Read Little Mountain for Free Online

though. When the mongoose and the cobra meet, one must die.
             Meanwhile, Sam wanted to nail Nawath for something.
             When he stepped out of the second house it was like joining a turkey in the oven, and he basted his forehead in the noonday sun. Ten thousand BTUs chilled the apartment he’d just left, and nothing else useful had come of the visit. How could the fans in his apartment possibly keep Trish and Julie comfortable tonight?
             Yesterday the hot, sticky air that had lingered after the sun dropped below the horizon snuck into his apartment and stayed the night. It had curled up with Trish and made her whine, sidled up to Julie and made her snarl, pushed Sam out of bed and made him sit silently in front of the living-room fan, his arms and legs spread to catch all the breeze they could. Now the sunlight glared in mustard-colored discs off the roofs of cars; curdled air shimmered off the pavement. The smells seemed to form layers that swirled together when a car drove by: mown grass, exhaust fumes, sticky hot top, roses . Two cops worked the apartments down the street, but the neighborhood was otherwise quiet. No kids riding bikes in the park, no mothers walking their babies, in fact no one but a few cops--and a girl who played by herself under a tree in the park.
             Not enough people answered the knocks on their doors, so Sam decided to drive over to the hospital to visit Mrs. Chea. He crossed the street to find his car wedged so tightly between two others that he wouldn’t easily get out. A yellow parking ticket graced his windshield, and the hood of his Ford sported a brand-new dent. On the sidewalk, a dog with a summer haircut sniffed at a fire hydrant.
             This had been no random killing. Bin Chea was a prominent businessman, if a reclusive one. The shooter apparently hadn’t tried to rob him, so what was the point? Maybe it was a gang bang, or maybe a hit.
             The young girl approached from the playground, smiled, and stuck out her hand. She was about six years old, and she looked perfectly comfortable in her pink skirt, white ruffled blouse, and black patent-leather shoes. Behind her and down the grassy knoll, the swings were still, the playground nearly empty.
             “How do you do?” she said in English. “My name is Sopheary. What is your name?” She looked up at him with big, trusting eyes, her hand thrust halfway up to his face. He hesitated, and she waited. Clearly she expected him to meet her halfway, and would not settle for any less. Sam felt uneasy around children--except for Trish, of course.
             Sam shook her hand. “I am fine, young lady--”
             “I am not a lady, I am a little girl. You may call me Sopheary.”
             “Then I am fine, Sopheary. You may call me Detective Long. And you may let go of my hand, please. Thank you. Didn’t your mother tell you not to talk to strangers?”
             Sopheary cocked her head and narrowed her eyes as though she wasn’t used to hearing such foolish questions. “You’re not a stranger,” she said. “I know you now.”
             She was far too trusting. This young girl needed a talking to, but not by him.
             The cars were jammed together like rush-hour traffic. Could he push the Toyota in front of him? Not likely. It was a tight squeeze, as though cars had been lifted by a magnet and dropped into the spaces. That seemed how he would have to get his car out. Lift and drop. God, couldn’t there be a little breeze?
             “I have to go home for lunch now,” Sopheary said.
             “Where do you live?”
             “Over there.” She pointed to the first blue house, the one where Bin Chea had died. A boy looked down at the crime scene tape as he walked by. “I live on the first floor, behind the yellow stripe,” she said.