Sins of Our Fathers (9781571319128) by Shawn Lawrence Otto Page A
Authors: Shawn Lawrence Otto
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through his jeans as he stepped down onto the grassy gravel. He pushed the door shut behind him and looked around. There was no sign of life at Eagleâs house, or at the white brick house farther up the hill. He looked back up the lane toward the trailer park, but no one appeared to be up that way either. It was now or never. His heart picked up speed as he stepped onto the dirt road. His fingers felt tight. He stretched them and crossed toward the riding ring and then onto Eagleâs lawn. The horse stood in a makeshift stall of two-by-sixes, inside a metal lean-to. It snorted at him with an air of concern.
He crossed uphill toward the house, which had even taller trees behind it. He strolled up the white concrete walk toward the front door, trying to appear relaxed in case someone happened to be watching. Ranks of orange and green lilies stood at attention. He looked into the dark pool of a window. Everything still. He stepped onto the low front porch. His heart was pounding. A bristly brown mat in front of the door bore the word Bendigen . He didnât belong here. This wasnât the sort of thing he did. He pulled open the wooden screen door, knocked on the carved main door. His fingers were numb.
There was no sound. He glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching. His chest felt tight. He noticed the doorbell. A glowing yellow rectangle. He pressed it and an old bell echoed inside, but there was no reaction. Helooked behind him again, and up the trailer park lane across the street. From here he could see the tops of a few trailers poking over the hill.
His hand closed around the knob, feeling cold and weak. It turned. He paused, then pushed the door open and stepped inside.
âHello? Anybody home? Mr. Eagle? Hello!â
The interior was themed in rustic wood and Native-style decor. To his right stood an unfinished room of studs and insulation. Ahead, the foyer opened into a large eating area, with a broad library table covered with piles of papers and books. The floor was wide-plank wood, marred and finished with a dull wax. To the right of the eating area was the kitchen. Despite the fact that it was only partially finished, it had massive granite countertops, a breakfast bar, a deep sink, and stainless steel appliances. To his immediate left was a corridor leading to the bedrooms.
The central air conditioning kicked on with a cool whir. JW headed down the corridor, in search of an office. His heart was pounding. On the wall was a family photo of the boyâmuch younger, perhaps tenâwith Eagle and a woman, presumably his mother. After pausing at it briefly, JW continued, past a bathroom, to a door that stood open to a masculine, Native-themed room with a queen-sized bed. Opposite he could see into the messy cave of a teenage boy. Clothing piled in mounds. Soda bottles, chips, textbooks, and notebooks on the bed. An older laptop computer and some comic books piled atop an empty terrarium. The smell of dirty laundry and Doritos.
JW returned to the door opposite the bathroom. It was closed, but not latched. There could be someone inside, he worried, an aging grandparent or someone sleeping. He took a softstep closer, but a floorboard creaked under the carpeting, giving him away. He froze.
He had never done anything like this, and he had no idea what to expect or how to react if there was someone inside the room. He waited a moment, still, but there was no answer. He pushed the door open slowly with his shirt cuff, and saw that there was no one. He stepped into a home office. More Native décor, and the faint smell of cigar smoke. Wooden louver blinds like those at the bank hung over the windows. There was a large wooden desk, antique, 1940s design, and a black Herman Miller Aeron chair. The wall to the right was covered with a modular birch bookcase, Scandinavian style, that was divided into boxes of different sizes, with books in some places and knickknacks in others.
JW crossed
He crossed uphill toward the house, which had even taller trees behind it. He strolled up the white concrete walk toward the front door, trying to appear relaxed in case someone happened to be watching. Ranks of orange and green lilies stood at attention. He looked into the dark pool of a window. Everything still. He stepped onto the low front porch. His heart was pounding. A bristly brown mat in front of the door bore the word Bendigen . He didnât belong here. This wasnât the sort of thing he did. He pulled open the wooden screen door, knocked on the carved main door. His fingers were numb.
There was no sound. He glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching. His chest felt tight. He noticed the doorbell. A glowing yellow rectangle. He pressed it and an old bell echoed inside, but there was no reaction. Helooked behind him again, and up the trailer park lane across the street. From here he could see the tops of a few trailers poking over the hill.
His hand closed around the knob, feeling cold and weak. It turned. He paused, then pushed the door open and stepped inside.
âHello? Anybody home? Mr. Eagle? Hello!â
The interior was themed in rustic wood and Native-style decor. To his right stood an unfinished room of studs and insulation. Ahead, the foyer opened into a large eating area, with a broad library table covered with piles of papers and books. The floor was wide-plank wood, marred and finished with a dull wax. To the right of the eating area was the kitchen. Despite the fact that it was only partially finished, it had massive granite countertops, a breakfast bar, a deep sink, and stainless steel appliances. To his immediate left was a corridor leading to the bedrooms.
The central air conditioning kicked on with a cool whir. JW headed down the corridor, in search of an office. His heart was pounding. On the wall was a family photo of the boyâmuch younger, perhaps tenâwith Eagle and a woman, presumably his mother. After pausing at it briefly, JW continued, past a bathroom, to a door that stood open to a masculine, Native-themed room with a queen-sized bed. Opposite he could see into the messy cave of a teenage boy. Clothing piled in mounds. Soda bottles, chips, textbooks, and notebooks on the bed. An older laptop computer and some comic books piled atop an empty terrarium. The smell of dirty laundry and Doritos.
JW returned to the door opposite the bathroom. It was closed, but not latched. There could be someone inside, he worried, an aging grandparent or someone sleeping. He took a softstep closer, but a floorboard creaked under the carpeting, giving him away. He froze.
He had never done anything like this, and he had no idea what to expect or how to react if there was someone inside the room. He waited a moment, still, but there was no answer. He pushed the door open slowly with his shirt cuff, and saw that there was no one. He stepped into a home office. More Native décor, and the faint smell of cigar smoke. Wooden louver blinds like those at the bank hung over the windows. There was a large wooden desk, antique, 1940s design, and a black Herman Miller Aeron chair. The wall to the right was covered with a modular birch bookcase, Scandinavian style, that was divided into boxes of different sizes, with books in some places and knickknacks in others.
JW crossed
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