Читать книгу Innocent Foxes: A Novel - Torey Hayden, Torey Hayden - Страница 10

Chapter Eight

It was just after five thirty when Dixie got home. Billy wasn’t there. She had no idea where he was or what he was doing. Truth was, she didn’t really care. The previous night’s casserole was still in the fridge. That would have to be good enough, if Billy wanted something to eat. Popping open a can of beer, Dixie turned the TV on and flopped down on the sofa.

About eight in the evening the backdoor banged and there was Billy with a bag of groceries and the biggest, stupidest grin across his face. He plopped the bag down on the kitchen table.

‘You look in there,’ he said gleefully, ‘and you’re going to find two of the best T-bone steaks they had at the store!’

‘What’s going on?’ Dixie asked suspiciously. ‘We can’t afford hamburger, much less T-bones.’

‘This here’s our celebrating meal.’

‘Celebrating what? Being in the poorhouse?’

‘What would you say if I tell you that me and you are going to be millionaires pretty soon?’

‘I’d say go put your head under that faucet, ’cause clearly the heat’s done in what little brain you got.’

He grinned good-naturedly. ‘Nope. Just your Billy’s taking care of things for you. We won’t have to worry about that money for the funeral any more. You cook us them steaks and then after dinner, I’ll show you.’

‘Show me what?’

‘Show you how we’re gonna be millionaires.’

‘What fool thing you done now, Billy?’

‘You fix us them steaks first and then I’ll show you.’

Dixie turned uneasily away and took the frying pan out from under the stove. ‘I’m not going to be able to enjoy the steak if I’m worrying the whole time. I know you, Billy. So tell me what you done. Sold something? What? It wasn’t the truck, was it?’ She felt alarm at the thought. ‘Oh gosh, please tell me it’s not the truck.’

‘Truck’s right out in the garage. How would I have gotten home, silly, if I’d sold the truck?’

A long moment’s silence followed as Dixie stood, frying pan in hand, and stared him down.

Billy’s goofy smile started to slip. ‘Why do you always got to ruin things with your worrying, Dix? Why can’t you just be happy for once? Has that always got to be too much to ask of you?’

‘Billy, tell me what you’ve done.’

He eyed her.

She eyed him back.

‘Here’s me, trying to give you a good surprise,’ he muttered.

‘I’ll cook the steaks. I promise,’ Dixie said. ‘But first just tell me what’s going on.’

A dramatic sigh and then he relented. ‘OK, well, come out to the garage then, because I got it in the toolbox.’

Curious, Dixie followed him.

The garage door had been put down, which was maybe only the third time it had been lowered since they’d moved into the house. It took Billy a moment of fumbling to find the light switch, then he had to get out the little stepladder so that Dixie could climb up into the flatbed of the pick-up from the side, because with the garage door closed, there wasn’t enough room to let down the tailgate. Just behind the cab was a built-in toolbox where Billy usually stored his gear, but the gear was lying out all over the open flatbed. Once they were both up in the back, Billy unlocked the toolbox and lifted the lid. Inside was a little boy, maybe seven or eight, bound up with duct tape, a dirty rag tied over his eyes.

Dixie yelped with shock.

Billy grinned. ‘Know who that is? It’s Spencer Scott’s son.’