The Dead Don't Dance Read Online Free Page B

the hospital, only to end up out here and act like he’s farming.
    He reached over, picked up a handful of sand, and slung it into the corn. “Dylan Styles”—he looked down a long row of corn that was planted in more of an arc than a straight line—“you’re an idiot. Even with all your education. You can just about strap an alphabet behind your name, but I’m your friend and I’ll tell it to you straight: You’re a sorry farmer and a danged idiot.”
    Amos is smart. Don’t let the deputy’s badge fool you. He took this job because he wanted it, not because he couldn’t find anything else. Amos takes nothing from nobody—except me. He’s big, articulate, black as black comes, and my oldest friend. He’s a year older than I am and was a year ahead in school. In my junior year of high school, we were the two starting running backs. They called us Ebony and Ivory, for obvious reasons.
    Amos was always faster, always stronger, and he never once let anybody pile on me. I’ve seen him take two linebackers and shove them back into the free safety on more than one occasion. The only reason I scored my first touchdown was because he carried me. I got the ball, grabbed his jersey, shut my eyes, and he dragged me eight yards to glory, where I saw the goal line pass under my feet. When I looked up and saw the crowd screaming, Amos was standing off to the side alone, letting me take the credit and soak it all in.
    Later that year, the Gamecocks gave him a scholarship. He lettered four years and was an all-American three. From day one he studied criminal justice and learned everything about it that he could. Right after graduation, Amos applied with Colleton County and came home. He’s worn that badge ever since. Last year they sewed sergeant’s stripes to his shirtsleeves.
    I rubbed my eyes and steadied my head between my hands. The world was spinning again, and the ants at my feet weren’t helping my perspective any.
    â€œIs there somebody else around here I can talk to?” My voice was pretty much gone, and all I could muster was a smoker’s whisper. “Amos, have you had your coffee this morning? Because I’m tired and I don’t quite remember how I got here, but I think you’re riding me. And if you’re riding me, that’s a pretty good sign that you have not had your coffee.”
    Amos was really animated now. “I’ve been traipsing around this piece of dirt you two call home all morning. Thanks to you and your disappearing stunt, I ain’t had the pleasure of my morning cup of coffee. What is it with you Styleses and this piece of dirt? If you’re gonna choose someplace to catch up on a week with no sleep, you could have picked a better place than the middle of a cornfield. In the last hour I have ruined my pants, scuffed my boots, torn my shirt, and there is no telling how much pig crap I’ve got smeared on me right now. Why do you keep that old pig?”
    â€œWho? Pinky?”
    â€œWell, of course, Pinky. Who else makes all this stuff?” Amos pointed at his boots. “In all my life, I have never seen a pig crap the way she can. You ought to enter her in a contest. It’s everywhere. What do you feed that thing?”
    â€œAmos . . . A-Amos.” I stuttered and shivered. “It’s got to be close to ninety, and I feel like crap. I’m itching everywhere, and I’ve got a headache. All I want to do is see my wife. Please, just help get me back to my house.”
    Amos knew when to quit.
    â€œCome on, D.S. Inside.” He picked me up and hooked his shoulder under mine. “Ivory, did I already tell you that you need a shower?”
    â€œYeah, I heard you the first time.”
    We crashed through the corn and limped toward the house.
    Pulling me along, Amos asked, “What’s the last thing you remember?”
    â€œWell,” I said, aiming my toes toward