The Suspect - L R Wright Read Online Free

clumsily, saw in hand, up into the cherry tree was
all to no avail because once in the middle of the tree he could no
longer see the skyward-shooting "water sprouts" he was up
there to eliminate.
    He decided to hire somebody to look after the trees.
But he was damned if he was going to let the rest of the yard defeat
him. So from a pile of rusty tools in the unused garage at the bottom
of the yard he hauled out a pair of hedge clippers, oiled them, and
attempted to sharpen them, and then, weapon in hand, he charged the
foliage which he was convinced endangered the structural stability of
his small house.
    He had begun this Tuesday in a state of calm. It was
one of his good days. He knew right away that he wasn't going to
spend any of it brooding over his mistakes or considering his
loneliness.
    Clad in cutoffs, a short-sleeved T-shirt and
sneakers, he had stood before his bedroom mirror and not been
displeased with what he saw. He was tall and broad enough, he
decided, that the extra ten pounds didn't really show. Nor did the
gray in his blond hair. He pulled in his stomach and turned sideways
to the full-length mirror; not bad. He let himself sag and looked
again. Not good. He tightened his muscles and pounded his diaphragm
with a fist. Hard as a rock, he told himself. But there was no doubt
about it, he was definitely getting thick and somewhat flabby around
the waist. He would have to start working out again.
    He peered critically into the mirror and ran his
fingers over his just-shaven jaw. He didn't like his face much. It
was too smooth, and it looked a lot younger than the rest of him.
Only when he was extremely tired did it assume any character. You
needed lines and hollows, he thought, for character.
    He stood back and took one last look: the legs were
pretty good, anyway. Then he had strolled out to work in his garden.
It was now afternoon. The first attack on the roses had hours before
sent him retreating indoors to change his clothes. He was greasy with
sweat, the knees of his jeans were grass stained, and there was at
least one rip in his long-sleeved shirt. He didn't remember ever
seeing his ex-wife in this condition, after a day in the garden.
    He stood in the middle of the back yard and looked
around at the chaos he had created. The small lawn was buried under a
mountain of debris. It hadn't occurred to him that when he had done
his pruning, the greenery would still exist. There seemed far too
much of it to get rid of in any usual way. And he hadn't even started
on the front yard yet. He wondered if he could just leave the stuff
there, to wither and turn brown and shrink into a more manageable
heap.
    ' Jesus, boss," said a voice behind him.
    Alberg turned to see Freddie Gainer on the walk that
led from the front of the house. He looked startlingly clean. "I've
been gardening," said Alberg wearily. He wiped his forehead on
his sleeve. "I am now quitting. And don't call me 'boss."
    "You look like you've been in a war,” said
Gainer.
    Clean, tireless, and young, thought Alberg, staring
at him. Also—and this was illusory—authoritative, in his peaked
hat, short blue jacket, and navy pants with the wide yellow stripe.
    "What the hell do you want?" said Alberg.
"I want a beer.”
    He tossed the hedge clippers to the ground and headed
for his back door.
    Gainer picked them up and followed him. He put the
clippers on the floor inside the door. In the kitchen, he took off
his hat.
    Alberg got a beer from the fridge and opened it. He
leaned against the counter and took a swallow. "Ah. That feels
good. A shower, and I'll be human again." He glanced at the
constable, then looked at him more sharply. "What the hell have
you done to your hair?" It clung to his head in tight, coppery
curls.
    Gainer's face reddened. "I got it permed."
    ' Jesus Christ," said Alberg. He wondered if
there was anything in Rules and Regulations yet about permanents. He
resolved not to find out. "Your damned hat's not going to stay
on, with all