Rides a Stranger Read Online Free

there,” I said.
    “You say your father just died?”
    “A few days ago.”
    “What were the circumstances of his death?” Hyland asked.
    “Natural causes,” I said. “He had a neurological disorder.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that,” Hyland said. “So you’d never met this Caledonia fellow before?”
    “Never.”
    “And what did he want with your father?” he asked.
    “I don’t know,” I said. “I assume was something to do with books. My father owned a lot of books. But Mr. Caledonia acted offended when I suggested that’s why he was at the funeral home.” I tried to remember his exact words. “He told me that he had tried to talk to my father before but had always been rebuffed. That’s the word he used. ‘Rebuffed.’ I guess I came here to see what he knew about my dad. If anything.”
    “Dads can be a tricky business,” Hyland said. “I never knew mine that well.”
    “Exactly,” I said. “Do any of us really know our fathers?”
    I thought I was on the brink of a connection with Hyland, but just as quickly, the moment seemed to pass.
    He asked, “Did the officers take your information?”
    “Yes.”
    “We’ll be in touch if we need anything more,” he said. “We’re probably looking at a robbery here. The neighborhood isn’t what it used to be.”
    He started toward the door of Lou Caledonia’s shop but, before he went in, he turned back to me.
    “Are you sure there isn’t anything else, Mr. Kurtwood?” he asked. “Anything else you saw in there?”
    I could feel the clipping in my pants’ pocket. It itched and scraped against my thigh. I knew I should give it back. But … I didn’t want to give up that scrap. I knew it made no sense, but I guess I saw it as an artifact from my dad.
    “Nothing,” I said.
    Hyland went inside, and I went back to my parents’ house.
    The morning paper carried no news of Lou Caledonia’s death. Either it happened too late to make the cut, or it was deemed too insignificant to mention. As we dressed in the morning, Mom didn’t even ask me about my trip to the bookstore the night before. Either she was too distracted by the funeral service, or it had slipped her mind. And I wasn’t going to bring it up. She had enough to worry about and I didn’t want to add to her stress.
    We both maintained our composure during the service. Neither of us was big on emotional displays, and the Catholic Church provided enough rigidity and structure in the service that there was little room for genuine feeling. I sat in the front pew of the church next to Mom and recited the responses and hymns by memory, even though I hadn’t been inside a church in about fifteen years.
    When my mind wandered, it wasn’t to bad memories. I thought of my childhood and the things my dad and I did together. He took me to the library a lot. He let me wander wherever I liked and was willing to let me read whatever books I happened to find. I first read On the Road that way, as well as Lord of the Flies and The Great Gatsby. Dad always found something from the bestseller list, but he never commented on what I read. Except once. When I was about fourteen, I picked up a copy of Crime and Punishment , and he said, offhandedly, “Yeah. I read that a long time ago.”
    “You read this?” I asked. “For school?”
    “Not for school. Because I wanted to.” He looked at me over the top of his glasses. “Do you think you have the market cornered on reading the great books?”
    I hadn’t thought of that in a long time. But sitting there in the church, I remembered that the old man could surprise me, that I shouldn’t assume I understood him—or anyone else—easily. He was a stranger to me in many ways, and perhaps to my mother, too. But what did that have to do with a murdered bookstore owner? I wondered if I’d ever know.
    A small group travelled to the graveside service. The day started to turn cool, gray clouds building in from the west along with a stiff breeze. The priest