham but at his audience.
    â€œYes, sir. We’d really appreciate it.” And then, to reassure the man, “Then you can talk to these people all you want.”
    Pops seemed to want to talk to all these people now, but he relented. “Okay.”
    Graham escorted him back to the house, amateur reporters in tow, all asking questions. He ignored them and held open the creaky door for Pops, let him enter, and then turned to face the crowd himself.
    â€œOkay, you people. Just hold on to your horses and whatnot. Mr. Dickey’ll be back out, and you can ask all your questions soon enough.”
    â€œIt’s a cover-up!” one man called out.
    Graham gave him a look that said, Die. Right now, just fall over.
    â€œCould we have your name, sir?” another person asked.
    â€œCaptain Graham Lattimer of Trumbull Police.”
    A young guy with his phone held aloft to record video pressed forward. “Captain, was this the work of a chupacabra ?” He was laughing as he spoke.
    â€œWhat?” Graham had no idea what the man was saying. “Nobody’s chupin’ anything, the heck that means,” he answered. “That’s all.” He stepped into the house, leaving the reporters behind him.
    Gertie Dickey was handing Officer Petrie a basket of corn bread. Pops was perched on the edge of an easy chair, leaning forward, peering toward the screen door, probably to make sure that the reporters weren’t leaving.
    â€œThey’ll stick around,” Graham assured Pops. He turned to Petrie. “Did you get ahold of that vet of yours?”
    â€œYes, sir. He’s on his way back.”
    â€œGood.”
    Gertie Dickey extended her basket to Graham. “Would you like some corn bread, Captain Lattimer?”
    â€œNo, thank you, ma’am. I’d appreciate some aspirin if you got it, though.”
    Â 
    By the time Mike Walsh arrived at the Dickey farm, his beige import was one of just four vehicles in the driveway. One was a rusted pickup, and the other two were Trumbull police cruisers. Mike removed a small recorder from the glove compartment and walked to the front door. It was open, leaving only a screen door through which he saw four men seated. They saw him before he could knock.
    â€œShip has sailed,” admonished a man wearing a police uniform. He was the older of two officers in the room and bore the put-upon countenance of one in charge.
    â€œExcuse me?” said Mike.
    â€œEverybody’s already gone. You’re a little late.”
    â€œSorry.” But he wasn’t. He was irked by the officer’s tone. “My name’s Mike Walsh. I’m from Spotlight Magazine . Do you mind if I come in?”
    â€œYes,” the older cop said. “Interviews are over.”
    â€œYou know, I just drove from Houston. I have a right to ask some questions.”
    â€œI don’t care if you drove from Baton Rouge or the Bay of Pigs. We’re asking the questions right now, and you’ll have to wait.”
    Mike pondered the officer. He looked like he’d slept in his uniform. The cop’s brow seemed permanently furrowed, the creases deep crevices of stress, the brown thicket of his eyebrows contorted into Spanish tildes. He gave the impression of a walking migraine.
    â€œI