The Night Wanderer by Drew Hayden Taylor Page A

She may be seventy-four years old, but she would never be too old to cook breakfast for her son. At whatever hour.
    Keith was left alone in the kitchen, with only the sound of his chewing, and the tick of the clock in the shape of the Last Supper that hung over the stove. From where Keith sat, the window looked black. Somewhere in the sky there was a three-quarter moon, but the poplar and cedar trees hid almost everything the skies offered. Still, he watched the window, waiting for the lights from Charley’s truck to enter his driveway.
    Finishing the last bite of his pancake, he wiped up the residual maple syrup with his toast. Fueled and ready to go, he grabbed a used and heavily duct-taped canvas bag. Inside were some extra socks, gloves, shotgun shells, and other assorted duck-hunting necessities. He added a big thermos of coffee that hopefully would still be hot two or three damp hours later. From the front closet he grabbed his shotgun, a large pump-action Remington, and a big, thick plaid jacket. That jacket had been hunting ducks as long as he had. It was old, smelly, with stains and rips all through it—just like me, he sometimes joked. But Keith would no more go hunting without it than without his shotgun. He was all set.
    â€œGoing hunting?”
    The suddenness of the deep, still voice made Keith drop his gun and it bounced off the table, then off the chair, and finally landed on the floor. Standing at the doorway to the basement was his houseguest, calmly watching Keith prepare for aquatic and avian battle.
    â€œGeez, you scared me! I could have shot you, you know! Don’t ever sneak up on a guy carrying a gun. You could get yourself killed!” Keith was breathing heavily and was trying to stop his heart from beating so fast. Pierre stepped into the kitchen and bent down to retrieve Keith’s shotgun. He handled the hefty weapon like it was no heavier than a broom handle, then examined it for a moment before handing it back to the hunter.
    â€œYes, that was foolish of me. My apologies. Your rifle appears intact. No damage done.”
    Still trying to recover, Keith sat back down in his chair, placing the shotgun across his lap. Pierre watched him, somewhat amused. “I did not mean to startle you.”
    â€œThat’s okay. I’m okay. But, my God, you move quietly. Those steps are more than thirty years old and they creak like anything. If I’d known you were going to be staying down there, I would have replaced them. But I didn’t hear a thing when you . . .”
    â€œI was worried that I might wake somebody. I can be quite quiet when I have to be.” Pierre stood with his back to the light, the shadows hiding his face.
    â€œObviously.” Keith checked his gun over, making sure the safety was still on and the barrel hadn’t been damaged. “How is the basement? Had any second thoughts, maybe?”
    â€œNone whatsoever. I find it quite charming. It—” Pierre’s face took on a look of concentration. Finally, he inhaled deeply. “Maple syrup! Is that maple syrup I smell?” Almost eagerly, he scanned the kitchen counters.
    â€œYeah, right here. You got a good nose,” said Keith, pointing to the center of the table. “Just had pancakes this morning. Want some? Granny Ruth made extra in the fridge.”
    Pierre picked up the bottle gingerly. “No, no thank you. My diet prohibits me,” he said, still studying the bottle. He smelled it again, then, quite daintily, he rubbed the lid of the syrup bottle with his little finger. There was residue on it and he licked the tip. His eyes closed as memories came flooding in. They flowed through him like an electric current.

    An afternoon long, long ago. It was spring, with just a hint of snow on the ground. But it was late enough in the season for the blood of the maple tree to wake from its winter slumber. Slowly, then more quickly, the sweet sap made its journey from the soil