on his feet as he scanned the weed-choked, overrun landscape. “Looks more like Hell to me,” he said at last.
Hell was probably generous at that. To Pete’s mind, Hell would be pretty dynamic, with lots of screaming and shouting and general carrying on. Torturous, that’s what hell would be. Hell was an active, aggressive place, because you needed to feel the pain of how rotten you’d been in your life to end up there. This place was just dead. Lost and empty and forgotten.
The house had clearly been grand in its day. It was on top of a small ridge, and behind it some farmer was still planting a field. Back when the house had been built, the field was probably run by slaves. This had the look of some farmer with enough money to fancy himself local gentry, so he’d put pillars on the front porch, like that was all it took to make him great, and then he went and bought him some slaves. Whoever he had been, he was dead and buried now, and all that was left of his life were the pillars.
Pete turned to Clarke with a furrowed brow. “What exactly are we clearing out?”
There was that damn smile again. Clarke nodded at the house. “I just told you. Haven.”
Pete’s eyes went wide as he turned back to the house. One whole section of it was completely caved in, and the front door wasn’t even there. “Buddy, you don’t want a day laborer. You want a bulldozer.”
“We’ll do fine, the two of us, for what I have in mind.” He took off his suit coat and tossed it over his arm. “Come on.”
Clarke took him in through the front door, or the front opening, as it were. The steps were gone, so they had to hoist themselves up onto the porch. Except this place would call it a veranda, Pete figured. Anybody putting pillars on their porch was gonna call it a veranda. It must have been nice in its day, though. He could imagine ladies sitting sipping lemonade in wicker chairs, their beaus grinning down at them as they leaned on the pillars.
Funny how he kept thinking of the place in terms of the Civil War. He tried to get a more accurate sense of period by making a study of the windows and woodwork, but since most of them were rotted and fallen out, it didn’t really matter. Probably he was just channeling a little too much Gone With the Wind. But as they came inside the foyer and Pete took in the big-ass staircase, the ornate remnants of a chandelier crashed in the center of the floor, and the shredded remains of drapery in the parlor off to the left, he started to wonder. Damn if the place didn’t feel like 1850.
Clarke was watching him intently. “You look upset.” He seemed to be expecting that, too, and weirdest of all, he seemed happy about it.
Pete couldn’t seem to stop his eyes from roaming the house, moving from floor to ceiling and back again. “Just seems weird. Place shouldn’t be in the kind of shape it’s in for as old as it is.” But as soon as he said that, he scratched his head. What kind of sense did that make? Shouldn’t it be in bad shape if it were old? Except Pete couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something wrong here.
It shouldn’t be like this. It was never meant to be like this.
Pete shifted uncertainly on his feet and looked up at the ceiling, grounding himself on a crack wide enough to expose the beam beneath.
“And how old is it, Peter?”
Pete glared. “I told you once already. It’s Pete.”
Clarke was watching him like a hawk now. “Your name is important to you?”
“Yes, Mr. Clarke. ‘Peter’ sounds like some prissy uptight asshole. I’m Pete. I drink beer and watch wrestling and football on TV.”
“And pick up women at the bars?” Clarke suggested helpfully. Except there was a hedge here, too, for some reason. And Pete had fucking had enough.
Pete looked him dead in the eye. “As a matter of fact, I suck cock. You got a problem with that, Clarke?”
It was a goddamn
Hell was probably generous at that. To Pete’s mind, Hell would be pretty dynamic, with lots of screaming and shouting and general carrying on. Torturous, that’s what hell would be. Hell was an active, aggressive place, because you needed to feel the pain of how rotten you’d been in your life to end up there. This place was just dead. Lost and empty and forgotten.
The house had clearly been grand in its day. It was on top of a small ridge, and behind it some farmer was still planting a field. Back when the house had been built, the field was probably run by slaves. This had the look of some farmer with enough money to fancy himself local gentry, so he’d put pillars on the front porch, like that was all it took to make him great, and then he went and bought him some slaves. Whoever he had been, he was dead and buried now, and all that was left of his life were the pillars.
Pete turned to Clarke with a furrowed brow. “What exactly are we clearing out?”
There was that damn smile again. Clarke nodded at the house. “I just told you. Haven.”
Pete’s eyes went wide as he turned back to the house. One whole section of it was completely caved in, and the front door wasn’t even there. “Buddy, you don’t want a day laborer. You want a bulldozer.”
“We’ll do fine, the two of us, for what I have in mind.” He took off his suit coat and tossed it over his arm. “Come on.”
Clarke took him in through the front door, or the front opening, as it were. The steps were gone, so they had to hoist themselves up onto the porch. Except this place would call it a veranda, Pete figured. Anybody putting pillars on their porch was gonna call it a veranda. It must have been nice in its day, though. He could imagine ladies sitting sipping lemonade in wicker chairs, their beaus grinning down at them as they leaned on the pillars.
Funny how he kept thinking of the place in terms of the Civil War. He tried to get a more accurate sense of period by making a study of the windows and woodwork, but since most of them were rotted and fallen out, it didn’t really matter. Probably he was just channeling a little too much Gone With the Wind. But as they came inside the foyer and Pete took in the big-ass staircase, the ornate remnants of a chandelier crashed in the center of the floor, and the shredded remains of drapery in the parlor off to the left, he started to wonder. Damn if the place didn’t feel like 1850.
Clarke was watching him intently. “You look upset.” He seemed to be expecting that, too, and weirdest of all, he seemed happy about it.
Pete couldn’t seem to stop his eyes from roaming the house, moving from floor to ceiling and back again. “Just seems weird. Place shouldn’t be in the kind of shape it’s in for as old as it is.” But as soon as he said that, he scratched his head. What kind of sense did that make? Shouldn’t it be in bad shape if it were old? Except Pete couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something wrong here.
It shouldn’t be like this. It was never meant to be like this.
Pete shifted uncertainly on his feet and looked up at the ceiling, grounding himself on a crack wide enough to expose the beam beneath.
“And how old is it, Peter?”
Pete glared. “I told you once already. It’s Pete.”
Clarke was watching him like a hawk now. “Your name is important to you?”
“Yes, Mr. Clarke. ‘Peter’ sounds like some prissy uptight asshole. I’m Pete. I drink beer and watch wrestling and football on TV.”
“And pick up women at the bars?” Clarke suggested helpfully. Except there was a hedge here, too, for some reason. And Pete had fucking had enough.
Pete looked him dead in the eye. “As a matter of fact, I suck cock. You got a problem with that, Clarke?”
It was a goddamn
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