lived in this cabin I rarely received visitors and was not expecting one now.
Though only three in the afternoon, the sun had slipped back behind the peaks, the forest draped in an eerie twilight. I heard a door slam and through the window watched a figure step onto the porch.
There was a knock.
Taking the subcompact .40 caliber Glock from the top dresser drawer, I slipped it into the pocket of my fleece pullover and went to greet my guest.
When I opened the front door, firelight from inside the cabin streamed across the gaunt visage of a young man I’d seen around the village these last few weeks, a small kid with an acne-cratered face, swallowed in a huge down jacket. The moment we made eye contact he looked away.
“Help you?” I asked. He found my eyes again, his hands fidgeting behind his back.
“Mr. Carmichael?” he said.
“Yes?” I sensed a frightened innocence behind those twentysomething eyes.
“May I come in for a moment?”
“Why?”
“There was something I wanted to talk to you about.”
He was letting in the cold so I stepped back and ushered him inside.
The young man stood beside the breakfast table, took a good long look at me. His Adam’s apple rolled in his throat and his hands shook.
I said, “Well, do I have to guess?”
“What? Oh, no.”
As he leaned against the breakfast table, our eyes fixed simultaneously on the article which lay face-up, its headline in large black font:
FAMILY SLAYING LINKED TO ANDREW THOMAS
He looked up quickly and said, “Julie Ashburn sent me out to see if you could work tomorrow night. The Curling Club is having a dinner.”
I reached back, pulled my hair into a ponytail.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Horace. I just started helping her out. Sort of a gofer. Lucky to get the job.”
“Well, you’ll have to tell her that I can’t do it this time, Horace.”
“Oh, okay. That’s fine, I mean…” He glanced once more at the article, then back at me, becoming breathless. “I’ll let her know. Should I tell her you’re going on vacation? That that’s why you can’t?” I just stared at him and slid my hands into my pockets, fingering the cold metal of the handgun, trying to talk myself down from the paranoia. He doesn’t suspect anything. He’s acting strange because he’s strange. World’s full of strange people. Nothing more than that. He doesn’t know who I am.
“The reason I say vacation,” he continued, “you know is just cause I notice you have a suitcase out over on the uh, the thing over there.”
“Yes, I’m going away for a little while.”
“Well, okay, then I’ll uh, I’ll tell Julie.”
He couldn’t help himself. For the third time he looked at the article.
“Why don’t you take it with you?” I said. “I’m finished with it. Crazy stuff, huh?”
“Yeah. It’s…wow. Well, look, I’ll uh, I’ll let Julie know.” He picked up the article, then said, “I’m very sorry to bother you.”
As Horace walked by and opened the front door, I realized how paranoid I’d become. He stepped out into the afternoon darkness and I lingered in the doorway, watching him climb into a Land Cruiser and head back up the driveway. The noise of its engine soon faded into woodland silence and there was nothing but the whisper of wind in the firs.
I walked back inside to finish packing, my thoughts returning to how I would find Luther Kite in this wide wide world.
Driving home through the cold Yukon darkness, Horace Boone could hardly contain his joy. Having read Andrew Thomas’s manuscript, Desert Places , he understood perfectly well what was happening: on the supposition that Andrew was telling the truth, Luther Kite had survived the desert, was now alive and wreaking havoc, and Andrew was going to find him. Though it would devour all his savings,
Though only three in the afternoon, the sun had slipped back behind the peaks, the forest draped in an eerie twilight. I heard a door slam and through the window watched a figure step onto the porch.
There was a knock.
Taking the subcompact .40 caliber Glock from the top dresser drawer, I slipped it into the pocket of my fleece pullover and went to greet my guest.
When I opened the front door, firelight from inside the cabin streamed across the gaunt visage of a young man I’d seen around the village these last few weeks, a small kid with an acne-cratered face, swallowed in a huge down jacket. The moment we made eye contact he looked away.
“Help you?” I asked. He found my eyes again, his hands fidgeting behind his back.
“Mr. Carmichael?” he said.
“Yes?” I sensed a frightened innocence behind those twentysomething eyes.
“May I come in for a moment?”
“Why?”
“There was something I wanted to talk to you about.”
He was letting in the cold so I stepped back and ushered him inside.
The young man stood beside the breakfast table, took a good long look at me. His Adam’s apple rolled in his throat and his hands shook.
I said, “Well, do I have to guess?”
“What? Oh, no.”
As he leaned against the breakfast table, our eyes fixed simultaneously on the article which lay face-up, its headline in large black font:
FAMILY SLAYING LINKED TO ANDREW THOMAS
He looked up quickly and said, “Julie Ashburn sent me out to see if you could work tomorrow night. The Curling Club is having a dinner.”
I reached back, pulled my hair into a ponytail.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Horace. I just started helping her out. Sort of a gofer. Lucky to get the job.”
“Well, you’ll have to tell her that I can’t do it this time, Horace.”
“Oh, okay. That’s fine, I mean…” He glanced once more at the article, then back at me, becoming breathless. “I’ll let her know. Should I tell her you’re going on vacation? That that’s why you can’t?” I just stared at him and slid my hands into my pockets, fingering the cold metal of the handgun, trying to talk myself down from the paranoia. He doesn’t suspect anything. He’s acting strange because he’s strange. World’s full of strange people. Nothing more than that. He doesn’t know who I am.
“The reason I say vacation,” he continued, “you know is just cause I notice you have a suitcase out over on the uh, the thing over there.”
“Yes, I’m going away for a little while.”
“Well, okay, then I’ll uh, I’ll tell Julie.”
He couldn’t help himself. For the third time he looked at the article.
“Why don’t you take it with you?” I said. “I’m finished with it. Crazy stuff, huh?”
“Yeah. It’s…wow. Well, look, I’ll uh, I’ll let Julie know.” He picked up the article, then said, “I’m very sorry to bother you.”
As Horace walked by and opened the front door, I realized how paranoid I’d become. He stepped out into the afternoon darkness and I lingered in the doorway, watching him climb into a Land Cruiser and head back up the driveway. The noise of its engine soon faded into woodland silence and there was nothing but the whisper of wind in the firs.
I walked back inside to finish packing, my thoughts returning to how I would find Luther Kite in this wide wide world.
Driving home through the cold Yukon darkness, Horace Boone could hardly contain his joy. Having read Andrew Thomas’s manuscript, Desert Places , he understood perfectly well what was happening: on the supposition that Andrew was telling the truth, Luther Kite had survived the desert, was now alive and wreaking havoc, and Andrew was going to find him. Though it would devour all his savings,
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