The snow was starting to turn to rain when Ruby got off the highway. It was just before the Tennessee border, and they took back roads west into hilly southern Kentucky, following the instructions Stick had typed into the Garmin GPS on the dash.
It was still raining at around noon when they finally found the address down a rolling hill in the middle of a tree-filled nowhere. Ruby pulled over onto the shoulder before an old rusty mailbox. Gannon turned and shook Stick’s leg in the back seat.
“Hey? This it?”
Stick blinked and looked around.
“This is it,” he said with a yawn.
“And your uncle won’t be home. You’re sure?”
“Positive,” Stick said. “The lucky son of a gun owns several beer distributors along the Jersey Shore. He’s got hunting cabins all over the country.”
“Any chance he’ll be here?”
“No,” Stick said. “He leaves for his elk-hunting place in northern Arizona day after Christmas.”
“Okay. Here goes nothing,” Ruby said as she pulled off the old road onto a muddy driveway.
The steep slope of the drive leveled off, and then about another half football field in off the road was a double-wide trailer beside a barn the color of driftwood.
Best thing Gannon could say about it straight off was that there wasn’t another neighbor in sight.
Ruby parked behind the trailer, and they sat listening for a moment to the rain drumming atop the car.
“Looks deserted. Good,” Ruby said, finally killing the engine.
The trailer was actually all right. It was furnished with Ikea stuff and had a pellet stove that warmed up the space quickly. Stick turned on the water and the propane tank beside the house that powered the water heater and the stove.
Gannon peeked out the living room blind as Ruby went into the back bedroom to take the first shower. There was an empty field across the narrow road, and in the distance stood a sole old leafless oak tree that was dark and ominous against the gray of the rainy sky.
Staring at it, Gannon tried to gauge his thoughts and feelings about all that had just transpired. What it meant. How he felt. What to do about any of it.
He stopped after half a minute. He’d have to try again later.
He blew on his cupped hands and rubbed them together and stamped his feet.
The only thing he could think about was how much he missed his son.