worked for him, she hadn’t seen any evidence that he had any business connections at all. He was the most solitary, disconnected man imaginable.
Not long ago she’d had the good luck to find out about the trinkets. She had stopped into the shop after hours, come in quietly through the rear door, and caught him fondling the trinkets at his desk. He had behaved as if he were drugged, responding with shocked surprise, sweeping them into the open desk drawer and locking it. They appeared to be castaway junk, the kind of thing you might find if you dug up old garden dumps behind farmhouses. Later, when she had managed to open the desk drawer, the trinkets were gone from inside, but she’d found the newspaper clippings in an old envelope, and had sneaked them out to photocopy them. She’d also found a loaded gun, which changed her perception of Hale Appleton just a little bit.
It was a year before she had accidentally shoved the office carpet aside and found the removable pieces of flooring. Hoping to find money, she had found the trinkets instead. Appleton had been at the counter helping a customer. Disappointed but curious, she had picked up one of the trinkets, a bit of black iron bric-a-brac that looked superficially like a small bear. A wave of nausea and vertigo had passed through her when the trinket touched her palm. The lights had dimmed, then come up again, and before her eyes was the rain-glazed brick of a moonlit wall. She felt and smelled a night wind. A man stood before her, a stranger, small, almost hairless, dressed in rags, his face a rictus of avid rage. He was half lost in the shadow of a moving tree, and within the shadow she seemed to see a ghost of the office—the desk, the safe, but she had only a hazy notion of what these things were. He lurched forward, reaching toward her, and she fell backward, cracking her head, dropping the bit of metal from her palm. …
Instantly the office resolved itself. The man was gone. Appleton stood over her, and for a moment she confused the face in the dream with his face. But then she saw her mistake, and the dream itself dwindled, faded from her mind.
“I must ask you not to touch my things, Elizabeth,” Appleton said to her.
“I moved the rug, and I saw the cutout in the floor. I was curious, but I had no idea …”
He helped her to her feet. She had a dull headache, like a hangover headache. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to meddle.”
She had begun to cry, and had made up a story right on the spot, a story about her own past, about the death of her father and mother, about coming out alone to California, where he had taken her under his wing.
He had put the trinkets away in the floor again, replaced the rug, locked the shop and, as the rain began to fall in the darkening evening outside, he had begun to talk—about the weather first, the rainy season each year, watching the skies in October for early storms. The story of his daughter came out bit by bit, her wasting away from some sickness, the ritual drowning in a last-moment effort to keep her with him, the loss of the crystal object that had contained her memory. But there was something in this rainy season that gave him hope, and she had found herself asking to help him, to share his grief and his hope.
If she herself hadn’t held one of the trinkets, she would have thought he was simply insane. But all of it—the trinkets, the newspaper articles, his own murky past—all of it was simply too intriguing for her to ignore, especially the unmistakable smell of money. …
The old crank still sat at his desk in the shop. He had put her to work on Phil Ainsworth, trying to pick up the scent of the crystal, and she had been out in the rain drowning while he dozed off in the shop. Half of her doubted the very existence of the crystal, except that Appleton was so clearly driven. What she didn’t doubt was that the old man had money somewhere. She started the car and pulled away from
Not long ago she’d had the good luck to find out about the trinkets. She had stopped into the shop after hours, come in quietly through the rear door, and caught him fondling the trinkets at his desk. He had behaved as if he were drugged, responding with shocked surprise, sweeping them into the open desk drawer and locking it. They appeared to be castaway junk, the kind of thing you might find if you dug up old garden dumps behind farmhouses. Later, when she had managed to open the desk drawer, the trinkets were gone from inside, but she’d found the newspaper clippings in an old envelope, and had sneaked them out to photocopy them. She’d also found a loaded gun, which changed her perception of Hale Appleton just a little bit.
It was a year before she had accidentally shoved the office carpet aside and found the removable pieces of flooring. Hoping to find money, she had found the trinkets instead. Appleton had been at the counter helping a customer. Disappointed but curious, she had picked up one of the trinkets, a bit of black iron bric-a-brac that looked superficially like a small bear. A wave of nausea and vertigo had passed through her when the trinket touched her palm. The lights had dimmed, then come up again, and before her eyes was the rain-glazed brick of a moonlit wall. She felt and smelled a night wind. A man stood before her, a stranger, small, almost hairless, dressed in rags, his face a rictus of avid rage. He was half lost in the shadow of a moving tree, and within the shadow she seemed to see a ghost of the office—the desk, the safe, but she had only a hazy notion of what these things were. He lurched forward, reaching toward her, and she fell backward, cracking her head, dropping the bit of metal from her palm. …
Instantly the office resolved itself. The man was gone. Appleton stood over her, and for a moment she confused the face in the dream with his face. But then she saw her mistake, and the dream itself dwindled, faded from her mind.
“I must ask you not to touch my things, Elizabeth,” Appleton said to her.
“I moved the rug, and I saw the cutout in the floor. I was curious, but I had no idea …”
He helped her to her feet. She had a dull headache, like a hangover headache. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to meddle.”
She had begun to cry, and had made up a story right on the spot, a story about her own past, about the death of her father and mother, about coming out alone to California, where he had taken her under his wing.
He had put the trinkets away in the floor again, replaced the rug, locked the shop and, as the rain began to fall in the darkening evening outside, he had begun to talk—about the weather first, the rainy season each year, watching the skies in October for early storms. The story of his daughter came out bit by bit, her wasting away from some sickness, the ritual drowning in a last-moment effort to keep her with him, the loss of the crystal object that had contained her memory. But there was something in this rainy season that gave him hope, and she had found herself asking to help him, to share his grief and his hope.
If she herself hadn’t held one of the trinkets, she would have thought he was simply insane. But all of it—the trinkets, the newspaper articles, his own murky past—all of it was simply too intriguing for her to ignore, especially the unmistakable smell of money. …
The old crank still sat at his desk in the shop. He had put her to work on Phil Ainsworth, trying to pick up the scent of the crystal, and she had been out in the rain drowning while he dozed off in the shop. Half of her doubted the very existence of the crystal, except that Appleton was so clearly driven. What she didn’t doubt was that the old man had money somewhere. She started the car and pulled away from
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