Shotgun Lullaby (A Conway Sax Mystery) Read Online Free

reconsidering.”
    I said I could picture that.
    â€œOne night as she served dinner,” he said, “Mom folded her hands and suggested we say grace. She tried to make it casual, but it came out of nowhere, man. She wouldn’t have surprised us more if she’d lifted a cheek and farted ‘Shave and a Haircut.’”
    Gus paused. Took his time. Smiled again, looking at nothing. “If she was hoping my dad would lead the charge and murmur sweet Norman Rockwell-isms, she miscalculated. His cheeks flared bright red—he’s Russian, in case you hadn’t guessed—and he said, without moving his lips, ‘Fine then. Feel free to say your grace.’”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œIt quickly became clear my mom was stumped. She hadn’t thought it through past the initial suggestion, didn’t know what to say. She steepled her hands and closed her eyes.”
    I said nothing.
    Gus licked his lips. When he spoke again, his voice was husky, just north of a whisper. “I guess all she could think of, grace-wise, was the Lord’s Prayer. So she said it. That was the first time I heard the whole thing, stem to stern. We said it every night at dinner, me and Mom, for the next … five years? Six?”
    â€œAnd your father?”
    â€œNever joined in.” Long pause. “Never once, until they split up my freshman year in high school.”
    â€œHuh,” I said.
    â€œHuh,” Gus said. And slapped his thighs. “I should unpack. That might take damn near a minute.”
    I stepped to the door. Grabbed its knob. Stood still.
    â€œThank you,” I said. “For telling me.”
    â€œDe nada,” Gus hollered from the bedroom.
    I left and headed west to Shrewsbury. To Charlene’s place.
    *   *   *
    During the twenty-minute drive, I let my head go where it wanted to. Thought about Gus’s story, which led me to think about the danger he was in.
    Possibility: some methed-up former Almost Homer with a grudge. Got high, lucked into a shotgun, waded into the place not knowing who or what he was going to kill. Call that the most likely scenario. It was a big part of the reason I’d never liked halfway houses.
    Possibility: the kid who got blasted, Brian Weller, was the kid who was supposed to get blasted. It’d happened in Gus’s room, but so what? They’d been thick as thieves, had shared iPods and sweatshirts and God knew what else. If former-Almost-Homer-with-a-grudge had come looking for Weller, Gus’s room would be the second place he looked.
    But those possibilities left out Gus.
    And my job was to look after Gus.
    So seize the initiative, as my buddy Randall Swale always said. Jump to the assumption that could lead to an action plan. Call it possibility three: The killer had come looking for Gus. Maybe he’d been told to hit a certain bedroom. Maybe he’d seen just enough of Weller to confuse him with Gus.
    The thought chain had lodged something in my head.
    Randall.
    My parole officer’s son. We met a while back. He helps me out here and there. Former army, knows what he’s doing.
    Randall was big on seizing the initiative, big on confirmed information, not so big on assumptions.
    So get his help confirming some info—or not.
    I called his cell. Voice mail. Sketched out what I was after: Brian Weller of Winchendon, shot down at Almost Home. Could Randall sniff around, see what kind of nonsense Weller had been up to? Had to be some—Eagle Scouts don’t end up in sketchy Framingham halfway houses.
    I clicked off. Drove more, thought more.
    What I needed was to talk with Gus, figure out who might want him dead. Andrade was the obvious choice. He needed looking at, and he’d be my first stop. But … the vibe was wrong. Andrade felt like a bottom-feeder, not a killer. So it was worth asking Gus for more ideas, more jerks with grudges.
    I didn’t know much about Gus. The