Sins of Our Fathers (9781571319128) by Shawn Lawrence Otto Page B
Authors: Shawn Lawrence Otto
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to the desk. He pressed his fingertips to the paperwork on top. A pale blue report card. Jacob Eagle. Migizi-doodem . Cs and Ds. B+ in math. Teacher comments to the right of each grade: able but distracted; not engaged; disruptive in class.
The bookcase was filled with books about Native Americans, as well as DVDs of Avatar , Dances with Wolves , Smoke Signals , Babel , Crash , and The Visitor , a small stack of CDsâJim Boyd, Bob Marley, Janaâand videos of powwows. There was also a brass eagle in flight, which JW took to be an eponymous testament to the manâs inflated self-image.
He opened the center drawer. Pens and pencils, ink cartridges, a calculator. A self-help book, Fearless Living : Live without Excuses and Love without Regret , suggested a kind of touchy-feely vulnerability that both moved and repelled JW.
He took the bug from his pocket, wiped it clean, andplaced it in the back of the drawer. He shut the drawer and glanced out the window. The coast was still clear. Down the hill he could see his own trailer, a dirty blue robinâs egg in the fine wavy grass under the oak trees.
He pulled open the deskâs file drawer, again using his shirt cuff to avoid leaving any fingerprints. Neatly ordered files. He squatted and rifled through the brown tabs. They emitted a rich aroma of cigar smoke. One of the folders said Natureâs Bank. He opened it and examined the contents. Motes of dust lifted off the papers like tiny hot-air balloons, sparkling in the sun.
He glanced out the window. The longer he stayed, the greater his chances of being caught. But this might be the mother lode. He scanned a page with numbers: Start-Up Capitalization. . . $3.5 Million. He closed the folder and slipped it back into the file drawer. Heâd had enough. It was obviously a bank, and he was increasingly nervous. Someone could come home at any timeâEagle, the boy, or someone else. He pushed the drawer shut and glanced out the window again. He crossed to the door. But something caught his eye and he stopped. He went to the closetâs bifold door and pulled it open. Inside was a safe.
He crouched and tried the handle, but it was locked. The dial had numbers every ten marks to one hundred. He tried turning it to see if it was just slightly off, but it didnât open. He stood. Glanced at the closet shelves. Office supplies. Paper. A yellow box of trash-can liners. He closed the closet door and returned to the hallway, using his shirt cuff to pull the door shut like it had been. He tiptoed quickly back down the hall and crossed to the door. He opened it a crack and looked out. The coast seemed clear. He exited into the open air of the shaded porch and eased the doorshut, then gently let the screen door close. The fresh air hit him like a gasp of relief.
He stepped off the front deck and glanced at the white brick house up the road, and as he turned he saw a curtain falling back into place in a high corner window. His heart leaped in his chest. Surely whoever lived in the house knew Eagle, and would relay the story of how the white guy in the trailer had broken into his house while he was away. He had to do something. Pretending it hadnât happened was not an option. Perhaps he could still avert a catastrophe by going up and talking to whomever had been behind that curtain.
He looked both ways and then walked out into Eagleâs yard, consciously adopting an aw-shucks kind of amble in his gait. He began formulating a plan: He was out looking to borrow some sugar. He wanted directions to the trading post. A dozen clichés came to mind, none of them compelling. He crossed the driveway in front of the brick houseâs tuck-under garage and mounted the concrete steps leading up to the front door.
It was somehow even hotter up there in the sun. The white blazed everywhere, making him feel as if he were in a solar cooker. He glanced at the tall casement windows. They all had white curtains and he
The bookcase was filled with books about Native Americans, as well as DVDs of Avatar , Dances with Wolves , Smoke Signals , Babel , Crash , and The Visitor , a small stack of CDsâJim Boyd, Bob Marley, Janaâand videos of powwows. There was also a brass eagle in flight, which JW took to be an eponymous testament to the manâs inflated self-image.
He opened the center drawer. Pens and pencils, ink cartridges, a calculator. A self-help book, Fearless Living : Live without Excuses and Love without Regret , suggested a kind of touchy-feely vulnerability that both moved and repelled JW.
He took the bug from his pocket, wiped it clean, andplaced it in the back of the drawer. He shut the drawer and glanced out the window. The coast was still clear. Down the hill he could see his own trailer, a dirty blue robinâs egg in the fine wavy grass under the oak trees.
He pulled open the deskâs file drawer, again using his shirt cuff to avoid leaving any fingerprints. Neatly ordered files. He squatted and rifled through the brown tabs. They emitted a rich aroma of cigar smoke. One of the folders said Natureâs Bank. He opened it and examined the contents. Motes of dust lifted off the papers like tiny hot-air balloons, sparkling in the sun.
He glanced out the window. The longer he stayed, the greater his chances of being caught. But this might be the mother lode. He scanned a page with numbers: Start-Up Capitalization. . . $3.5 Million. He closed the folder and slipped it back into the file drawer. Heâd had enough. It was obviously a bank, and he was increasingly nervous. Someone could come home at any timeâEagle, the boy, or someone else. He pushed the drawer shut and glanced out the window again. He crossed to the door. But something caught his eye and he stopped. He went to the closetâs bifold door and pulled it open. Inside was a safe.
He crouched and tried the handle, but it was locked. The dial had numbers every ten marks to one hundred. He tried turning it to see if it was just slightly off, but it didnât open. He stood. Glanced at the closet shelves. Office supplies. Paper. A yellow box of trash-can liners. He closed the closet door and returned to the hallway, using his shirt cuff to pull the door shut like it had been. He tiptoed quickly back down the hall and crossed to the door. He opened it a crack and looked out. The coast seemed clear. He exited into the open air of the shaded porch and eased the doorshut, then gently let the screen door close. The fresh air hit him like a gasp of relief.
He stepped off the front deck and glanced at the white brick house up the road, and as he turned he saw a curtain falling back into place in a high corner window. His heart leaped in his chest. Surely whoever lived in the house knew Eagle, and would relay the story of how the white guy in the trailer had broken into his house while he was away. He had to do something. Pretending it hadnât happened was not an option. Perhaps he could still avert a catastrophe by going up and talking to whomever had been behind that curtain.
He looked both ways and then walked out into Eagleâs yard, consciously adopting an aw-shucks kind of amble in his gait. He began formulating a plan: He was out looking to borrow some sugar. He wanted directions to the trading post. A dozen clichés came to mind, none of them compelling. He crossed the driveway in front of the brick houseâs tuck-under garage and mounted the concrete steps leading up to the front door.
It was somehow even hotter up there in the sun. The white blazed everywhere, making him feel as if he were in a solar cooker. He glanced at the tall casement windows. They all had white curtains and he
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