BOOKREPORTER

 

Blake Crouch is the most exciting new thriller writer I've read in years.

DAVID MORRELL

 

 

FOUR LIVE ROUNDS is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

All of the stories contained in this volume appeared previously in the following magazines and anthologies: Uncage Me, edited by Jen Jordan and published by Bleak House Books: “*69”; Thriller 2, edited by Clive Cussler and published by Mira Books: “Remaking”; Brilliance Audio edition of Abandon by Blake Crouch: “On the Good, Red Road”; Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine: “Shining Rock.”

 

For more information about the author, please visit www.blakecrouch.com.

For more information about the artist, please visit www.jeroentenberge.com.

 

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

 

 

* * * * *

 

 

Foreword

 

As a horror writer, I often get asked what scares me.

My answer is always the same: Blake Crouch.

More than any other author working today, Crouch knows how to make the reader squirm. Part of it is because he dreams up scenarios so horrible that I fear for his sanity. But I think the main reason he’s so effective is because Crouch writes about characters you really feel for. Then, when he puts them through hell, you experience every cut, every bite, every atrocity.

This short story collection is a perfect introduction to Crouch’s skewed world. But before you dive in, please heed my warning. I don’t care how tough you think you are. You still need to brace yourself.

Because this is going to hurt…

 

-J.A. Konrath (aka Jack Kilborn), March 2010

 

 

An introduction to “*69”

 

Have you ever received an accidental phone call from someone who kept your number in their address book? I blame my old high-school buddy, Ryan McDaniels, for this story. A few years ago, over the course of several weeks, he inadvertently joggled his cell phone and called me several times. He didn’t know he had done it, and I received a handful of strange, muffled messages. Later, it occurred to me—what if my friend had accidentally called me when he was doing something terrible, and only realized after the fact that he’d unintentionally made me a witness to his brutal crime? From these questions emerged “*69.”

 

 

*69

 

At nine-thirty on a Thursday evening, as he lounged in bed grading the pop quizzes he’d sprung on his 11th grade honors English class, Tim West heard footsteps ascend the staircase and pad down the hallway toward the bedroom.

His wife, Laura, appeared in the open doorway.

“Tim, come here.”

He set the papers aside and climbed out of bed.

Following her down the squeaky stairs into the living room, he found immense pleasure in the architecture of her long legs and the grace with which she carried herself. Coupled with that yellow satin teddy he loved and the floral tang of skin lotion, Tim foresaw a night of marital bliss. Historically, Thursdays were their night.

Laura sat him down in the oversize leather chair across from the fireplace, and as she took a seat on its matching ottoman, it struck him—this fleeting premonition that she was on the verge of revealing she was pregnant with their first child, a project they’d been working on since last Christmas. Instead, she reached over to the end table beside the chair and pressed the blinking play button on the answering machine:

 

Ten seconds of the static hiss of wind.

A woman’s voice breaks through, severely muffled, and mostly unintelligible except for, “…didn’t mean anything!”

A man’s voice, louder and distorted by static: “…making me do this.”

“I can explain!”

“…late for that.”

A thud, a sucking sound.

“…in my eyes.” The man’s voice. “Look in them! …you can’t speak….but…listen the last minute…whore-life…be disrespected. You lie there and think about that while…”

Thirty seconds of that horrible sucking sound, occasionally cut by the wind.

The man weeps deeply and from his core.

 

An electronic voice ended the message with, “Thursday, nine-sixteen, p.m.”

Tim looked at his wife. Laura shrugged. He reached over, played it again.

When it finished, Laura said, “There’s no way that’s what it sounds like, right?”

“There any way to know for certain?”

“Let’s just call nine-one—”

“And tell them what? What information do we have?”

Laura rubbed her bare arms. Tim went to the hearth and turned up the gas logs. She came over, sat beside him on the cool brick.

“Maybe it’s just some stupid joke,” she said.

“Maybe.”

“What? You don’t think so?”

“Remember Gene Malack? Phys ed teacher?”

“Tall, geeky-looking guy. Sure.”

“We hung out some last year while he was going through his divorce. Grabbed beers, went bowling. Nice guy, but a little quirky. There was this one time when our phone rang, and I picked it up, said, ‘Hello?’, but no one answered. The strange thing was that I could hear someone talking, only it was muffled, just like that message. But I recognized Gene’s voice. I should’ve hung up, but human nature, I stayed on, listened to him order a meal from the Wendy’s drive-through. Apparently, he’d had our number on speed-dial in his cell. It had gotten joggled, accidentally called our house.”

One of the straps had fallen down on Laura’s teddy.

As Tim fixed it, she said, “You just trying to scare me? Let’s call your brother—”

“No, not yet—”

“No, you’re saying that a man, who we know well enough to be on his speed-dial list, was killing some poor woman tonight, and he accidentally…what was the word?”

“Joggled.”

“Thank you. Joggled his phone, inadvertently calling us during the murder. That where you’re going with this?”

“Look, maybe we’re getting a little overly—”

“Overly, shit. I’m getting freaked out here, Tim.”

“All right. Let’s listen once more, see if we recognize the voice.”

Tim went over to the end table, played the message a third time.

“There’s just too much wind and static,” he said as it ended.

Laura got up and walked into the kitchen, came back a moment later with a small notepad she used for grocery lists.

She returned to her spot on the hearth, pen poised over the paper, said, “Okay, who are we close enough friends with to be on their speed-dial?”

“Including family?”

“Anyone we know.”

“My parents, your parents, my brother, your brother and sister.”

“Jen.” She scribbled on the pad.

“Chris.”

“Shanna and David.”

“Jan and Walter.”

“Dave and Anne.”

“Paul and Mo.”

“Hans and Lanette.”

“Kyle and Jason.”

“Corey and Sarah.”

This progressed for several minutes until Laura finally looked up from the pad, said, “There’s thirty names here.”

“So, I’ve got an unpleasant question.”

“What?”

“If we’re going on the assumption that what’s on that answering machine is a man we know murdering a woman, we have to ask ourselves, ‘which of our friends is capable of doing something like that?’”

“God.”

“I know.”

For a moment, their living room stood so quiet Tim could hear the second hand of his grandmother’s antique clock above the mantle and the Bose CD player spinning Bach up in their bedroom.

“I’ve got a name,” he said.

“Me, too.”

“You first.”

“Corey Mustin.”

“Oh, come on, you’re just saying that ‘cause he took me to that titty bar in Vegas, and you’ve hated him ever—”

“I hate most of your college friends, but he in particular gives me the creeps. I could see him turning psychotic if he got jealous enough. Woman’s intuition, Tim. Don’t doubt it. Your turn.”

“Your friend Anne’s husband.”

“Dave? No, he’s so sweet.”

“I’ve never liked the guy. We played ball in church league a couple years ago, and he was a maniac on the court. Major temper problem. Hard fouler. We almost came to blows a few times.”

“So what should I do? Put a check by their names?”

“Yeah…wait. God, we’re so stupid.” Tim jumped up from the hearth, rushed over to the phone.

“What are you doing?” Laura asked.

“Star sixty-nine. Calls back the last number that called you.”

As he reached for the phone, it rang.

He flinched, looked over at Laura, her eyes covered in the bend of her arm.

“That scared the shit out of me,” she said.

“Should I answer it?”

“I don’t know.”

He picked up the phone mid-ring.

“Hello?”

“Tiiiiiimmmmm.”

“Hi, Mom.”

“How’s my baby boy?”

“I’m fine, but—”

“You know, I talked to your brother today and I’m worried—”

“Look, Mom, I’m so sorry, but this is a really bad time. Can I call you back tomorrow?”

“Well, all right. Love you. Kisses and hugs to that pretty wife of yours.”

“You, too. Bye, Mom.” Tim hung up the phone.

Laura said, “Does that mean we can’t star sixty-nine whoever left the message?”

“I don’t know.”

“You think there’s some number you push to like, double star-sixty—”

“I don’t work for the phone company, Laura.”

“Remember, I suggested we buy the package with caller ID, but you were all, ‘No, that’s an extra five bucks a month.’ I think it’s time to call the police.”

“No, I’ll call Martin. He’ll be off his shift in an hour.”

 

A few minutes shy of eleven o’clock, the doorbell rang.

Tim unlocked the deadbolt, found his brother, Martin, standing on the stoop, half-squinting in the glare of the porchlight, his uniform wrinkled, deep bags under his eyes.

“You look rough, big bro,” Tim said.

“Can I come in or you wanna chat out here in the cold?”

Tim peered around him, saw the squad car parked in the driveway, the engine ticking as it cooled.

Fog enveloped the streets and homes of Quail Ridge, one of the new subdivisions built on what had been a farmer’s treeless pasture, the houses all new and homogenous, close enough to the interstate to always bask in its distant roar.

He stepped to the side as Martin walked into his house, then closed and locked the door after them.

“Laura asleep?” he asked.

“No, she’s still up.”

They walked past the living room into the kitchen where Laura, now sporting a more modest nightgown, had put a pot of water on the stove, the steam making the lid jump and jive.

“Hey, Marty,” she said.

He kissed her on the cheek. “My God, you smell good. So you told him about us yet?”

“Never gets old,” Tim said. “You think it would, but it just keeps getting funnier.”

Laura said, “Cup of tea, Marty?”

“Why not.”

Martin and Tim retired to the living room. After Laura got the tea steeping, she joined them, plopping down in the big leather chair across from the couch.

Martin said, “Pretty fucking quaint and what not with the fire going. So what’s up? You guys having a little crumb-cruncher?”

Laura and Tim looked at each other, then Laura said, “No, why would you think that?”

“Yeah, Mart, typically not safe to ask if a woman’s pregnant until you actually see the head crowning.”

“So I’m not gonna be an uncle? Why the hell else would you ask me over this late?”

“Go ahead, Laura.”

She pressed play on the answering machine.

They listened to the message, and when it finished, Martin said, “Play it again.”

After the message ended, they sat in silence, Martin with his brow furrowed, shaking his head.

He finally said, “I know you’re too much of a cheap bastard to have caller ID or anything invented in the twenty-first century, so did you star-sixty-nine it?”

“Tried, but Mom called literally the second I picked up the phone.”

Martin undid the top two buttons of his navy shirt, ran his fingers around the collar to loosen it.

“Could just be a prank,” he said. “Maybe someone held the phone up to the television during a particular scene in a movie.”

“If that’s what it is, I don’t recognize the movie.”

Martin quickly redid the buttons on his shirt, said, “What do you think you’ve got there?”

“I think someone’s phone got jiggled at the worst possible moment, and we were on their speed dial.”

“You call nine-one-one?”

“Called you.”

Martin nodded. “There’s gotta be a way to find that number. You know, something you dial other than star-sixty-nine.”

Tim said, “Star-seventy?”

“I don’t know, something like that.”

“We tried to call the phone company a little while ago, but they’re closed until eight a.m. tomorrow.”

Martin looked at Laura, said, “You okay, sweetie? You don’t look so hot.”

Tim saw it, too—something about her had changed, her face seasick yellow, hands trembling imperceptibly.

“I’m fine,” she said.

“You sure? You look like you’re about to blow chunks all over your new carpet.”

“I said I’m fine.”

Martin stood. “I need to use the little girl’s room.”

Laura watched him walk out of the room and down the first-floor hallway, and only when the bathroom door had closed, did she look back at Tim and whisper, “You see it?”

“See what?”

“When he unbuttoned his shirt a minute ago, it exposed his white tee-shirt underneath.”

“So?”

“So I saw blood on it, and I think he saw me looking at it, because he buttoned his shirt up again real fast.”

Tim felt something constrict in his stomach.

“Why does he have blood on his shirt, Tim?”

The toilet flushed.

“Listen, when he comes back out, you say since you aren’t feeling well, you’re going to bed.” The faucet turned on. “Then go upstairs and wait several minutes. I’m gonna offer Martin a drink. We’ll sit in the kitchen, and you sneak back down and go outside, see if you can get into his squad car.”

“Why?”

“I don’t think he brought his cell phone inside with him. He usually keeps it in a little pouch on his belt. Probably left it in the car. Get it, and look back over the outgoing history. If he called our house at nine-sixteen tonight, we’ll know.”

“And then what?”

The bathroom faucet went quiet.

“I don’t know. This is my brother for Chrissakes.”

 

Tim opened one of the high cabinets above the sink and took down a bottle of whiskey.

“Old Grandad?” Martin asked.

“What, too low-shelf for you?”

“That’s what Dad used to pass out to. Let me see that.” He grabbed the bottle out of Tim’s hands, unscrewed the cap, inhaled a whiff. “Jesus, brings back memories.”

“You want ice or—”

“Naw, let’s just pass it back and forth like old times in the field.”

They sat at the breakfast table, taking turns with the fifth of Old Grandad. It had been several months since the brothers had really talked. They’d been close in high school, drifted in college, Martin only lasting three semesters. Tim had come home two years ago when Dad’s liver finally yelled uncle, found that something had wedged itself between him and his brother, a nameless tension they’d never acknowledged outright.

And though all he could think about was the message and Laura, he forced himself to broach the subject of Mom—hostile territory—asked Martin if he thought she seemed to be thriving in the wake of Dad’s passing.

“That’s a pretty fucked-up thing to say.”

“I didn’t mean it like—”

“No, you’re saying she’s better off without him.”

Beyond the kitchen, Tim heard the middle step of the staircase creak—Laura working her way down from the bedroom—and he wondered if Martin had heard it. The last two steps were noisy as well, and then came the front door you could hear opening from Argentina. Nothing else to do but get him riled and noisy.

“Yeah, Martin, I guess I am saying she’s better off without him. What’d he do these last five years but cause us all a lot of heartache? And what’d you do but step in as Dad’s faithful apologist?”

Another creak.

“Ever heard of honor thy father, Tim?” Martin’s cheeks had flushed with the whiskey and Tim wondered if he’d intended to raise his voice like he had. His brother’s back was to the archway between the kitchen and the living room, and as Tim saw Laura enter the foyer and start toward the front door, he tried to avert his eyes.

“You know he beat Mom.”

“Once, Tim. One fucking time. And it was a total accident. He didn’t mean to shove her as hard as he did.” Laura turning the deadbolt now. “And it tore him up that he did it. You weren’t here when it happened. Didn’t see him crying like a goddamn two-year-old, sitting in his own vomit, did you?” Tim could hear the hinges creaking. “No,” Martin answered his own question as the front door swung open, cold streaming in. “You were in college.” Laura slipped outside, eased the door closed behind her. “Becoming a teacher.” Any curiosity Tim had harbored concerning his brother’s opinion of his chosen profession instantly wilted.

“You’re right,” Tim said. “Sorry. I just…part of me’s still so pissed at him, you know?”

Martin lifted the bottle, took a long drink, wiped his mouth.

“Of course I know.”

Tim pulled Old Grandad across the table, wondering how long it would take Laura. If the cruiser was locked, there’d be nothing she could do but come right back inside. If it was open, might take her a minute or two of searching the front seats to find the phone, another thirty seconds to figure out how to work Martin’s cell, check his call history.

He sipped the whiskey, pushed the bottle back to Martin.

“Wish you’d come over more,” Tim said. “Feel like I don’t see you much these days.”

“See me every Sunday at Mom’s.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

Tim wanted to ask Martin if he felt that wedge between them, met his brother’s eyes across the table, but couldn’t bring himself to say the words. They didn’t operate on that frequency.

 

A frigid mist fogged Laura’s glasses, and with the porchlight out, she took her time descending the steps, the soles of her slippers holding a tenuous grip on the wet brick. The fog had thickened since Martin’s arrival, the streetlamps putting out a glow far dimmer and more diffused than their normal sharp points of illumination—now just smudges of light in the distance.

She hurried down the sidewalk that curved from the house to the driveway.

Martin had parked his police cruiser behind the old Honda Civic she’d had since her junior year of high school, over 200,000 miles on the odometer and not a glimmer of senility.

Laura walked around to the front door on the passenger side, out of the sight-line of the living room windows. She reached to open the front passenger door, wondering if Martin’s cruiser carried an alarm. If so, she was about to wake up everyone on the block, and had better prepare herself to explain to her brother-in-law why she’d tried to break into his car.

The door opened. Interior lights blazing. No screeching alarm. The front seat filthy—Chick-Fil-A wrappers and crushed Cheerwine cans in the floorboards.

She leaned over the computer in the central console, inspected the driver seat.

No phone.

Two minutes of leafing through the myriad papers and napkins and straws and stray salt packets in the glove compartment convinced her it wasn’t there either.

She glanced back through the partition that separated the front seats from the back.

In the middle seat, on top of a Penthouse magazine, lay Martin’s black leather cell phone case.

 

“Yeah, I was seeing this woman for a little while.”

“But not anymore?”

Martin took another long pull from Old Grandad, shook his head.

“What happened?”

“She wanted to domesticate me, as they say.”

Tim forced a smile. “How so?”

“Tried to drag me to church and Sunday school. Anytime we’d be out and I’d order an alcoholic beverage—her term—she’d make this real restrained sigh, like her Southern Baptist sensibility had been scandalized. And in bed…”

 

Laura opened the door behind the front passenger seat and climbed into the back of the cruiser. Wary of the interior lights exposing her, on the chance Martin happened to glance outside, she pulled the door closed.

After a moment, the lights cut out.

She picked up the leather case, fished out Martin’s cell phone, and flipped it open, the little screen glowing in the dark.

 

“…I’d gotten my hopes up, figured she’s so uptight about every other fucking thing, girl must be a psychopath between the sheets. Like it has to balance out somewhere, right?”

As he sipped the whiskey, Tim glanced around Martin toward the front door.

“Sadly, not the case. When we finally did the deed, she just laid there, absolutely motionless, making these weird little noises. She was terrified of sex. I think she approached it like scooping up dogshit. Damn, this whiskey’s running through me.”

Martin got up from the table and left the kitchen, Tim listening to his brother’s footsteps track down the hallway.

The bathroom door opened and closed.

It grew suddenly quiet.

The clock above the kitchen sink showed 11:35.

 

Laura stared at the cell phone screen and exhaled a long sigh. Martin’s last call had gone out at 4:21 p.m. to Mary West, his and Tim’s mother.

She closed the cell, slipped it back into the leather case, sat there for a moment in the dark car. She realized she’d somehow known all along, and she wondered how she’d let Tim know—maybe a shake of the head as she crept past the kitchen on her way up the stairs. Better not to advertise to Martin that they’d suspected him.

She searched for the door handle in the dark, and kept searching and kept searching. At least on this side, there didn’t seem to be one. She moved to the other door, slid her hand across the vinyl. Nothing. Reaching forward, she touched the partition of vinyl-coated metal that separated the front and back seats, thinking, You’ve got to be kidding me.

 

Ten minutes later, flushed with embarrassment, Laura broke down and dialed her home number on Martin’s cell. Even from inside the car, she could hear their telephone ringing through the living room windows. If she could get Tim to come outside unnoticed and let her out, Martin would never have to know about any of this.

The answering machine picked up, her voice advising, “Tim and Laura aren’t here right now. You know the drill.”

She closed Martin’s cell, opened it, hit redial—five rings, then the machine again.

The moment she put the phone away, Martin’s cell vibrated.

Laura opened the case, opened the phone—her landline calling, figured Tim had star-sixty-nined her last call.

Through the drawn shades of the living room windows, she saw his profile, pressed talk.

“Tim?”

“Thank God, Laura.” Marty’s voice. “Someone’s in the house.”

“What are you talking about? Where’s Tim?”

“He ran out through the backyard. Where are you?”

“I um…I’m outside. Went for a late walk.”

“You on your cell?”

“Yeah. I don’t understand what’s—”

“I’m coming out. Meet me at the roundabout and we’ll—”

Martin’s cell beeped three times and died.

 

The whiskey had made Tim thirsty, and Martin was taking his sweet time in the bathroom.

Tim went over to the sink, held a glass of water under the filter attached to the faucet.

He heard the creak of wood pressure—Marty walking back into the kitchen—and still watching the water level rise, Tim said, “Let me ask you something, Marty. You think whoever left that message knows they left it?”

“Yeah, Tim, I think they might.”

Something in Martin’s voice spun Tim around, and his first inclination was to laugh, because his brother did look ridiculous, standing just a few feet away in a pair of white socks, a shower cap hiding his short black hair, and the inexplicable choice to don the yellow satin teddy Laura had been wearing prior to his arrival.

“What the hell is this?” Tim asked, then noticed tears trailing down Martin’s face.

“She’d gone to the movies with Tyler Hodges.”

“Who are you talking—”

“Danielle.”

“Matson?”

“Yeah.”

“She’s a junior in high school, man.”

“You know what she did with Tyler after the movie?”

“Marty—”

“She went to the Grove with him and they parked and the windows were steamed up when I found them.”

“Look, you can have the tape from our answering—”

“They’d trace the call,” Martin said. “If you were to encourage them.”

“We wouldn’t.”

“I can see the wheels turning in your eyes, but I’ve thought this through quite a bit more than you have. Played out all the scenarios, and this is—”

“Please, Marty. I could never turn you in.”

Martin seemed to really consider this. He said, “Where’s Laura?”

“Upstairs.”

Martin cocked his head and shifted into his right hand the paring knife he’d liberated from the cutlery block.

“Don’t fuck with me. I was just up there.”

“You need help, Marty.”

“You think so?”

“Remember that vacation we took to Myrtle Beach? I was twelve, you were fourteen. We rode the Mad Mouse roller coaster eight times in a row.”

“That was a great summer.”

“I’m your brother, man. Little Timmy. Look at yourself. Let me help you.”

As he spoke, Tim noticed that Martin had gone so far as to put on black glove liners, and there was something so clinical and deliberate in the act, that for the first time, he actually felt afraid, a sharp plunging coldness streaking through his core, and he grew breathless as the long-overdue shot of adrenaline swept through him, and it suddenly occurred to him that he was just standing there, leaning back against the counter, watching Marty shove the curved paring knife in and out of his abdomen—four, five, six times—and he heard the water glass he’d been holding shatter on the hardwood floor beside his feet, Martin still stabbing him, a molten glow blossoming in his stomach, and as he reached down to touch the source of this tremendous pain, Martin grabbed a handful of his hair, Tim’s head torqued back, staring at the ceiling, the phone ringing, and he felt the knifepoint enter his neck just under his jawbone, smelled the rusty stench of his blood on the blade, and Martin said as he opened his throat, “I’m so sorry, Timmy. It’s almost over.”

 

The taste of metal was strong in Laura’s mouth, even before she saw the shadow emerge from the corner of the garage, the floodlights sensor triggered, Martin jogging toward the cruiser.

She ducked down behind the seats and flattened herself across the floorboards, her heart pounding under her pajama top.

The front driver side door opened.

Light flooded the interior.

Martin climbed in, shut the door, sat motionless behind the wheel until the dome light winked out.

At last, Laura heard the jingle of keys.

The engine cranked, the car backing down the driveway and tears coming, her eyes welling up with fear and something even worse—the uncertain horror of what had just happened in their home while she was locked in the back of this car.

She reached up, her fingers grazing the backseat upholstery, just touching the leather cell phone case.

When Martin spoke, it startled the hell out of her and she jerked her arm back down into her chest.

“Hey guys, it’s Marty. Listen, I’m really concerned based on my conversation with Tim. I’m coming over, and I hope we can talk about this. You know, I still remember your wedding day. Been what, eight years? Look, everyone goes through rocky patches, but this…well, let’s talk in person when I get there.”

Laura stifled her sobs as the car slowed and made a long, gentle left turn, wondering if they were driving through the roundabout at the entrance to the subdivision.

Under his breath, Martin sighed, said, “Where the fuck are you?”

She grabbed the leather case off the seat, pried out the phone in the darkness.

The screen lit up. She dialed 911, pressed talk.

The cruiser eased to a stop.

“Connecting…” appeared on the screen, and she held the phone to her ear.

The driver door opened and slammed, Laura’s eyes briefly stinging in the light. She heard Martin’s footsteps trail away on the pavement and still the phone against her ear had yet to ring.

She pulled it away, read the message: “Signal Faded Call Lost.”

In the top left corner of the screen, the connectivity icon that for some reason resembled a martini glass displayed zero bars.

The footsteps returned and Martin climbed back in, put the car into gear.

The acceleration of the hearty V8 pushed Laura into the base of the backseat.

Martin chuckled.

Laura held the phone up behind Martin’s seat, glimpsed a single bar on the screen.

“Laura?”

She froze.

“You have to tell me what that skin cream is,” he said. “Whole car smells like it.”

She didn’t move.

“Come on, I know you’re back there. Saw you when I got out of the car a minute ago. Now sit the fuck up or you’re gonna make me angry.”

That lonely bar on the cell phone screen had vanished.

Laura pushed up off the floorboard, climbed into the seat.

Martin watched her in the rearview mirror.

They were driving through the north end of the subdivision, the porchlights as distant as stars in the heavy, midnight fog.

Martin turned onto their street.

“What’d you do to my husband?” Laura asked, fighting tears.

The phone in her lap boasted two strong bars and very little battery.

She reached down, watched 9-1-1 appear on the screen as her fingers struggled to find the right buttons in the dark.

“What were you doing in my cruiser?” Martin asked. “Looking for this?”

He held up his second cell phone as Laura pressed talk.

Through the tiny speaker, the phone in her hand began to ring.

She said, “When did you know?”

“When you played the message.”

Martin turned into their driveway.

“I’m really sorry about all this, Laura. Just an honest to God…” He stomped the brake so hard that even at that slow rate of speed, Laura slammed into the partition. “You fucking bitch.”

Faintly: “Nine-one-one. Where is your emergency?”

Martin jammed the shifter into park, threw open the door.

“Oh, God, send someone to—”

The rear passenger door swung open and Martin dove in, Laura crushed under his weight, his hand cupped over her mouth, the phone ripped from her hand, and then the side of her head exploded, her vision jogged into a darkness that sparked with burning stars.

 

Laura thought, I’m conscious.

She felt the side of her face resting against the floor, and when she tried to raise her head, her skin momentarily adhered to the hardwood.

She sat up, opened her eyes, temples throbbing.

Four feet away, slumped on the floor beside the sink, Tim lay staring at her, eyes open and vacant, a black slit yawning under his chin.

And though she sat in her own kitchen in a pool of her husband’s blood, legs burgundy below the knees, hair matted into bloody dreads like some demon Rasta, she didn’t scream or even cry.

Her yellow teddy was slathered in gore, her left breast dangling out of a tear across the front. She held a knife in her left hand that she’d used to skin a kiwi for breakfast a thousand years ago, Tim’s .357 in her right.

The front door burst open, footsteps pounding through the foyer, male voices yelling, “Mooresville Police!”

She craned her neck, saw two cops arrive in the archway between the kitchen and the living room—a short man with a shaved head and her brother-in-law, wide-eyed and crying.

The short man said, “Go in the other room, Martin. You don’t need to see—”

“She’s got a gun!”

“Shit. Drop that right now!”

“Come on, Laura, please!”

“You wanna get shot?”

They were pointing their Glocks at her, screaming for her to drop the gun, and she was trying, but it had been super-glued to her hand, and she attempted to sling it across the room to break the bond, but even her pointer finger had been cemented to the trigger, the barrel of the .357 making a fleeting alignment on the policemen, and they would write in their reports that she was making her move, that deadly force had been the only option, both lawmen firing—Officer McCullar twice, Officer West four times—and when the judgment fell, both men were deemed to have acted reasonably, the hearts of the brass going out to West in particular, the man having found his little brother murdered and been forced to shoot the perpetrator, his own sister-in-law.

All things considered, a month of paid leave and weekly sessions with a therapist was the very least they could do.

 

 

An introduction to “Remaking”

 

“Remaking” was born in a coffee shop one afternoon. I was seated at a table toward the back, working at my laptop, when a conversation slipped into range. I looked up, saw a young boy of five or six sitting with a middle-aged man. I eavesdropped, and for some reason, something felt off. Like maybe that boy wasn’t supposed to be with that man. Was he kidnapped? A missing child? Then the boy called him “Dad” and a woman joined them. The familial vibe shone through, and that jolt of uncertainty passed. But the questions remained. What if the woman had not joined them? What if I still felt suspicious when the boy and the man got up to leave? Would I have followed them and tried to intervene? These thirty seconds of uncertainty were the origin of “Remaking,” although, as is often the case, when I began to write, I found the story held a few surprises for me, and that it wasn’t so simple or straightforward. But that was okay. In the end, those are the most fun to write.

 

 

remaking

 

Mitchell stared at the page in the notebook, covered in his messy scrawl, but he wasn’t reading. He’d seen them walk into the coffeehouse fifteen minutes prior, the man short, pudgy, and smoothshaven, the boy perhaps five or six and wearing a long-sleeved Oshkoshbgosh—red with blue stripes.

Now they sat two tables away.

The boy said, “I’m hungry.”

“We’ll get something in a little while.”

“How long is a little while?”

“Until I say.”

“When are you gonna—”

“Joel, do you mind?”

The little boy’s head dropped. The man stopped typing and looked up from his laptop.

“I’m sorry. Tell you what. Give me five minutes so I can finish this email, and we’ll go eat breakfast.”

Mitchell sipped his espresso, snow falling beyond the storefront windows into this mountain hamlet of eight hundred souls, Miles Davis squealing through the speakers—one of the low-key numbers off Kind of Blue.

 

Mitchell trailed them down the frosted sidewalk.

One block up, they crossed the street and disappeared into a diner. Having already eaten in that very establishment two hours ago, he installed himself on a bench where he could see the boy and the man sitting at a table by the front window.

Mitchell fished the cell out of his jacket and opened the phone, scrolling through ancient numbers as the snow collected in his hair.

He pressed talk.

Two rings, then, “Mitch? Oh my God, where are you?”

He made no answer.

“Look, I’m at the office, getting ready for a big meeting. I can’t do this right now, but will you answer if I call you back? Please?”

Mitchell closed the phone and shut his eyes.

 

They emerged from the diner an hour later.

Mitchell brushed the inch of snow off his pants and stood, shivering. He crossed the street and followed the boy and the man up the sidewalk, passing a candy shop, a grocery, a depressing bar masquerading as an old west saloon.

They left the sidewalk after another block and walked up the driveway to the Antlers Motel, disappeared into 113, the middle in a single-story row of nine rooms. The tarp stretched over the small swimming pool sagged with snow. In an alcove between the rooms and the office, vending machines hummed against the hush of the storm.

Ten minutes of brisk walking returned Mitchell to his motel, the Box Canyon Lodge. He climbed into his burgundy Jetta, cranked the engine.

 

“Just for tonight?”

“Yes.”

“That’ll be $69.78 with tax.”

Mitchell handed the woman his credit card.

Behind the front desk, a row of Hummels stood in perfect formation atop a black and white television airing “The Price is Right.”

Mitchell signed the receipt. “Could I have 112 or 114?”

The old woman stubbed out her cigarette in a glass ashtray and reached for the key cabinet.

 

Mitchell pressed his ear to the wood paneling.

A television blared through the thin wall.

His cell phone vibrated—Lisa calling again.

Flipped it open.

“Mitch? You don’t have to say anything. Please just listen—”

He powered off the phone and continued writing in the notebook.

 

Afternoon unspooled as the snow piled up in the parking lot of the Antlers Motel. Mitchell parted the blinds and stared through the window as the first intimation of dusk began to blue the sky, the noise of the television next door droning through the walls.

He lay down on top of the covers and stared at the ceiling and whispered the Lord’s Prayer.

 

In the evening, he startled out of sleep to the sound of a door slamming, sat up too fast, the blood rushing to his head in a swarm of black spots. He hadn’t intended to sleep.

Mitchell slid off the bed and walked to the window, split the blinds, heard the diminishing sound of footsteps—a single set—squeaking in the snow.

He saw the boy pass through the illumination of a streetlamp and disappear into the alcove that housed the vending machines.

 

The snowflakes stung Mitchell’s cheeks as he crossed the parking lot, his sneakers swallowed up in six inches of fresh powder.

The hum of the vending machines intensified, and he picked out the sound of coins dropping through a slot.

He glanced once over his shoulder at the row of rooms, the doors all closed, windows dark save slivers of electric blue from television screens sliding through the blinds.

Too dark to tell if the man was watching.

Mitchell stepped into the alcove as the boy pressed his selection on the drink machine.

The can banged into the open compartment, and the boy reached down and claimed the Sprite.

“Hi, Joel.”

The boy looked up at him, then lowered his head like a scolded dog, as though he’d been caught vandalizing the drink machine.

“No, it’s all right. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Mitchell squatted down on the concrete.

“Look at me, son. Who’s that man you’re with?”

The voice so soft and high: “Daddy.”

A voice boomed across the parking lot. “Joel? It don’t take this long to buy a can of pop! Make a decision and get back here.”

The door slammed.

“Joel, do you want to come with me?”

“You’re a stranger.”

“No, my name’s Mitch. I’m a police officer actually. Why don’t you come with me.”

“No.”

“I think you probably should.” Mitchell figuring he had maybe thirty seconds before the father stormed out.

“Where’s your badge?”

“I’m undercover right now. Come on, we don’t have much time. You need to come with me.”

“I’ll get in trouble.”

“No, only way you’ll get in trouble is by not obeying a police officer when he tells you to do something.” Mitchell noticed the boy’s hands trembling. His were, too. “Come on, son.”

He put his hand on the boy’s small shoulder and guided him out of the alcove toward his car, where he opened the front passenger door and motioned for Joel to get in.

Mitchell brushed the snow off the windows and the windshield, and as he climbed in and started the engine, he saw the door to 113 swing open in the rearview mirror.

 

“You eaten yet?”

“No.”

Main Street empty and the newly-scraped pavement already frosting again, the reflection of the high beams blinding against the wall of pouring snow.

“Are you hungry?”

“I don’t know.”

He turned right off Main, drove slow down a snow-packed side street that sloped past little Victorians, inns, and motels, Joel buckled into the passenger seat, the can of Sprite still unopened between his legs, tears rolling down his cheeks.

 

Mitchell unlocked the door and opened it.

“Go on in, Joel.”

The boy entered and Mitchell hit the light, closing and locking the door after them, wondering if Joel could reach the brass chain near the top.

It wasn’t much of a room—single bed, table, cabinet housing a refrigerator on one side, hangers on the other. He’d lived out of it for the last month and it smelled like stale pizza crust and cardboard and clothes soured with sweat.

Mitchell closed the blinds.

“You wanna watch TV?”

The boy shrugged.

Mitchell picked the remote control off the bedside table and turned it on.

“Come sit on the bed, Joel.”

As the boy climbed onto the bed, Mitchell started flipping.

“You tell me to stop when you see something you wanna watch.”

Mitchell surfed through all thirty stations twice and the boy said nothing.

He settled on the Discovery Channel, set the remote control down.

“I want my Dad,” the boy said, trying not to cry.

“Calm down, Joel.”

Mitchell sat on the bed and unlaced his sneakers. His socks were damp and cold. He balled them up and tossed them into the open bathroom, staring now at his pale feet, toes shriveled with moisture.

Joel had settled back into one of the pillows, momentarily entranced by the television program where a man caked in mud wrestled with a crocodile.

Mitchell turned up the volume.

“You like crocodiles?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“You aren’t scared of them?”

The boy shook his head. “I got a snake.”

“Nuh uh.”

The boy looked up. “Uh huh.”

“What kind?”

“It’s black and scaly and it lives in a glass box.”

“A terrarium?”

“Yeah. Daddy catches mice for it.”

“It eats them?”

“Uh huh. Slinky’s belly gets real big.”

Mitchell smiled. “I bet that’s something to see.”

They sat watching the Discovery Channel for twenty minutes, Joel engrossed now, Mitchell with his head tilted back against the headboard, eyes closed, a half grin where none had been for twelve months.

 

At 8:24 p.m., the cell vibrated against Mitchell’s hip. He opened the case and pulled out the phone.

“Hi, Lisa.”

“Mitch.”

“Listen, I want you to call me back in five minutes and do exactly what I say.”

“Okay.”

Mitchell closed the phone and slid off the bed.

The boy looked up, still half-watching the program on the world’s deadliest spiders.

He said, “I’m hungry.”

“I know, sport. I know. Give me just a minute here and I’ll order a pizza.”

Mitchell crossed the carpet, tracking through dirty clothes he should’ve taken to the laundry a week ago.

His suitcase lay open in the space between the dresser and the baseboard heater. He knelt down, searching through wrinkled oxfords and blue jeans, khakis that had long since lost their creases.

It was a tiny, wool sweater—ice-blue with a magnified snowflake stitched across the front.

“Hey, Joel,” he said, “it’s getting cold in here. I want you to put this on.” He tossed the sweater onto the bed.

“I’m not cold.”

“You do like I tell you now.”

As the boy reached for the sweater, Mitchell undid the buttons on his plaid shirt and worked his arms out of the sleeves. He dropped the shirt on the carpet and rifled his suitcase again until he found the badly faded T-shirt he’d bought fifteen years ago at a U2 concert.

On the way back to the bed, he stopped at the television and lifted the videotape from the top of the VCR, pushed it in.

“No, I wanna watch the—”

“We’ll turn it back on in a minute.”

He climbed under the covers beside the boy and stared at the bedside table, waiting for the phone to buzz.

 

“Joel, I’m gonna answer the phone. I want you to sit here beside me and watch the television and don’t say a word until I tell you.”

“I’m hungry.”

The phone vibrated itself toward the edge of the bedside table.

“I’ll buy you anything you want if you do this right for me.”

Mitchell picked up the phone.

Lisa calling.

He closed his eyes, gave himself a moment to engage. He’d written it all down months ago, the script in the bedside table drawer under the Gideon bible he’d taken to reading every night before bed, but he didn’t need it.

“Hi, Honey.”

“Mitch, I’m so glad you—”

“Stop. Don’t say anything. Just hang on a minute.” He reached for the remote control and pressed play. The screen lit up, halfway through the episode of Seinfeld. He lowered the volume, said, “Lisa, I want you to say, ‘I’m almost asleep.’”

“What are you—”

“Just do it.”

A pause, then: “I’m almost asleep.”

“Say it like you really are.”

Mitchell closed his eyes.

“I’m almost asleep.”

“We’re sitting here watching Seinfeld.” He looked down at the top of Joel’s head, his hair brown with gold highlights, just the right shade and length. He kissed the boy’s head. “Our little guy’s just about asleep.”

“Mitch, are you drunk—”

“Lisa, I will close this fucking phone. Ask how our day was. Do it.”

“How was your day?”

“You weren’t crying that night.” He could hear her trying to gather herself.

“How was your day, Mitch?”

He closed his eyes again. “One of those perfect ones. We’re in Ouray, Colorado now. This little town surrounded by huge mountains. It started snowing around midday as we were driving down from Montrose. If they don’t plow the roads we may not be able to get out tomorrow.”

“Mitch—”

“We had a snowball fight after dinner, and our motel has these Japanese soaking tubs out back, full of hot mineral water from the springs under the town. Say you wish you were here.”

“That’s not what I said that night, Mitch.”

“What did you say?”

“I wish I could be there with you, but part of me’s so glad you two have this time together.”

“There aren’t many days like this, are there?”

“No.”

“Now, I just want to hear you breathing over the phone.”

He listened. He looked at the television, then the boy’s head, then the ice-blue sweater.

Mitchell held the phone to Joel’s mouth.

“Say goodnight to Mom, Alex.”

“Goodnight.”

Mitchell brought the phone to his ear. “Thank you, Lisa.”

“Mitch, who was that? What have you—”

He powered off the phone and set it on the bedside table.

 

When the boy was finally asleep, Mitchell turned off the television. He pulled the covers over the both of them and scooted forward until he could feel the hard ridge of the boy’s little spine press against his chest.

In the back window, through a crack in the closed blinds, he watched the snow falling through the orange illumination of a streetlamp, and his lips moved in prayer.

 

The knock finally came a few minutes after 3:00 a.m., and nothing timid about it—the forceful pounding of a fist against the door.

“Mitchell Griggs?”

Mitchell sat up in bed, eyes struggling to adjust in the darkness.

“Mr. Griggs?”

More pounding as his feet touched the carpet.

“Griggs!”

Mitchell made his way across dirty clothes and pizza boxes to the door, which he spoke through.

“Who is it?”

“Dennis James, Ouray County sheriff. Need to speak with you right now.”

“Little late, isn’t it?” He tried to make his voice sound light and unperturbed. “Maybe I could come by your office in the—”

“What part of right now went past you?”

Mitchell glanced up, saw the chain still locked. “What’s this about?” he asked.

“I think you know.”

“I’m sorry I don’t.”

“Six-year-old boy named Joel McIntosh went missing from the Antlers Motel this evening. Clerk saw him getting into a burgundy Jetta just like the one you drive.”

“Well, I’m sorry. He’s not here.”

“Then why don’t you open the door, let me confirm that so you can get back to sleep and we can quit wasting precious minutes trying to find this little boy.”

Mitchell glanced through the peephole, glimpsed the sheriff standing within a foot of the door under one of the globe lights that lit the second-floor walkway, his black parka dusted with snow, his wide-brimmed cowboy hat capped with a half-inch of powder.

Mitchell couldn’t nail down the sheriff’s age in the poor light—late sixties perhaps, seventy at most. He held the forend stock of a pump-action shotgun in his right hand.

“I’ve got two deputies out back on the hill behind your room if you’re thinking of—”

“I’m not.”

“Just tell me if you have the boy—”

A radio squeaked outside.

The sheriff spoke in low tones, then Mitchell heard the dissipation of footsteps.

A minute limped by before the sheriff’s voice passed faintly through the door again.

“You still there, Mitch?”

“Yeah.”

“If it’s all right with you, I’m gonna sit down. I been walking all over town since seven o’clock.”

The sheriff lowered out of sight, and through the peephole, Mitchell could only see torrents of snow dumping on the trees and houses and parked cars.

He eased down on the carpet and leaned against the door.

“I was just speaking with your wife. Lisa’s concerned for you, Mitch. Knows why you’re here.”

“She doesn’t know any—”

“And so do I. You may not know this, but I helped pull you and your son out of the car. Never forget it. Been what, about a year?”

“To the day.”

Drafts of frigid air swept under the door, Mitchell shivering, wishing he’d brought a blanket with him from the bed.

“Mitch, Lisa’s been trying to call you. You have your cell with you?”

“It’s turned off, on the bedside table.”

“Would you talk to her for me?”

“I don’t need to talk to her.”

“I think it might not be a bad—”

“I had a meeting the next morning in Durango. Had brought him along, ‘cause he’d never seen the Rockies. That storm came in overnight, and you know, I just…I almost waited. Almost decided to stay the day in Ouray, give the plows a chance to scrape the pass.”

“I got a boy of my own. He’s grown now, but I remember when he was your Alex’s age, can’t say I’d have survived if something like what happened to your son happened to him. You got a gun in there, Mitch?”

In the back of Mitchell’s throat welled a sharp, acidic tang, like tasting the connectors of a nine-volt battery, but all he said was, “Yeah.”

“Is the boy all right?”

Mitchell said nothing.

“Look, I know you’re hurting, but Joel McIntosh ain’t done a thing to deserve getting dragged into this. Boy’s probably terrified. You thought about that, or can you not see past your own—”

“Of course I’ve thought about it.”

“Then why don’t you send him on out, and you and me can keep talking.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“I just…I can’t.”

Mitchell heard footsteps outside the door. He got up quickly, glanced through the peephole just in time to see the battering ram swing back.

He stumbled toward the bed as the door exploded off its hinges and slammed to the floor, two men standing in the threshold—the sheriff with the shotgun trained on him, a deputy with a flashlight and a handgun.

Mitchell shielded his eyes, specks of snow blowing in, luminescent where they passed through the LED beam, couldn’t see the man behind the light, but the sheriff’s eyes were hard and kind. He could tell this even though they lived in the shadow of a Stetson.

The sheriff said, “I don’t see the boy, Wade. Mitchell, let me see those hands.”

Mitchell took a deep, trembling breath.

“Come on, Mitch, let me see your hands.”

Mitchell shook his head.

“Goddamn, son, I won’t tell you—”

Mitchell swung his right arm behind his back, his fingers wrapping around the remote control jammed down his boxer shorts, the room fired into blue by the illumination of the television, the laugh track to Seinfeld blaring, Wade screaming the sheriff’s name as a greater light bloomed beside the lesser.

 

Sheriff James flicked the light, felt the breath leave him, blinking through the tears.

He leaned the shotgun against the wall and stepped inside the bathroom.

The cheap fiberglass of the tub had been lined with blankets and pillows, and the little boy was sitting up staring at the sheriff, orange earplugs protruding from his ears.

The sheriff knelt down, smiled at the boy, pulled out the earplugs.

“You okay, Joel?”

The boy said, “A noise woke me up.”

“Did he make you sleep in here?”

“Mitchell said if I was a good boy and kept my earplugs in and stayed in here all night, I could see my Daddy in the morning.”

“He did, huh?”

“Where’s my Daddy?”

“Down in the parking lot. We’ll take you to him, but I need to ask you something first.” The sheriff sat down on the cracked linoleum tile. “Did Mitchell hurt you?”

“No.”

“He didn’t touch you anywhere private or make you touch him?”

“No, we just sat on the bed and watched about spiders and stuff.”

“You mean on the TV?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s that?” The sheriff pointed to the notebook sitting on a pillow under the faucet.

“Mitchell said to give this to the people who came to get me.”

Wade walked into the bathroom, stood behind the sheriff as he lifted the spiral-bound notebook and opened the red cover to a page of handwriting in black ink.

“What is it?” Wade asked.

“It’s to his wife.”

“What’s it say?”

The sheriff closed the notebook. “I believe that’s some of her business.” He stood, faced his deputy, snow melting off his Stetson. “Get this boy wrapped up in some blankets and bring him down to his dad. I gotta go call Lisa Griggs.”

“Will do.”

“And Wade?”

“Yeah?”

“You throw a blanket over Mr. Griggs before you bring Joel out. Don’t want so much as a strand of hair visible. Shield the boy’s eyes if you have to, maybe even turn the lights out when you carry him through the room.”

The deputy shook his head. “What the hell was wrong with this man?”

“You got kids yet, Wade?”

“You know I don’t.”

“Well, just a heads up—if you ever do, this is how much they make you love them.”

 

 

An introduction to “On the Good, Red Road”

 

This story takes place in the universe of my third book, ABANDON, and is a companion piece to that novel. It works fine as a standalone, but will be a richer experience for those who have read ABANDON, as this one explores how Oatha Wallace came to the mining town in the autumn of 1893, delving into the doomed journey from Silverton to Abandon, which turned this pacifist into a murderous outlaw.

 

 

on the good, red road

 

October 1893

San Juan Mountains

Southwest Colorado

 

If Durango was on the road to hell, Silverton had already gotten there and staked a claim—enough whorehouses, dancehalls, and gambling halls to service a city ten times the size.

Oatha settled on one of the less rowdy saloons for his nightcap, pushing through the throng of revelers to get in line behind a man at a barstool nursing three brimming shots, the surface of the whiskies trembling from the vibration of bootstomps on floorboards. Hands grazed his shoulders and he turned to see a toothless, blond whore in nothing but stockings and a corset grinning at him.

“Bet you could use a trim,” she said.

“Not tonight.”

She went on through the crowd, availing her services, and through the smoky lowlight, Oatha caught shards of his grimy reflection in the constellation of liquor bottles behind the bar.

He’d been waiting ten minutes for the barkeep to notice him, when a voice lifted above the din, “You gotta yell out you wanna drink in this shithole!”

Oatha glanced back, saw a pale, smoothshaven man of thirty or so waving him over, his face half-obscured by dirty, chin-length yellow hair. At the table sat three men, and the one who’d called out to him motioned to an uncorked bottle of whiskey upon which the trio had already inflicted substantial damage.

“Happy to share.”

Oatha relinquished his place in line and threaded his way through the crowd to the table, where they’d already pushed out the last remaining chair. Oatha sat, extended his hand across a filthy set of playing cards and a pot of tiny pokes, a few crumpled dollars, a double eagle, and a voucher for fifteen minutes with a whore called Grizzly Sow.

“Oatha Wallace.”

“Nathan Curtice. This is Marion McClurg and Daniel Smith.”

“Boys.”

McClurg, a larded beast of a man, reached forward and pulled the pot toward his corner of the table while Dan eyed Oatha.

“Play cards?” Nathan asked.

“Not often.”

Nathan poured a whiskey, pushed the glass to Oatha, who took it up and tossed it back with a fleeting grimace.

“Two dollars gets you in on the next hand.”

“Well, I’m trying to save my money—”

“For what?”

“A horse.”

“A horse.”

“I’m traveling on to Abandon. Got a job with the Godsend Mine.”

“No shit,” Nathan said. “I’m headed that very direction myself to visit my brother. He’s sheriff up there. Maybe you heard of him…Ezekiel Curtice.”

“I haven’t.”

“Yeah, I can’t quite believe what that outlaw’s become myself.”

McClurg shuffled the cards while Dan refilled the tumblers.

“You been to Abandon?” Nathan asked.

“First time.”

“What I heard, even across lots, it’s a twenty mile ride through hard country.”

Oatha felt the cards sliding under his fingers, McClurg already dealing.

“Don’t wanna play.”

“Few hands won’t kill ye,” Nathan said.

Dan muttered, “Man bought you two drinks already. ‘Less you some boiled shirt, least you can do is play a hand.” Oatha looked over at Dan, the man thin as a totem, gant up and blanched like he carried some parasite. Oatha reached into his leather pouch, selected several pieces of hard chink, and tossed the coins into the middle of the table.

 

Two hours later, Oatha stumbled out of the saloon, and he barely made it into an alley before spewing his supper against the clapboard.

Nathan stood chuckling behind him. “You can’t play cards for shit.”

“Yeah,” Oatha groaned as he leaned against the wall, bracing for the next round of nausea. “And I got barely the money for a horse now.”

“Wouldn’t fret.”

Oatha spit. “Why’s that?”

“Like I said, me and the boys headin to Abandon in two days. Travel with us, you want. Dan’s got a mule you can ride.”

“A mule.”

“Mean son of a bitch name a Rusty.”

Oatha straightened, tried to center himself over his feet, the world tilting. On the second floor of a false-fronted building across the street, a headboard smacked repeatedly into a wall and bedsprings squealed like ravenous pigs. Against the dark, Nathan was just a silhouette.

“You sure?” Oatha asked.

“Yeah, you don’t wanna be takin that trail to Abandon on your own anyhow. Wild country out there, bad people in it.”

“I’m obliged,” Oatha said, though he wasn’t. Last thing he wanted was these men for extended company.

“You get yourself home?” Nathan asked.

“Believe so.”

“I’m gonna go scare up a little snatch.”

Nathan wandered off toward Blair Street, an assured elegance to his drunken gait, and Oatha sat down against the back of the saloon to let his head clear, get his bearings straight for the long stagger back to the hotel.

 

He woke stiff and cold some hours later, still sitting up against the back of the saloon, his

gray frockcoat glazed with a heavy frost. The throbbing at the base of his skull was his

pulse, and it quickened as he struggled to his feet in the thin air.

The predawn sky held a deep lavender tint, the surrounding peaks stark black against it, like patches of starless space, and aside from the candleflames in the windows of the cribs, this boom town stood as still and dark as a man might hope to see it.

 

Oatha bought a lineback canelo from a greaser at the livery, an old saddle, and provisions for two days, including tobacco and a quart of whiskey. Struck out of Silverton in the late afternoon, even as the sun perched on a jagged ridge of peaks in the west.

 

At dusk, he was three miles out of town, camped along a drowsy stream downsized to a trickle in these dry weeks of autumn. Oatha lay smoking on his bedroll, staring up through the spruce at pieces of the night sky, moonless and starblown. If he rode hard, he’d make Abandon by nightfall. It all seemed like the start of something for him, a new direction. He was fifty-one, and maybe it was time he got his life right, started walking that road his friend, Sik’is, had always talked about.

 

The restlessness of the horse tore him out of the dream, and Oatha sat up before his eyes opened. It was light out, though still early, maybe an hour past dawn. He got up, walked over to the mare and rubbed her neck.

In the near distance, a twig snapped, followed by the clink of bits and leather saddles creaking in the cold. Oatha spotted movement through the trees. Though he’d star-pitched fifty feet off the trail, he now realized he was still in easy eyeshot of any passersby who happened to glance in his general direction.

He counted three riders moving up the trail and was debating whether to hail them or just let them pass, none the wiser of his presence, when a voice called out, “Got breakfast ready, Oatha?”

Now Nathan was coming toward him through the trees astride an apron-faced gelding.

“Hello there, boys.” Oatha mustering more enthusiasm than he felt, something unnerving about being in proximity to Nathan Curtice in the middle of nowhere that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

Nathan, Dan, and McClurg rode up, and Nathan dismounted, walked over to Oatha, glancing at his bedroll, his horse, as if he’d caught him stepping out.

“Got yourself that new horse,” Nathan said.

Oatha nodded.

“You know you’ve hurt Rusty’s feelings.”

“Who?”

McClurg snorted.

“Oh, the mule. Came looking for you boys yesterday,” Oatha lied, “see if you wanted to start out a day early.” The way Nathan stared into his eyes bothered Oatha, like the man was looking through his head, reading the scrawl on the back of his skull.

“You not think we’d make fit traveling companions?” Nathan asked.

“Course not.”

“What then?”

“Just started out early is all.”

Nathan gave a nod, though it didn’t appear to be one of understanding. He glanced back at Dan, as if to say something, but stopped himself.

“You care to ride on with us?” Nathan asked.

“I’ll probably just catch a few more winks and then—”

“How about you saddle your horse right now, come along with us like you said you was goin to.”

 

Oatha rode between McClurg and Dan in the early morning cold, the trail winding up a long drainage through a dense stand of spruce. By midday, a thick cloud deck had darkened the sky, and when the men stopped to lunch at timberline, tiny flakes of snow stood out on the wool of Oatha’s coat. They were making a leisurely go of it, no chance of reaching Abandon by nightfall at this pace, but Oatha held his tongue, even as they lounged for two hours, smoking and nipping from Nathan’s jar of whiskey, the men fair drunk by the time they finally decamped.

It was cold riding, and Oatha’s glow soon faded.

They climbed out of the trees, the snow blowing sideways over this exposed, open terrain. The Teats, those twin promontories Oatha had been using as a guide since yesterday, had vanished in the storm.

 

They camped miserable, cold, and wet just below timberline in a grove of dead spruce, got a sheet of canvas strung up between the trees, a fire going underneath, but even the whiskey jar making the rounds couldn’t lift Oatha’s spirits. He sat leaning against a spruce, watching the snow pour down and the light recede, thinking he should be in Abandon by now.

“How much you figure they keep on hand?” McClurg asked.

“Few thousand. Ten if we’re lucky,” Nathan said.

“Enough to make it worth our trouble,” Dan said.

Oatha cut his eyes at the three men, and McClurg noticed, said, “What?”

“Nothing.”

Nathan smiled. “Nobody told him he felled in with road agents.”

The men laughed.

“What do you do for a livin?” Nathan asked.

Oatha’s mouth had run dry. “Been prospecting, bar mining, picking up work in the mines where I can—”

“Like honest work, do you?” Dan said.

“I guess.”

“But the question,” McClurg said, “is how you feel about dishonest work?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well think on it, get back to us.”

The men laughed again and Nathan swiped the jar from Dan, tilted it back. McClurg hoisted a log onto the fire, a spray of ashes engulfing Oatha. He rummaged through his satchel, located the loaf of sourdough he’d bought before leaving Silverton.

“Break me off a hunk a that,” Nathan said, and Oatha tore off a piece.

“Got a round a cheese in here, too.”

“Don’t be stingy.”

They cut cheese onto the bread, set the slices on hot stones in the fire’s vicinity to let it melt.

The storm brought a premature night, and in the firelight, Oatha watched the snow fall without respite. They played cards until the fire ran out of wood, won the last of Oatha’s money, drank up his quart of whiskey, smoked all of his tobacco.

As the other men snored, Oatha lay awake. If it hadn’t been snowing so hard, he’d have attempted to sneak out of camp, resaddle his horse, and get the hell away from Nathan and the boys. He didn’t want to look it in the eye, but the truth of the matter was that he’d backed himself into a bind, and if he didn’t slip away from them tomorrow, he’d probably never reach Abandon.

 

Oatha’s eyes opened. As he sat up, his vision sharpened into focus and he saw the gray-white madness of the blizzard, the canvas sheet sagging to the ground at one end, the snow piled up three feet around the boundary of their little shelter.

He held his hands toward the low fire, his head throbbing again, a whiskey hangover that wouldn’t die until noon at the earliest.

Nathan looked at him, shook his head.

“My horse and yours are dead. We’ve caught a bad piece a luck here.”

 

They stayed under the canvas all day, taking turns venturing out to gather wood from the abundance of rotted spruce and melting snow in the emptied whiskey jars, a tenuous proposition, the fire and ice resulting in shattered glass in two out of three attempts.

By evening, the snow had quit but the wind raged on through the night, and the sound of limbs cracking kept Oatha from the depths of restful sleep.

 

The second morning dawned cloudless and bright. They saddled the two remaining horses and broke camp as the first rays of sunlight struck the Teats, Oatha clinging to

Dan, Nathan to the substantial girth of McClurg.

A quarter mile out from the shelter, Dan’s horse stopped in its tracks and refused to take another step, snow to its belly, nostrils flaring in the thin air.

“I’ll make you go!”

He dismounted, grabbed the bridle strap and fought to drag the horse forward, but it wouldn’t budge, even when Dan drew his Colt and smacked the animal across the bridge of its nose.

“Enough,” Nathan said. “These animals ain’t built for this.”

“Maybe just one of us should take a horse, try to make Abandon,” Oatha said.

“Who, you?”

“To what end?”
“To get help. Bring back a sled or a—”

“Snow’s too deep,” Nathan said. “Hell, it’s just early October. We’ll get us a warm spell in a couple days. Good sod-soaker.”

“We’re almost out a provisions,” McClurg said. “We’re just supposed to wait around?”

“I ain’t in control of the weather, Marion.”

Oatha climbed down from the horse, and Dan screamed at the animal, “Go on! Get!”

“No, you dumb shit,” Nathan said. “We need ‘em.”

“For what?”

“Hard to tell just how long we may be stuck out—”

“I ain’t eatin my horse.”

“Circumstances like this ain’t the time to make declarations a what you will and won’t

do.”

 

It was snowing again by nightfall, and it didn’t stop for three days, the snow accumulating higher than the canvas tarp so that the shelter more resembled a snow cave.

 

Oatha could tell by the brightness of the tarp that the sun was out.

McClurg snored.

Nathan stared grimly in his direction, said, “He left.”

“Who?”

“Who ain’t here?”

Oatha saw where the wall of snow had been broken through behind him, cobalt sky and fir trees powder-blown and sagging.

“Where are the horses?” Oatha asked.

“Dan took one. The other’n keeled.”

Oatha’s head was hurting again—dehydration instead of whiskey and the beginnings of real hunger. He’d eaten the last of his cheese and bread two nights ago.

“We botched it,” Nathan said. “Should’ve walked out after the first storm. Wouldn’t of been fun, might’ve froze, but we’d of had a chance.”

“You don’t think we got one now?”

 

They butchered the calico that had just died, cut warm, blood-colored steaks out of its haunches and grilled them over a low fire. The smell of the meat cooking and the sounds of what little fat there was burning off gave Oatha a charge of energy, made him realize just how hungry he was.

The meat was stringy and tough, commiserate with the lean muscularity of the horse, but he ate his fill of it and slept for the rest of the day.

 

“Tell you what,” Nathan said two nights later as they roasted the last of McClurg’s horse. “God’s been waitin for this, and I know he’s enjoyin ever minute of it. You just had the misfortune a being with me when he finally caught up to my ass.”

“Wonder if Dan’s made it to Abandon or Silverton,” McClurg said.

“I hope he’s froze. Don’t mention his name again.”

“He might come back and save us.”

“That happens, I’ll reevaluate my feelings toward the man.”

“So tell me,” Oatha said, “you boys weren’t going to Abandon for the mining opportunities, were you?”

Nathan glanced at McClurg, let slip a little smirk. “Let me put it this way. This horrible weather saved your life.”

“I don’t get your meaning.”

“Sure you do. You was gonna try and take your leave of us your first chance. If I’m wrong, you can have my portion a Barney the horse.”

“You was gonna kill me?”

“Dan would of done the honors, him bein our resident cutthroat.”

Nathan grabbed hold of the hoof, turned over the horse’s leg.

“Why?” Oatha asked.

“For whatever money you had. For your horse. Because the first night I saw you diddling around in that Silverton saloon, you struck me, of all the people in it, even the beat-eatin pelados, as a jackleg, and I thought how much fun it’d be to take you apart.”

Oatha’s heart pounded under his coat, his windpipe constricting, the reality sinking in that he was trapped in this barely adequate shelter with two men who’d intended to kill him and perhaps still did, out of food, and colder than he’d ever been in his life.

“But you had a change a heart?” he asked.

“Way I see it, we caught this rough piece a luck, we’re in it together now.” Nathan unsheathed his bowie knife. “Ya’ll think this leg’s fit to carve?”

 

Two days hence, their eleventh in the shelter, the hunger returned, Nathan’s bowie insufficient to the task of cutting cookable portions out of the horses that had frozen straight through. He took his hammer shotgun, spent half a day wandering through snow deeper than he was tall, McClurg and Oatha waiting in the shelter, listening for a gunshot, talking of their last warm meals in Silverton, what they intended to eat upon their reentry into civilization.

Nathan returned at dusk, doused in snow and shivering uncontrollably.

Growled, “Not even a fire to come home to?”

“I’ll make one,” Oatha said.

“You can hunt tomorrow, too.”

 

The weakness and hunger made negotiating the snow nearly impossible, but Oatha ventured out anyway, lightheaded and cold.

He spent two hours fighting his way downhill under the bluest sky he’d ever seen, verging on purple, following Nathan’s tracks from the previous day, the snow melting off the trees.

At lunchtime, he stopped at the edge of a glade, tried to scale a blue spruce for a better vantage but his strength was sapped, settled for beating down a spot in the snow instead.

The afternoon was almost warm, especially sitting in direct sunlight, but he couldn’t shake the chill. Exhausted from the hike down, he leaned back and shut his eyes, and when he woke again, it was getting dark, the nearest peaks already flushed with alpenglow.

In the dusky silence, he thought about what Nathan had said, how he’d spotted his weakness out of everyone in that Silverton saloon, how he was in this predicament because of some deep virus in the fabric of his character.

Sometimes, lying in bed late in the night with the room spinning—those moments of drunken introspection when he feared and believed in God—he’d admitted to himself that he was headed for something like this, that the shell of a man he’d become since the war was going to get him killed one of these days.

Damn if he hadn’t been right about something.

 

Next morning, Nathan left again, and Oatha lay in the shelter’s dirt floor all day, in a fog, too weak to build a fire, the world graying, his thoughts running back to childhood in Virginia and those long summer days in the field behind his home, filling baskets with blackberries, hands stained purple from the fruit, swollen with thornpricks, and the hum of bumblebees and the scent of honeysuckle and cobblers baking in the humid evenings and his mother’s face and his three brothers, long dead on a Virginia hillside.

 

After a night of fever dreams, Oatha found himself stumbling down the well-worn hunting trail, the morning bright, the snow soft. Sat hours in the glade, the shotgun across his lap, pulling out clumps of hair, eating snow to quench his thirst, though the ice only chilled him down and intensified the agony behind his eyes.

There passed periods of sleep, stretches of consciousness, bouts of bloody diarrhea, and he kept hearing birds fly overhead, wings beating at the air, but every time he looked up, the sky stood empty.

 

The next day, no one left the shelter, the men sitting around the cold fire-ring, faces grim and squandered of color.

“We’re dyin, boys,” Nathan said.

Oatha sat leaning against the spruce, staring at McClurg, whose brow had furrowed up in wonderment.

“Ya’ll hear that?”

“What?” Nathan said.

“Dan’s come back.”

Oatha cocked his head. “I don’t hear nothing.”

“He’s callin out for me.”

“You’re hallucinatin, Marion,” Nathan said. “Ain’t a soul out here but us. Wasn’t gonna say nothin, but Dan’s a ways down this mountainside, settin against a tree, froze. Saw him two days ago, figured it wouldn’t do much for morale to mention it, but there you go.”

“That’s sad,” Marion said.

“No, I’ll tell you sad, the fuckin tragedy of the situation. Snow’s meltin so fast now, we could us probably walk into Abandon in a day or two if we wasn’t so weak.”

“Reckon it’s settled that much?” Oatha asked.

“Wouldn’t be the worst post-holin I ever done.”

Oatha lay there considering it, decided Nathan was right at least about the one thing—he barely had the strength to stand, much less walk the remaining ten or however many miles it was into Abandon. And for the first time, lying there with the sun beating down on the dirty canvas that had served as the roof over his head for fifteen days, the prospect of dying didn’t seem so bad.

 

Twelve hours later, dying had advanced from a pleasant thought to an all-consuming desire, Oatha wondering how much pain a human body could stand, if he could hope to drift away the next time he went to sleep, or if he had days of this torture ahead of him—the slow wasting of his body, the slow fracturing of his mind.

When his eyes opened, Nathan was standing over him, and the day had dawned, feeble light filtering through the opaque membrane of the canvas.

“I’m goin out there,” Nathan said, his voice straining to produce a whisper, “and by God if I don’t come back with food I’m gonna enlist one a you to put my ass out a this unending misery.”

 

McClurg lay facing him, his obese jowls swollen to the brink of splitting, fluid pooling under the skin. His eyes were open and glazed, and Oatha thought the man had died until he saw them manage a lethargic blink.

“You awake, Marion?” he whispered.

“Yeah.”

“Ask you something…you believe in God?”

“Don’t reckon. You?”

“Sometimes.”

“How you figure you’ll come out if in fact he’s runnin this show?”

“Don’t know. Ain’t been particularly good or bad. Just sort a plodded my way along. I was friends with a Navajo when I worked the Copper Queen in Bisbee. Man named Sik’is. He was always talking about walking on the good, red road.”

“Ain’t heard of it. Where’s it at?”

“Ain’t a place so much as a state a mind, you know? Way a living. Balance and harmony—”

“This some spiritual bullshit?”

“It’s like walking the path where you’re the best version of yourself. I don’t know. Always sounded nice to me. Thought one a these days, I’d seek this road out. Start living right, you know?”

“Wouldn’t put much stock in the philosophy of a injun. You never kilt a man, have you, Oatha?”

“Me and my brothers fought against the Federals at Malvern Hill, so yeah, I done my share.”

“I kilt five, two in fair fights. Three was plain murder in cold blood, and you know, I been settin here thinkin on ‘em, especially one I met on a two-track outside a Miles City. Young man. We rode together for a spell, shared a bottle, and I knowed he was headed home to his wife and three younguns ‘cause he told me, and still when we stopped at a crik to let our horses blow and he bent down for a drink a water, I cracked open the back of his skull with a rock and held him under ‘till he quit kickin.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause he told me he had a pouch full a seventy dollars he’d made workin in a Idaho mine.”

“You ashamed of it?”

Marion seemed to reflect on the question, then he licked his dry, cracking lips and said, “I reckon. But it’s a rough old world out there, filled with meaner hombres than the one you’re starin at. Figure it was that young man’s time, and if it hadn’t been me, it’d a been—”

A shotgun blast exploded in the forest, trailed by a shout of unabashed joy.

Marion struggled up off the ground. “Son of a bitch hit somethin.”

Oatha felt the excitement bloom in his gut, Marion already on his feet, lumbering out of the shelter.

Nathan hollering, “Boys, come look at this! Shot us a elk!”

It required immense effort for Oatha to sit up, and he had to employ a spruce branch to leverage himself out of the dirt onto his feet.

Marion yelling, “I could kiss you, Nathan, tongue and all!”

Oatha limped out of the shelter as fast as he could manage into sunlight that passed blindingly sharp through the dead trees, Marion twenty yards away, moving with considerable speed though the spruce, Oatha following as fast as he could, shoots of pain riding up his legs, the muscle atrophied, already wearing away.

There was Nathan in the distance, standing with the shotgun beside a scrawny aspen, its bark chewed up, near cut in two by buckshot, Oatha scanning the woods for the fallen elk as Nathan raised his shotgun.

Marion’s head disappeared in a red mist and the rest of his body collided into a tree and pitched back as Oatha ducked behind a spruce, the trunk too small to shield him from a spray of buckshot, figuring if it came, he’d catch a pellet or two at the least.

“The hell you doin, Nathan?”

“Livin, brother. Livin.”

“You mean to kill me, too?”

“I mean for us to eat this fat son of a bitch, get back to civilization.”

Oatha peered through the branches, saw that Nathan was still standing above Marion’s headless frame, the breech of the shotgun broken over his forearm.

“Why you reloadin then?” Oatha shouted. He didn’t own a gun anymore, hadn’t in three decades, but Marion’s was sitting next to the snowbank inside the shelter—a Navy—and he had to bet it was loaded.

“‘Cause I don’t know if you the type a man to go along with somethin like this.”

Nathan was fishing in the pocket of his oilskin slicker, pulled out a pair of shells, Oatha thinking if there was ever a time to make a break for it, this was it.

“Don’t misunderstand me,” Nathan said. “I kilt him out a pure necessity. Was you the fat fuck, I’d a cut your throat long ago.”

“There ain’t no level a hunger make me eat the flesh of another man.”

“I understand,” Nathan said, sliding shells into the chambers, snapping closed the breech.

Oatha started back for the shelter, his boots sinking two feet in the slushy snow with every step.

He heard the report before he registered the blood running down his back, colder than iron as it flowed under his waistband, a rush of pure animal panic flooding through him.

By the time he reached the shelter, Oatha’s shoulder was aflame and he could barely move his arm to break through the wall of snow, though with the adrenalized bolster of sudden strength, the accompanying pain was a slight distraction.

He fell through under the canvas as the crunch of Nathan’s footfalls approached, scrabbling through the dirt and snow for Marion’s revolver.

The Colt lay under a threadbare Navajo blanket, and as Oatha got his hands around the steel, he realized the vulnerability of his position, urging himself to settle down even as his hands trembled.

Nathan’s footsteps had gone silent.

Oatha sat in the dirt floor, straining to listen, no sound but the trees creaking in the wind, his pulse vibrating his ear drums.

“They’s still time,” Nathan said. He was close, his voice passing muffled through the snowbank, Oatha unable to pinpoint his exact location.

“For what?” Oatha asked.

“You to come to your senses, see there ain’t no way out a this pinch except you help yourself to a little Marion. You wanna live, don’t you?”

“Not to the detriment a my conscience.”

“Tell you what…the one time in your pathetic life you decide not to be a coward, and it’s gonna get you dead.”

“I ain’t always been like this, Nathan. War does things to a man. Makes some heroes, turns others killers, some the other way entire.”

“Guess we know which way you went, tramping through country like this without so much as a revolver.”

Whether loosed by the stress of these harsh conditions or some other agitation, Oatha felt a pool of rage that had been fermenting most of his adult life, welling up inside him, a force so potent and for so long contained, he realized in that moment, it could not be put back ever, his voice shaking as he said, “Well, you ain’t but thirty or so, and I know you kilt and think you seen killin, but you ain’t seen nothin like what the Federals did to us at Malvern Hill, the ground saturated with blood like it had rained from the sky, so what the fuck would you know about any of it?”

“I know I like the edge I ain’t heard ‘till now in your voice.”

Oatha thumbed back the Colt’s hammer.

“What now?” Nathan asked. “Wanna call ourselves a truce, get to the business a livin?”

“Moment you throw down that shotgun, I’ll know you ain’t full a shit on that proposition.”

Through the wall of snow Oatha had broken through, he saw the shotgun sail through the air and disappear into a snowbank.

Nathan called out, “Anytime you wanna do the same with Marion’s Colt, feel free.”

 

“Wish we had some spice,” Nathan said.

The steaks they’d carved out of Marion’s rump sizzled, marbled with fat, Oatha thinking the odor couldn’t even be called unpleasant. His right shoulder seemed to have a heartbeat of its own, and he wondered how many pellets of buckshot some sawbones was going to have to dig out of his back when he reached Abandon.

“I’ve smelt this before,” he said. “Or somethin like it.”

“You’ve et man?”

“No, in a San Francisco nosebag.” He thought on it for a moment, said finally, “Veal. Smells like veal.”

“Don’t it feel peculiar settin here about to—”

“If I weren’t starvin to death, maybe. But I think we’d be advised to steer away from any sort a philosophical conversation about what we’re about to do.”

They stood on the cusp of night, cloudless and moonless, the brightest planets and stars fading in against the black velvet sky like grains of incandescent salt.

Nathan flipped the ribcage. “I believe this is ready.”

 

The saloon was Abandon’s last—thin walls of knotty aspen, weak kerosene lamps suspended from the ceiling, three tables, presently unoccupied, and a broken-down piano.

Jocelyn Maddox stood wiping down the bar when the door opened.

“You’ve made it by the skin a your teeth,” she called out. “Thirty seconds later, it’d a been locked.”

The man paused in the doorway, as if to appraise the vacant saloon.

“Not for nothin, but it’s twenty degrees out there, and the fire’s low.” The barkeep motioned to the potbellied stove sitting in the corner, putting out just a modicum of heat at this closing hour.

The late customer made his way in, Jocelyn noticing that he walked like a man who’d crossed a desert on foot, limping toward her, and even though his hat was slanted at an angle to shield his face, she knew right away he was a newcomer.

As he reached the bar, half-tumbling into it, she saw that his face was deeply sunburnt, the tips of his ears and nose blackened with frostbite.

“You could use a cowboy cocktail,” she said.

The man leaned his hammer shotgun against the bar and reached into his frockcoat, pulled out two leather pouches, then another, and another, lining them up along the pine bar.

“One a these has money in it,” he said at barely a whisper, the pretty barkeep already uncorking a whiskey bottle, setting up his first shot.

“The hell happened to you?” she asked.

The man removed his slouch hat and set it on the barstool next to him. He lifted the whiskey, drank, said, “How much for the bottle?”

The barkeep leaned forward, her big black eyes shining in the firelight.

“Yours, free a charge, you tell me what you been through.”

He hesitated, then said, “Rode out from Silverton three weeks ago. Got waylaid by an early snowstorm. I been walkin three days to get here.”

“Was you alone?”

He shook his head, poured another shot of whiskey.

“Where’s the rest a your party? Where’s the men these wallets belong to?”

“They didn’t make it.”

“But you did.”

“Maybe I should just pay you for the bottle, ‘cause this line a questioning is gettin pretty old.”

“You ain’t gotta worry. I’m on the scout myself, and this ain’t the worst town for layin low.”

“That right.”

“For a fact. So, how’d you make it when your friends didn’t.”

“I et ‘em.”

Jocelyn threw back her head and laughed as hard as she could remember since arriving in this dying town, a fugitive in her own right, the man wondering if she was laughing because she thought he’d made a joke, or because she was crazy, and on the fence as to which reason he might prefer.

He drank the whiskey, poured himself another shot, said, “Care to hoist a glass with me?”

Jocelyn set up a tumbler for herself, and they raised their glasses, the man feeling better already. Maybe it was the hunger and the thirst, exhaustion bordering on madness, but he felt a surge of something, and though he couldn’t name it outright, having never known it, he suspected it was peace, the embracing of a thing he’d had his back to going on thirty years.

He said, “To you—what’s your name?”

“Joss.”

“To you, Joss.”

And he made a quiet toast to himself also, to finding his good, red road, to Dan and to Marion, and to Nathan of a now crushed skull, having brained the man in his sleep with a still-warm stone from the fire-ring upon which they’d roasted Marion.

He wondered what Sik’is would’ve thought of this new thoroughfare he’d found for himself, then realized he no longer cared.

As he swallowed his whiskey, the glow spreading through his stomach, to the tips of his filthy fingers, dulling the pain in his shoulder, he was overcome by a joy that sheeted his cloudy irises with tears. He felt thankful for every painful second of those twenty-one days in the wilderness, for the starvation and the thirst. He regretted nothing. If he’d never met Nathan and the boys, he’d have rolled into Abandon right on schedule, that weak, miserable fuck of a man he’d been for thirty long years since he’d watched his brothers die on Malvern Hill.

“You all right?” Jocelyn asked.

Oatha reached for the whiskey bottle.

“Strange to say, but I believe I just woke up.”

 

 

An introduction to “Shining Rock”

 

When I was a boy, I did a lot of backpacking with my parents and younger brother, and one of our favorite places to go was Shining Rock Wilderness in the North Carolina Mountains. One summer evening as we were setting up camp in a remote area of the wilderness called Beech Spring Gap, a gentleman came over to our camp and introduced himself. He was a burly fellow in his fifties wearing blue shorts and a vest brimming with camping accessories and various patches. He also had a machete lashed to his back and mentioned in the course of small-talk that he’d fought in Vietnam. The interaction was unsettling and more than a little awkward. I was twelve at the time but found out years later from my father that he’d been terrified, so much in fact that he and my mom had whispered in their tent late that night, debating leaving because they were afraid this man was going to come back and murder all of us while we slept. Obviously, that didn’t happen. My family struck up a friendship with the man (who turned out to be a gentle soul) and we accompanied him on future backpacking trips. But the strangeness of that initial encounter and the fear my parents must have felt never left me, and the experience inspired a short story called “Shining Rock.”

 

 

shining rock

 

They’d been coming to the southern Appalachians for more than a decade, and always in that first week of August, eager to escape the Midwestern midsummer heat. Last year, it had been the entire family—Roger, Sue, Jennifer, and Michelle—but the twins were sophomores at a college in Iowa now, immersed in boyfriends, the prospect of grad school, summer internships, slowly drifting out of their parents’ gravitational field into orbits of their own making. So for the first time, it was just Roger and Sue and a Range Rover filled with backpacking gear, heading south through Indiana, Kentucky, the northeast wedge of Tennessee, and finally up into the highlands of North Carolina.

They spent the night in Asheville at the Grove Park Inn, had dinner at the hotel’s Sunset Terrace, watching the lights of the downtown fade up through the humid dark.

 

At first light, they took the Blue Ridge Parkway south into the Pisgah Ranger District, the road winding through primeval forests, green valleys, past rock faces slicked with water that shimmered in early sun. Their ears popped as the road climbed and neither spoke of how empty the car felt.

 

By late morning, they were pack-laden, sunscreen-slathered, and cursing as they hiked up into Shining Rock Wilderness on a bitch of a path called the Old Butt Trail. Roger let Sue lead, enjoying the view of her muscled thighs and calves already pinked with high-altitude sun, glistening with perspiration. He kept imagining footsteps behind him, glancing back every mile or so, half-expecting to see Jennifer and Michelle bringing up the rear.

They crested Chestnut Ridge in the early afternoon, saw that the sky looked cancerous in the west, a bank of tumor-black clouds rolling toward them, the air reeking of that attic mustiness that heralds the approach of rain. They broke out the raingear. The pack flies. Huddled together in a grove of rhododendron as the storm swept over them, thunder cracking so loud and close that it shook the ground beneath their boots.

 

They reached Shangri-La a few hours shy of dusk. Sue had named it on their first trip here, thirteen years ago, having taken the wrong trail and accidentally stumbled upon this highland paradise. The maps called it Beech Spring Gap, a stretch of grassy meadows at 5,500 feet, just below the micaceous outcroppings of Shining Rock Mountain. Even the hottest summer afternoons rarely saw temperatures exceed eighty degrees. The nights were always cool and often clear, with the lights of Asheville twinkling forty miles to the north. Best of all, Beech Spring Gap was largely untraveled. They’d spent a week here four years ago and never seen a soul.

 

By 8:30, they were in their sleeping bags, listening to a gentle rain pattering on the tent.

‘Night girls, Roger thought. It would be easy to fall asleep tonight. Too easy. He used to stay up listening to the twins talking and laughing. Their tent would have been twenty yards away in a glade of its own, and he’d have given anything to hear their voices in the dark.

 

The next two days transpired like mirrors of each other.

Warm, bright mornings. Storms in the afternoon. Cool, clear evenings.

Roger and Sue passed the time lying in the grass, reading books, watching clouds, flying a kite off the nearby peak.

The emptiness seemed to abate, and they even laughed some.

 

Their fourth day in Shining Rock, as the evening cooled and the light began to wane, Roger suggested to his wife that she take a walk through the meadow with a book, find a spot to read for a half hour or so before the light went bad.

“Why do you want me out of camp all the sudden?” she asked. “You up to something?”

When Sue returned forty minutes later, a red-and-white checkered picnic blanket lay spread out in the grass a little ways from their tent. Roger was opening a bottle of wine, and upon two dinner plates rested a bed of steaming pasta. There was a baguette, a block of gruyere, even two of their crystal wineglasses from home and a pair of brass candlesticks, flames motionless in the evening calm.

“You brought all this from home?” she asked. “That’s why your pack was so heavy.”

“I’m just glad the crystal didn’t break when I fell climbing up the Old Butt.”

Roger stood, offered his arm, helped Sue down onto the picnic blanket.

“A little wine?”

“God, yes. Honey, this is amazing.”

He didn’t know if it was the elevation or the novelty of eating food that hadn’t been freeze-dried, but the noodles and tomato sauce and bread and cheese tasted better than anything Roger had eaten in years. It didn’t take long for the wine to set in behind his eyes, and he looked down at the mountains through a haze of intoxication, watching the light sour, bronzing the woods a thousand feet below. First time in a long while that things had felt right, and Sue must have sensed it, because she said, “You look peaceful, Roge.”

It was so quiet he could hear the purr of the river flowing down in the gorge.

Sue set her plate aside and scooted over on the blanket.

“Is it the girls?” she asked. “That what’s been bothering you?”

He reached his arm around her, pulled her in close.

“Let’s just think about right now,” he said. “In this moment, I’m happy and—”

“Evening folks.”

Roger unhanded his wife and rolled over on the picnic blanket to see who was there.

A stocky man with wavy, gray hair and a white-stubbled chin smiled down at them through reflective sunglasses. He wore well-scuffed hiking boots, tight blue shorts, and a frayed gray vest, bulging with an assortment of supplies. His chest hair was white, skin freckled and deeply tanned. Roger estimated him to be ten years their senior.

“Hope I’m not interrupting. I’m camped up in the rhododendron thicket and was just on a stroll through the meadow when I saw your tent. Wow, crystal wineglasses. You guys went all out.”

“We just finished eating,” Sue said, “but there are leftovers if—”

“Oh, I’ve got my dinner simmering back at camp, but maybe you two would be interested in a card game later?”

“Sounds lovely,” Sue said.

“Then I’ll come back in two hours. I’m Donald, by the way.”

“Sue.”

“I’m Roger.”

“Good to meet you both.”

Roger watched Donald march off across the meadow toward the rhododendron thicket at the base of Shining Rock Mountain, didn’t realize he was scowling until his wife said, “Oh come on, Roge, you antisocial party-poop. It’ll be fun.”

 

No campfires are permitted within the boundary of Shining Rock Wilderness, but the moon would be up soon. Roger and Sue relit the candles for ambience and sat on the picnic blanket, waiting on their guest, watching for the flare of meteors in the southern sky.

Roger never heard his footsteps. Donald was suddenly just standing there at the edge of the red-and-white checkered blanket, grinning.

“Lovely night,” he said.

“We were just sitting here, looking for shooting stars,” Sue said.

“May I?”

“Please.”

Donald set some items in the grass and knelt to unlace his boots, stepping at last in wooly sockfeet onto the blanket, easing down across from Roger and Sue.

“I brought playing cards, an UNO deck, whatever your pleasure, and some not too shabby scotch.”

“Now we’re talking,” Roger said as Donald handed him the bottle. “Ooh…twenty-one year Macallan?”

“Roge and I have become scotch aficionados since a trip to Scotland last year.”

Donald said, “Nothing like a good single malt in the backcountry on a quiet night.”

Roger uncorked the Macallan, offered the bottle to Sue.

“I’ll drink to that.” She brought it to her lips, let a small mouthful slide down her throat. “Oh my God. Tastes more like a fifty-year.”

“Everything tastes better on the mountain,” Donald said.

Sue passed the bottle to her husband. “So how many nights have you been up here?”

“My second.”

“You’ve been here before?”

Roger wiped his mouth. “Goddamn that’s smooth.”

“Actually, this is my first trip to Shining Rock.” Donald took the scotch from Roger and after a long, deliberate swallow, looked at the bottle a moment before passing it back to Sue. “I usually do my camping up in northern Minnesota, but figured these southern highlands would be worth the drive.”

“Where’s home?” Roger asked.

“St. Paul.”

Roger and Sue glanced at each other, smiled.

“What? No, don’t tell me the pair of you are Minnesotans.” He drew out the “o” in stereotypical Midwestern fashion, and they all laughed.

“Eden Prairie as a matter of fact,” Sue said.

“You could make a strong case for us being neighbors,” Donald said and he looked at Roger. “What are the chances?”

 

Midway through his second hand of UNO, Roger realized he’d gotten himself drunk—not a sick, topsy-turvy binge, but a tired, pleasant glow. He hadn’t meant to, but the scotch was so smooth. Even Sue had let it get away from her. She was laughing louder and with greater frequency, and she kept grabbing his arm and pretending to steal glances at the twenty-plus cards in his hand.

Sue finally threw down her last card and fell over laughing on the blanket.

“Two in a row,” Donald said. “Impressive.”

He pulled out the cork and took a slow pull of scotch, then offered the bottle to Roger.

“Oh Don, I think I’m done for the night.”

“Come on.”

“No, I’m good.”

“One more. Bad luck to skip a nightcap.”

Roger felt the twinge of something in his gut he thought forty-eight-year-old men were impervious to. He took the bottle and drank and passed it back to Donald.

Sue sat up. “Say, I meant to ask why you had a machete lashed to your back?”

Donald smiled. “Sometimes I like to get off-trail, do a little bushwhacking. I did a few tours in Vietnam, and let me tell you, that was the only way to travel upcountry.”

“What branch of the military?” Roger asked.

“Green berets.”

“Wow. Saw some shit, huh?”

“You could definitely say that.”

Donald suddenly tilted to one side and squelched out a noisy fart, then chuckled, “Damn mountain frogs.”

Roger thinking, Well he’s definitely a little drunk.

Donald corked the scotch, said, “You have children?”

“Twin girls,” Sue said.

“No kidding. How old?”

“They’ll turn twenty next month. They’re in college at Iowa. Michelle wants to be a writer. Jennifer, more practical of the two, is pre-law.”

“How nice.”

“Yeah, this trip has been a sea change for Roger and me. Our family’s been coming to Shining Rock, God, forever, but this is the first time it’s just the two of us.”

“Empty nesters.”

“How about you, Don? Any kids?”

Donald bit down softly on his bottom lip and looked away from Roger and Sue at the moon edging up behind the black mass of Cold Mountain.

“I didn’t pick twenty-one-year-old scotch to share with you two on a whim. This whiskey,” he swirled what liquid remained in the bottle, “was put into an oak barrel to begin aging the year my little girl was born.”

He pulled out the cork, tilted up the bottle.

Sue said, “Is she in school somewhere or—”

“No, she’s dead.”

Sue gasped, and through the gale in his head, Roger sensed something attempting to piece itself together.

“I’m so sorry,” Sue said.

“Yeah.” Donald nodding.

“What happened, if it’s not too—”

“She’ll have been gone six years this coming fall.”

“She was sixteen when…”

“Yeah.”

Roger reached for the scotch and Donald let him take it.

The bottom edge of the moon had cleared the summit ridge of Cold Mountain, and somewhere in the meadows of Beech Spring Gap, a bird chirped.

“Was it a car wreck?” Sue asked.

“Tab was a cross-country runner in high school. Captain of her team when she was only a sophomore. Very devoted, disciplined runner. It was just a thing of beauty to watch her run. She made the state championship her freshman year.”

Roger noticed Donald’s hands trembling.

His were, too.

“Morning of October third, I was on my way to work when I came to a roadblock about a mile from our house. There were police cars, a fire truck, ambulances. I’d heard the sirens while I was getting dressed but didn’t think anything of it.

“I was swearing up a storm ‘cause I was late for a meeting and getting ready to do a u-turn, find an alternate route, when one of the EMTs stepped out of the way. Even from fifty yards back, I recognized Tabitha’s blue shorts, orange running shoes, her legs.

“Next thing I remember was throwing up on the side of the road. They say I broke through the barrier, that it took two firemen and four cops to drag me away from her body. I don’t remember seeing her broken skull. Or the blood. Just her legs, orange shoes, and blue running shorts, from fifty yards back in my car.”

Sue leaned across the blanket and draped her arms around Donald’s neck.

Roger heard her whisper, “I’m so sorry,” but Donald didn’t return the embrace, just stared at him instead.

Sue pulled back, said, “Someone had hit her.”

“Yeah. But whoever did was gone by the time the police arrived.”

“No.”

“This occurred in a residential area, and in one of the nearby houses, someone had happened to look out a window, see a man standing in the street over my daughter. But he was gone when the police showed up.”

“A hit-and-run.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh my God. What about your wife? What—”

“We separated four years ago.”

Roger couldn’t look at him, turned instead to the summer moon, nearly full, and as large and white as he would ever see it, the Ocean of Storms clearly visible as a gray blemish two hundred thousand miles away.

Donald said, “Sometimes, I can talk about it without ripping the stitches, but not tonight, I guess. I better go.” He got to his feet, leaving the scotch and cards on the blanket, and walked off into the dark.

 

They were lying in their sleeping bags in the tent when Roger leaned over and whispered in Sue’s ear, “We have to leave right now.”

“I was almost asleep, Roge, what are you—”

“Just listen.” The whites of her eyes appeared in the dark. “I want you to quietly get dressed, put your boots on. We’ll leave everything here, just take our wallets and keys.”

“Why?”

“Donald’s planning to kill us tonight.”

Sue sat up in her sleeping bag and pushed her brown hair out of her face. “This isn’t funny, Roger. Not even a little—”

“Do I sound like I’m joking?”

“Why are you saying this? ‘Cause he walks around with a machete and was in Vietnam and…” Sue covered her mouth. “Oh, Roger, no. Oh God, please tell me…” Sue turned away from him and buried her face in her sleeping bag.

Roger lay beside her, whispering in her ear.

“I was late for a meeting downtown. I turned a corner on Oak Street and the coffee spilled between my legs, burned me. I swerved, and when I looked up…

“At first, I just sat stunned behind the wheel, like I could will the moment away, press undo on the keyboard. I got out and saw her on the pavement, half under the front bumper. I looked around. No other cars coming. No one else in the vicinity. Just a quiet Thursday morning, the trees turning, wet red leaves on the street. I thought about you, about Jennifer and Michelle, all the things that could be taken from me ‘cause of one stupid fucking lapse in concentration, and the next thing I knew I was on I-94.”

Sue was crying. “That’s why you sold the Lexus. Why you moved us to Eden Prairie. How’d you keep this from me, Roger? How did you—”

“Live with myself? I don’t know. I still don’t know.”

“Are you sure it’s him? That Donald’s the father of the girl you hit?”

“This thing happened in early October. Almost six years ago. In St. Paul.”

“But what if it’s just a horrible coin—”

“I still dream about the orange shoes and blue shorts, Sue.”

“Oh God, baby.” She turned over and pulled her husband down onto her chest, ran her fingernails across the back of his neck. “What do you think he’s gonna try to do to us?”

“I don’t know, but he didn’t come all this way, follow us up into the middle of nowhere just to talk.”

“So we just leave? Right now?”

“Yes.”

“Can you get us back to the trailhead in the dark?”

“I think so. If not, we’ll just hide somewhere until morning. What’s important is getting out of this tent and away from our camp as soon as possible.”

“But he must know where we live, Roger.” Sue sat up, faced her husband. “He was able to find out we were coming to North Carolina. What keeps him from doing this when we get back to Minnesota? Or from turning you in?”

“I don’t think this is about bringing me to justice in any legal sense of the word.”

“We can’t just run away, Roger.”

“Sure we can. And we will.”

“He might know where our girls live. Might decide to go after them. We have no idea what he’s capable of.”

“So what are we supposed—”

“You wanna be free of this?”

“Of course.”

“Have it never come back to haunt you as long as you live? Guarantee the safety of me and the girls? Your own freedom?”

For a moment, there was no sound but the weeds brushing against the exterior of the tent.

“Jesus, Sue. I don’t have that in me.”

“Well, you had it in you to leave a teenage girl dying in the street. Now if that man came into this wilderness to murder us, he probably went out of his way to make sure no one knew he was coming here, which works out perfectly for us.”

He heard his wife moving in the darkness, the separating teeth of a zipper.

The leather case dropped in his lap.

“You have to take the bullets out,” she whispered. “Wipe them down so they don’t have our prints. You probably won’t be able to find the shell casings in the dark.”

“Sue, I can’t.”

“You’re gonna make me handle this? Look, it breaks my heart that that man lost his daughter, and it makes me sick that it’s your fault, but I will not live the rest of my life in fear, looking over my shoulder, calling Jennifer and Michelle five times a day to make sure they’re okay. That morning, when you drove away, you decided you weren’t gonna let a mistake you made destroy our lives. Well, it’s too late to change course now.”

“I am telling you I can’t—”

“You don’t have a choice. This night’s been coming ever since that October morning. You started this six years ago. Now go finish it.”

 

He left Sue lying in the tall grass several hundred feet down the mountainside and headed back up toward the meadows of Beech Spring Gap carrying a flashlight he didn’t need under the blazing wattage of the moon.

He reached the gap, moved past their tent and along the trail that led to Shining Rock Mountain, the base of which stood cloaked in thickets of rhododendron that bloomed pink in the month of June.

On a walk that morning, a thousand years ago, he’d noticed a piece of red tucked back among the glossy green leaves, wondered now if that had been Donald’s tent, and how he would find the man’s camp in the middle of the night.

He walked off the trail and crouched down in the grass. Five yards ahead lay the edge of the rhododendron thicket. Roger thought he recalled that piece of red a hundred feet or so up the gentle slope, though he couldn’t be sure.

For a while, he lay on the ground, just listening.

The grass swayed, blades banging dryly against one another.

Rhododendron leaves scraped together.

Something scampered through the thicket.

This was his thirteenth summer coming to Shining Rock, and he found that most of their time here had vanished completely from memory—more impression than detail. But a few of their trips remained clear, intact.

The first time they’d come and accidentally discovered this place, the twins were only six years old, and Michelle had lost her front teeth to this gap while she and Jennifer wrestled and rolled in a meadow one sunny afternoon, cried her heart out, afraid the tooth fairy wouldn’t pay for lost teeth.

There had been the trip seven years ago where he and Sue had to fake happy faces for the girls, crying at night in their tent, while fifteen hundred miles away, in a laboratory in Minneapolis, a biopsy cut from the underside of Sue’s left breast was screened for a cancer that wasn’t there.

Three years back, he’d been anxiously awaiting news on an advertising campaign he’d pitched, which if chosen, might have netted him half a million dollars, remembered trying not to dwell on the phone call he’d make once they left these mountains, knowing if he got a yes, what that would mean for his family. He’d pulled over once they reentered cell phone coverage at an overlook outside of Asheville. Walked back toward the car a moment later, eyes locked with Sue’s, shaking his head.

But looking at the time they’d spent here as a whole, forest instead of tree, it felt a lot like his life—so many good times, some pain, and it had all raced by faster than he could’ve imagined.

Roger crawled to the thicket’s edge and started up the hill, the flashlight and the Glock shoved down the back of his fleece pants.

After five minutes, he stopped to catch his breath.

He thought he’d been making a horrible racket, dead leaves crunching under his elbows as he wriggled himself under the low branches of the rhododendron shrubs. But he assured himself it wasn’t as much noise as he thought. To anyone else, to Donald, it probably sounded like nothing more than the after-hour scavenging of a raccoon.

Roger was breathing normally again and had rolled over on his stomach to continue crawling when he spotted the outline of a tent twenty yards uphill. The moon shone upon the rain fly, and in the lunar light, he could only tell that it was dark in color.

He pulled the gun out of his waistband.

His chest felt tight, and he had to take several deep breaths to make the lightheadedness dissolve.

Then he was crawling again, though much slower now, taking care to avoid patches of dead leaves and low-clearance branches that might drag across his jacket.

The tent stood just ahead, a one-man A-frame. He was still hidden in shadow, but another few feet and he’d emerge from the cover of darkness, into the moonlit glade.

 

Roger lay beside the tent and held his breath, listening for deep breathing indicative of Donald sleeping, if in fact this was even the man’s tent. He didn’t know how long he lay there. Two minutes. A quarter of an hour. Whichever the case, it felt like ages elapsed, and he still hadn’t heard a sound from inside.

Maybe Donald wasn’t in there. Maybe he’d already found a spot to hide and watch their tent. Maybe he was a silent sleeper. Maybe he’d heard Roger crawling toward him through the rhododendron and was sitting up right—

“That you out there, Roger?”

Roger jumped up and scrambled back toward the thicket.

He stopped at the edge of the glade, his gun trained on the tent, trembling in his hand.

“Would you tell me something?” Donald asked. “Was she alive right after you hit her? She was dead when the paramedics arrived.”

Roger had to wet the roof of his mouth with his tongue so he could speak.

“She was gone instantly,” he lied.

“You didn’t tell your wife, did you?”

“No.”

“She seemed surprised. Does she know you came over here? Did you discuss it with her after I left? Tell her what you’d done?”

“What were you going to do to us?”

“Not a thing.”

“I don’t believe that. How’d you find me?”

“When the police gave up, I spent thousands of dollars on a PI who located and investigated everyone who owned a silver Lexus in the St. Paul area. I’ve had conversations like I had with you and Sue tonight with a half dozen other people I suspected, feeling them out, gauging their reactions.”

“You didn’t know for sure it was me?”

“Not until this moment, Roger. Not until you crept up to my tent at one in the morning with what I imagine is that Glock, registered to Sue. That pretty much convinces me.”

“Do you have a gun in there?”

“No.”

Roger glanced over his shoulder into the thicket, then back toward the tent. There was a part of him dying to just slink away.

“What do you want, Donald?”

“I already got it.”

“What?” Roger could hear Donald moving around in the tent.

“The truth.”

“So that’s it? We just go our separate ways, pretend this night never happened.”

“No, it happened. But it doesn’t have to end like I suspect it will.”

“How does this end, Donald?”

“Are you asking if I’m going to turn you in?”

“Are you?”

“What would you do? If I’d hit Jennifer or Michelle, spread their brains all over the pavement?”

“Are you threat—”

“No, I’m asking you, father to father, if you knew who the man was who’d killed your daughter, what would you do?”

“I’d want to kill—”

“Not want. What would you do?”

“I don’t know. What do you want to do?”

“Beat you to death with my bare hands. That’s what I want to do. Not what I will do.”

Roger stood up, took six steps toward the tent.

Donald said, “Roger? Where are you?”

“Right here, Donald.”

“You’re closer.”

“Listen to me,” Roger said. “I want you to know that I am so sorry. And I know it doesn’t do a goddamn thing to bring Tabitha back, but it’s the truth. I was just so scared. You understand?”

“Thank you, Roger.”

“For what?”

“Saying her name.”

Roger fired six times into the tent.

His ears ringing, gunshots still reverberating off the mountains, he said, “Donald?”

There was no answer, only wet breathing.

He went to the tent door and unzipped it and took out his flashlight and shined it inside.

Donald lay on his back, the only visible wound a hole under his left eye, and the blood looked like oil running out of it.

Roger moved the flashlight around, searching for a gun in Donald’s hand, something to mitigate what he’d done, but the only thing Donald clutched was a framed photograph of an auburn-haired teenager with a braces smile.

 

Three days later, seated at the same table they’d occupied a week before at the Grove Park Inn’s Sunset Terrace, they watched the waiter place their entrees before them and top off their wineglasses from a bottle of pinot noir.

The August night was cool, even here in the city, like maybe summer would end after all.

Near the bar, a tuxedoed man was at a Steinway playing Mozart, one of his beautiful concertos.

“How’s your filet?” Sue asked.

“It’s perfect. Yours?”

“I could eat this every day.”

Roger forced a smile and took a big sip of wine.

They ate in silence.

After a while, Sue said, “Roger?”

“Yes, honey?”

“We did it right, yeah?”

It annoyed him that she would bring it up over dinner, but he was well on his way toward inebriation, a nice buffer swelling between himself and all that had come before.

“I don’t know how we could’ve been more thorough,” he said.

“I keep thinking we should’ve moved his car.”

“That would’ve been just another opportunity for us to leave evidence. Skin cells, sweat, hair, fibers of our clothing, prints. I thought it through, Sue.”

She reached across the table and took his hand, the karat diamond he’d given her twenty-four years ago sending out a thousand slivered facets of candlelight.

“Above all, it was for the girls. Their safety,” she said.

“Yeah. For the girls.”

The scent of a good cigar swept past.

“You’ll be able to go on all right?” Sue asked. “With what…what you had to do?”

Roger was cutting into his steak, and he kept cutting, didn’t meet her eyes as he answered, “I’ve had practice, right?”

 

It was early October when it occurred to one of the forest rangers of the Pisgah district that the black Buick Regal with a Minnesota license plate, parked near the restrooms of the Big East Fork trailhead, had been there for a long damn time, which was particularly strange considering no one had been reported missing in the area.

 

Over several days, the sheriff of Haywood County spoke briefly with two estranged, living relatives and an ex-wife in Duluth, none of whom had been in contact with Donald Kennington in over a year, all of whom said he’d been on the downward spiral since his daughter’s death, that it had ruined him in every way imaginable, that he’d probably gone up into the mountains to die.

 

A deputy found it in the glove box—a handwritten note folded between the vehicle’s owner’s manual and a laminated map of Minnesota.

He read it aloud to the sheriff, the two of them sitting in the front seat as raindrops splattered on a windshield nearly pasted over with the violent red leaves of an oak tree that overhung the parking lot.

 

My name is Donald Kennington. Please forward this message to Arthur Holland, detective with the St. Paul Police Department.

The death of my daughter, Tabitha Kennington, brings me to these mountains. I am writing this in my car on August 5th, having followed Roger and Susan Cockrell, of Eden Prairie, Minnesota, to Beech Spring Gap. I have taken their photographs with a digital camera, along with pictures of their green Range Rover and license plate. You will find my camera containing these pictures in the trunk of my car.

At this moment, I do not know if Mr. Cockrell was responsible for killing my daughter in a hit-and-run six years ago. I plan to meet the Cockrells tonight and find out. To be clear, I intend no physical harm to Mr. Cockrell or his wife. If Mr. Cockrell is responsible, however, we will see if I’m so lucky. Does a man who runs down a young woman and leaves the scene contain it within him to murder in cold blood in order to hide his crime and his shame?

I suspect he does.

The Cockrells will be thorough in disposing of my body, tent, backpack, etc., which makes this last bit of business a little tricky.

My camp is in a small glade in the rhododendron thicket on the east slope of Shining Rock Mountain, approximately a hundred vertical feet above the meadows of Beech Spring Gap. The glade is twenty yards across, with a large boulder in the middle. Look for a flat, shiny rock in the grass. My tent now stands over it, and I’ve made a tiny rip in the tent floor and dug a small, shallow hole in the ground under the rock.

Late tonight, if Mr. Cockrell admits his guilt, into this hole, sealed and safe in plastic, I will drop a tape recorder, and hopefully rebury it before he murders me.

 

 

###

 

 

Read on for an interview with Blake Crouch, excerpts from all four of his books, Desert Places, Locked Doors, Abandon, and Snowbound, and a bonus short story from J.A. Konrath…

 

 

Interview with Blake Crouch by Hank Wagner

Originally Published in Crimespree, July 2009

 

According to his website, Blake Crouch grew up in Statesville, a small town in the piedmont of North Carolina. He graduated from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill in 2000, where he studied literature and creative writing. He currently resides in the San Juan Mountains of southwestern Colorado. Crouch’s first book, Desert Places, was published in 2003. Pat Conroy called it “Harrowing, terrific, a whacked-out combination of Stephen King and Cormac McCarthy.” Val McDermid described it as “An ingenious, diabolical debut that calls into question all our easy moral assumptions. Desert Places is a genuine thriller that pulses with adrenaline from start to finish.”  His second novel, Locked Doors, was published in July 2005. A sequel to Desert Places, it created a similar buzz. His third novel, Abandon, was published on July 7, 2009.

 

HANK WAGNER: Your writing career began in college? 

 

BLAKE CROUCH: I started writing seriously in college. I had tinkered before, but the summer after my freshman year, I decided that I wanted to try to make a living at being a writer. Spring semester of 1999, I was in an intro creative writing class and I wrote the short story (called “Ginsu Tony”) that would grow into Desert Places. Once I started my first novel, it became an obsession. 

 

HW: Where did the original premise for Desert Places come from? 

 

BC: The idea for Desert Places arose when two ideas crossed. I had the opening chapter already in my head... suspense writer receives an anonymous letter telling him there’s a body buried on his property, covered in his blood. I didn’t know where my protagonist was going to be taken though. Around the same time, I happened to be glancing through a scrapbook that had photographs of this backpacking trip I took in Wyoming in the mid 90’s. One of those photographs was of a road running off into the horizon in the midst of a vast desert. My brain started working. What if my protagonist is taken to a cabin out in the middle of nowhere, by a psychopath? What if this cabin is in this vast desert, and he has no hope of escape? That photograph broke the whole story open for me. 

 

HW: Why a sequel for your second book? Affection for the characters? 

 

BC: It was actually my editor’s idea. I was perfectly happy walking away from the first book. But once she mentioned it during the editing of Desert Places, I really started to think about where the story could go, wondered how Andy might have changed after seven years in hiding, and I got excited about doing it. And I’m very glad I did, because I would’ve missed those characters. Even my psychopaths are family in some strange, twisted way. 

 

HW: Of all the reviews and comments about your books, what was the strangest? The meanest? The nicest? The most perceptive? 

 

BC: The strangest: This was a comment about me and the reviewer wrote something to the effect that I was either a super-talented writer with an immense imagination or one sick puppy. I think that’s open to debate. The meanest: From those [expletive deleted] at Kirkus. Now, keep in mind, this is my first taste of reviews and the reviewer absolutely savaged my book. It was so mean it was funny... although I didn’t see the humor for some time. The review ended, “Sadly, a sequel is in the works.” The nicest: That’s hard to choose from. I particularly loved the review for Locked Doors that appeared in the Winston-Salem Journal. The reviewer wrote, and this is my favorite quote thus far, “If you don’t think you’ll enjoy seeing how Crouch makes the torture and disembowelment of innocent women, children and even lax store employees into a thing of poetic beauty, maybe you should go watch Sponge Bob.” The most perceptive: The reviews that recognize that I’m trying to make a serious exploration of the human psyche, the nature of evil, and man’s depravity are the ones that please me the most. 

 

HW: Do you strive for realism in your writing, or do you try more to entertain? 

 

BC: First and foremost, I want to entertain. I want the reader to close the book thinking, “that was a helluva story.” Beyond that, I do strive for realism. I want the reader to identify with my characters’ emotions, whether it’s fear, sadness, or happiness. The places I write about, from the Yukon to the Outer Banks to the Colorado mountains are rendered accurately, and that’s very important to me, because I want the reader to have the benefit of visiting these beautiful places in my books. 

 

HW: The villain in Locked Doors seems almost a force of nature, cunning, instinctively brilliant when it comes to creating mayhem. Do you worry that readers might write him off as unrealistic? 

 

BC: I decided to approach Luther Kite a little differently than my bad guy, Orson Thomas, in Desert Places. In the first book, I tried to humanize Orson, to gin up sympathy by explaining what happened in his childhood to turn him into this monster. With Luther et al., I made a conscious decision not to delve into any of that, and for this reason I think he comes off as almost mythic, larger than life, maybe with even a tinge of the supernatural. I don’t worry that readers will find him unrealistic, because I didn’t try to make him like your typical realistic humdrum villain. What I want is for readers to fear him. 

 

HW: What’s the most important thing a book has to do to keep YOUR attention? 

 

BC: It’s actually very simple... a great story told through great writing. I don’t care if it’s western, horror, thriller, historical, romance, or literary. I just want to know that I’m in the hands of someone who knows what they’re doing. 

 

HW: Who are your literary heroes?

 

BC: I grew up on southern writers -- Walker Percy, Pat Conroy -- the fantasy of C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien. In college I discovered Thomas Harris, Dennis Lehane, James Lee Burke, Caleb Carr, and my favorite writer, Cormac McCarthy. McCarthy just blows me away. His prose is so rich. He is unlike anyone else out there today. His 1985 novel, Blood Meridian, in my opinion, is the greatest horror novel ever written. 

 

HW: What makes Blood Meridian “the greatest horror novel ever written?” 

 

BC: The writing is mind blowing. The violence (which occurs frequently and in vivid detail) rises to the level of poetry in McCarthy’s hands. And the story is fascinating. It’s based on historical fact and follows a bloodthirsty gang through the Mexico-Texas Borderlands in the mid-1800’s, who have been hired by the Mexican government to collect as many Indian scalps as they can. I read Blood Meridian every year. 

 

HW: Reading Desert Places and Locked Doors, it seems that you’re drawn to the horrific. The books are filled with horrific acts, and with terrifying set pieces, as in the descent into the Kites’ basement in Locked Doors. Did the horror genre hold any attraction to you growing up? 

 

BC: I honestly didn’t read a lot of horror growing up, but I always loved the sensation of fear produced by a scary movie or a great book. Some of my first short fiction (written in middle school) could be classified as horror. In fact, there’s a short story on my website called “In Shock” that I wrote in the 8th grade. 

 

HW: Might there be a sequel to Locked Doors someday?

 

BC: Midway through the writing of Locked Doors, it occurred to me the story might be a trilogy. I may finish out the trilogy at some point. I’m starting to miss my characters (the ones that survived), and I have a feeling that I will return to the world of Locked Doors at some point in the future to check in on them. We’ll have to see. 

 

HW: Your latest novel, Abandon, is set in Colorado, where you’ve lived for the past six years.  Did you intend to write a novel set in that state when you moved there, or did your surroundings inspire you to?

 

BC: This was definitely a case of my surroundings inspiring me. Two months after we moved from North Carolina to Durango, we had some friends come out to visit. My wife and I took them on a backpacking trip into the San Juans, and it was on this trip that I first saw the ruins of a mining town—Sneffels, Colorado and the Camp Bird Mine. It made a huge impression, the idea of living in these extreme conditions, particularly in winter. The claustrophobia, the desperation, the kind of people who would subject themselves to such a life fascinated me.

 

HW: Did you have any particular goals in mind when you embarked on this project?  Did they change as you worked?  Do you think you met your goals?

 

BC: The idea of writing a “mining town thriller” was with me for a long time, as early as the summer of 2003, before Desert Places was published.  Initially, I thought it would all be set in the past, a straight historical. Then in ‘05, while on tour for Locked Doors, I had a sudden realization that this was the story I needed to write, and that it wasn’t just historical. There would be present scenes, too, and the mystery at the heart of the book would be the mass disappearance of the town. My goal was to write a book that I would want to read, and in that regard, I think I succeeded.

 

HW: How long did it take to prepare to write the book?  How much research was involved?  Do you research first, then write, or answer the questions that arise as you dive into the writing?

 

BC: I started outlining in the fall of ‘05, and finalized the book with my editor in the summer ‘07.  There were 7 drafts, and tons of research, which occurred at all stages of the writing.

 

HW: Was it tough striking a balance between writing a thriller and the urge to display all your newfound knowledge?  Any fascinating tidbits that didn’t go into the book that you want to share with readers?

 

BC: Lots of stuff got cut, and some of it was wonderful (and it still pains me to have let it go) but in the end, it was all about what advanced the story.  For instance, there was an Irishman who lived in one of the Colorado mining towns, and the love of his life had died on their wedding night some years prior. Every night, from his cabin above town, the sound of a violin would sweep down the mountain. Mournful, beautiful music. The town got used to hearing it.  One night, after the violin went silent, a single gunshot echoed from the cabin. The townsfolk went up and found him dead, with a note asking to be buried with his wife. I loved that bit, wanted to put this guy into the story, but it didn’t belong, so I had to let it go.

 

HW: Your first two books followed the adventures of basically the same cast of characters.  Was it a relief or was it scary to move on to a whole new set of players?

 

BC: Both a total relief and completely terrifying. But what’s worse than the fear of doing something new and challenging is realizing one day that you’re in a rut, that you’ve essentially written the same book again and again.

 

HW: Your first two books could be described as pure, relentless adrenaline.  In fact, those are your words.  Was it difficult to work on a novel taking place in two different times, switching back and forth between the two?  How about working with a larger cast?  Did that present you with any particular challenges, issues, problems?

 

BC: It was hard at first, but once I got into the flow of both narratives, it wasn’t such a big deal to go back and forth, which is the way I wrote it. It sounds silly, but I wrote the present in one font, the past in another, and for some reason, changing fonts helped me to get back into whatever section I was working on.  This cast of characters, which I knew was going to be big going in, was intimidating starting out. I spent a month on character studies, really getting to know each main character and their back-story before I dove into the book, and I think (I hope) that made all the difference.

 

HW: Has having children changed the way you look at your writing?  Your subject matter? Do you ever pause and think, I guess my kids won’t be able to read that until they’re older?

 

BC: Abandon was the first thing I wrote after my son was born, and being a father for the first time and that new relationship and life-altering love couldn’t help but find its way into this work. Parent-child relationships definitely constitute a significant aspect of Abandon. And yeah, there’s no way my kids will be able to read my first two books until they’re at least seven or eight (kidding).

 

HW: Who is your first reader?

 

BC: My wife.

 

HW: What’s your favorite procrastination technique to avoid writing?

 

BC: Playing my acoustic guitar.

 

HW: Now that you’re in the business, do you find as much time to read as before?  Do you avoid fiction for fear of unconsciously copying someone’s stories?

 

BC: I read more now than ever. You have to. I’ve never avoided fiction for fear of unconsciously copying someone else’s stories.  You can’t help but be influenced by the work of others. No one is unique. As Cormac McCarthy said, “The sad truth is that books are made of other books.”

 

HW: I happen to know you’ve written an essay about Jack Ketchum’s Off Season for the upcoming International Thrillers Writers project Thrillers: 100 Must Reads.  Was that format difficult for you?  Did the experience provide you with any special insights into your own writings, or into thrillers in general?

 

BC: It was the hardest thing I’d written all year. I felt like I was in college again working on a term paper. That being said, it was a great joy to delve into the life and work of Jack Ketchum. I had great editors on that project. (HW: Full disclosure time: the editors for that worthy project are the esteemed David Morrell and yours truly. End of plug.)

 

HW: Tell us a little about future projects. You have a short story slated to appear in the ITW anthology, Thrillers 2?

 

BC: Yep, it’s called “Remaking” and also happens to be set in a beautiful Colorado town called Ouray.  It’s premised on a question: What would you do if you were in a coffee shop, saw a man sitting with a young boy, and suspected the boy wasn’t supposed to be with him, that maybe he’d been kidnapped.  I’m over the moon and humbled to be included in such a stellar collection of writers. Joe Konrath and I have just released a free short story as an eBook with the help of our publishers. It’s kind of groundbreaking, both in how Joe and I collaborated, and how our publishers came together to make it available everywhere. It’s called “Serial”, and is probably the most twisted thing either of us have ever written. The Abandon audiobook will have a short story that I read called “On the Good, Red Road,” and finally Jen Jordan’s new anthology, Uncage Me, publishes in July, and I have a story in that one called “*69.”

 

HW: Are you working on a new novel at the moment? 

 

BC: I am.

 

HW: Where are you in that process?

 

BC: About a hundred pages in.

 

HW: Can you talk a little about the new book, or would that jinx things?

BC: I’m pretty sure I would deeply regret talking about it at this point. I find if I talk too much about works-in-progress, it takes the wind out of my sails.

 

HW: Any book recommendations?

 

BC: Joe Konrath just published a novel under the name Jack Kilborn. It’s called Afraid, and I think it’s one of the best pieces of horror fiction to come out in recent memory.

 

HW: Work uniform?

 

BC: A white tee-shirt and pajama bottoms with snowflakes on them. I know, it’s awful.

 

HW: Misconceptions about people who graduated from UNC?

 

BC: That if by some rip in the space-time continuum, Al-Qaeda managed to get a Division I college basketball team together, and if that team somehow made it to the NCAA tournament, and then survived March Madness, and, now here’s a real stretch, were facing Duke in the championship game on Monday night, that UNC fans would put aside their petty rivalry and root for Duke over the terrorists.

 

 

DESERT PLACES

Published in January 2004 by Thomas Dunne Books

 

DESCRIPTION: Andrew Z. Thomas is a successful writer of suspense thrillers, living the dream at his lake house in the piedmont of North Carolina. One afternoon in late spring, he receives a bizarre letter that eventually threatens his career, his sanity, and the lives of everyone he loves. A murderer is designing his future, and for the life of him, Andrew can’t get away.

 

Harrowing...terrific...a whacked out combination of Stephen King and Cormac McCarthy.
PAT CONROY

 

[C]arried by rich, image-filled prose. Crouch will handcuff you, blindfold you, throw you in the trunk of a car, and drag you kicking and screaming through a story so intense, so emotionally packed, that you will walk away stunned.
WINSTON-SALEM JOURNAL

Excerpt from Desert Places…

 

On a lovely May evening, I sat on my deck, watching the sun descend upon Lake Norman. So far, it had been a perfect day. I’d risen at 5:00 a.m. as I always do, put on a pot of French roast, and prepared my usual breakfast of scrambled eggs and a bowl of fresh pineapple. By six o’clock, I was writing, and I didn’t stop until noon. I fried two white crappies I’d caught the night before, and the moment I sat down for lunch, my agent called. Cynthia fields my messages when I’m close to finishing a book, and she had several for me, the only one of real importance being that the movie deal for my latest novel, Blue Murder, had closed. It was good news of course, but two other movies had been made from my books, so I was used to it by now.

I worked in my study for the remainder of the afternoon and quit at 6:30. My final edits of the new as yet untitled manuscript would be finished tomorrow. I was tired, but my new thriller, The Scorcher, would be on bookshelves within the week. I savored the exhaustion that followed a full day of work. My hands sore from typing, eyes dry and strained, I shut down the computer and rolled back from the desk in my swivel chair.

I went outside and walked up the long gravel drive toward the mailbox. It was the first time I’d been out all day, and the sharp sunlight burned my eyes as it squeezed through the tall rows of loblollies that bordered both sides of the drive. It was so quiet here. Fifteen miles south, Charlotte was still gridlocked in rush-hour traffic, and I was grateful not to be a part of that madness. As the tiny rocks crunched beneath my feet, I pictured my best friend, Walter Lancing, fuming in his Cadillac. He’d be cursingthe drone of horns and the profusion of taillights as he inched away from his suite in uptown Charlotte, leaving the quarterly nature magazine Hiker to return home to his wife and children. Not me, I thought, the solitary one.

For once, my mailbox wasn’t overflowing. Two envelopes lay inside, one a bill, the other blank except for my address typed on the outside. Fan mail.

Back inside, I mixed myself a Jack Daniel’s and Sun-Drop and took my mail and a book on criminal pathology out onto the deck. Settling into a rocking chair, I set everything but my drink on a small glass table and gazed down to the water. My backyard is narrow, and the woods flourish a quarter mile on either side, keeping my home of ten years in isolation from my closest neighbors. Spring had not come this year until mid-April, so the last of the pink and white dogwood blossoms still specked the variably green interior of the surrounding forest. Bright grass ran down to a weathered gray pier at the water’s edge, where an ancient weeping willow sagged over the bank, the tips of its branches dabbling in the surface of the water.

The lake is more than a mile wide where it touches my property, making houses on the opposite shore visible only in winter, when the blanket of leaves has been stripped from the trees. So now, in the thick of spring, branches thriving with baby greens and yellows, the lake was mine alone, and I felt like the only living soul for miles around.

I put my glass down half-empty and opened the first envelope. As expected, I found a bill from the phone company, and I scrutinized the lengthy list of calls. When I’d finished, I set it down and lifted the lighter envelope. There was no stamp, which I thought strange, and upon slicing it open, I extracted a single piece of white paper and unfolded it. In the center of the page, one paragraph had been typed in black ink.

 

Greetings. There is a body buried on your property, covered in your blood. The unfortunate young lady’s name is Rita Jones. You’ve seen this missing schoolteacher’s face on the news, I’m sure. In her jeans pocket you’ll find a slip of paper with a phone number on it. You have one day to call that number. If I have not heard from you by 8:00 p.m. tomorrow (5/17), the Charlotte Police Department will receive an anonymous phone call. I’ll tell them where Rita Jones is buried on Andrew Thomas’s lakefront property, how he killed her, and where the murder weapon can be found in his house. (I do believe a paring knife is missing from your kitchen.) I hope for your sake I don’t have to make that call. I’ve placed a property marker on the grave site. Just walk along the shoreline toward the southern boundary of your property and you’ll find it. I strongly advise against going to the police, as I am always watching you.

 

A smile edged across my lips. I even chuckled to myself. Because my novels treat crime and violence, my fans often have a demented sense of humor. I’ve received death threats, graphic artwork, even notes from people claiming to have murdered in the same fashion as the serial killers in my books. But I’ll save this, I thought. I couldn’t remember one so original.

I read it again, but a premonitory twinge struck me the second time, particularly because the author had some knowledge regarding the layout of my property. And a paring knife was, in fact, missing from my cutlery block. Carefully refolding the letter, I

slipped it into the pocket of my khakis and walked down the steps toward the lake.

 

As the sun cascaded through the hazy sky, beams of light drained like spilled paint across the western horizon. Looking at the lacquered lake suffused with deep orange, garnet, and magenta, I stood by the shore for several moments, watching two sunsets collide.

Against my better judgment, I followed the shoreline south and was soon tramping through a noisy bed of leaves. I’d gone an eighth of a mile when I stopped. At my feet, amid a coppice of pink flowering mountain laurel, I saw a miniature red flag attached to a strip of rusted metal thrust into the ground. The flag fluttered in a breeze that curled off the water. This has to be a joke, I thought, and if so, it’s a damn good one.

As I brushed away the dead leaves that surrounded the marker, my heart began to pound. The dirt beneath the flag was packed, not crumbly like undisturbed soil. I even saw half a footprint when I’d swept all the leaves away.

I ran back to the house and returned with a shovel. Because the soil had previously been unearthed, I dug easily through the first foot and a half, directly below where the marker had been placed. At two feet, the head of the shovel stabbed into something soft. My heart stopped. Throwing the shovel aside, I dropped to my hands and knees and clawed through the dirt. A rotten stench enveloped me, and as the hole deepened, the smell grew more pungent.

My fingers touched flesh. I drew my hand back in horror and scrambled away from the hole. Rising to my feet, I stared down at a coffee brown ankle, barely showing through the dirt. The odor of rot overwhelmed me, so I breathed only through my mouth as I took up the shovel again.

When the corpse was completely exposed, and I saw what a month of putrefaction could do to a human face, I vomited into the leaves. I kept thinking that I should have the stomach for this because I write about it. Researching the grisly handiwork of serial killers, I’d studied countless mutilated cadavers. But I had never smelled a human being decomposing in the ground, or seen how insects teem in the moist cavities.

I composed myself, held my hand over my mouth and nose, and peered again into the hole. The face was unrecognizable, but the body was undoubtedly that of a short black female, thick in the legs, plump through the torso. She wore a formerly white shirt, now marred with blood and dirt, the fabric rent over much of the chest, primarily in the vicinity of her heart. Jean shorts covered her legs down to the knees. I got back down on all fours, held my breath, and reached for one of her pockets. Her legs were mushy and turgid, and I had great difficulty forcing my hand into the tight jeans. Finding nothing in the first pocket, I stepped across the hole and tried the other. Sticking my hand inside it, I withdrew a slip of paper from a fortune cookie and fell back into the leaves, gasping for clean lungfuls of air. On one side, I saw the phone number; on the other: “you are the only flower of meditation in the wilderness.”

In five minutes, I’d reburied the body and the marker. I took a small chunk of granite from the shore and placed it on the thicketed grave site. Then I returned to the house. It was quarter to eight, and there was hardly any light left in the sky.

 

Two hours later, sitting on the sofa in my living room, I dialed the number on the slip of paper. Every door to the house was locked, most of the lights turned on, and in my lap, a cold satin stainless .357 revolver.

I had not called the police for a very good reason. The claim that it was my blood on the woman was probably a lie, but the paring knife had been missing from my kitchen for weeks. Also, with the Charlotte Police Department’s search for Rita Jones dominating local news headlines, her body on my property, murdered with my knife, possibly with my fingerprints on it, would be more than sufficient evidence to indict me. I’d researched enough murder trials to know that.

As the phone rang, I stared up at the vaulted ceiling of my living room, glanced at the black baby grand piano I’d never learned to play, the marble fireplace, the odd artwork that adorned the walls. A woman named Karen, whom I’d dated for nearly two years, had convinced me to buy half a dozen pieces of art from a recently deceased minimalist from New York, a man who signed his work “Loman.” I hadn’t initially taken to Loman, but Karen had promised me I’d eventually “get” him. Now, $27,000 and one fiancee lighter, I stared at the ten-by-twelve-foot abomination that hung above the mantel: shit brown on canvas, with a basketball-size yellow sphere in the upper right-hand corner. Aside from Brown No. 2, four similar marvels of artistic genius pockmarked other walls of my home, but these I could suffer. Mounted on the wall at the foot of the staircase, it was Playtime, the twelve-thousand-dollar glass-encased heap of stuffed animals, sewn together in an orgiastic conglomeration, which reddened my face even now. But I smiled, and the knot that had been absent since late winter shot a needle of pain through my gut. My Karen ulcer. You’re still there. Still hurting me. At least it’s you.

The second ring.

I peered up the staircase that ascended to the exposed second-floor hallway, and closing my eyes, I recalled the party I’d thrown just a week ago-guests laughing, talking politics and books, filling up my silence. I saw a man and a woman upstairs, elbows resting against the oak banister, overlooking the living room, the wet bar, and the kitchen. Holding their wineglasses, they waved down to me, smiling at their host.

The third ring.

My eyes fell on a photograph of my mother-a five-by-seven in a stained-glass frame, sitting atop the obsidian piano. She was the only family member with whom I maintained regular contact. Though I had relatives in the Pacific Northwest, Florida, and a handful in the Carolinas, I saw them rarely-at reunions, weddings, or funerals that my mother shamed me into attending with her. But with my father having passed away and a brother I hadn’t seen in thirteen years, family meant little to me. My friends sustained me, and contrary to popular belief, I didn’t have the true reclusive spirit imputed to me. I did need them.

In the photograph, my mother is squatting down at my father’s grave, pruning a tuft of carmine canna lilies in the shadow of the headstone. But you can only see her strong, kind face among the blossoms, intent on tidying up her husband’s plot of earth under that magnolia he’d taught me to climb, the blur of its waxy green leaves behind her.

The fourth ring.

“Did you see the body?”

It sounded as if the man were speaking through a towel. There was no emotion or hesitation in his staccato voice.

“Yes.”

“I gutted her with your paring knife and hid the knife in your house. It has your fingerprints all over it.” He cleared his throat. “Four months ago, you had blood work done by Dr. Xu. They misplaced a vial. You remember having to go back and give more?”

“Yes.”

“I stole that vial. Some is on Rita Jones’s white T-shirt. The rest is on the others.”

“What others?”

“I make a phone call, and you spend the rest of your life in prison, possibly death row....”

“I just want you-”

“Shut your mouth. You’ll receive a plane ticket in the mail. Take the flight. Pack clothes, toiletries, nothing else. You spent last summer in Aruba. Tell your friends you’re going again.”

“How did you know that?”

“I know many things, Andrew.”

“I have a book coming out,” I pleaded. “I’ve got readings scheduled. My agent-”

“Lie to her.”

“She won’t understand me just leaving like this.”

“Fuck Cynthia Mathis. You lie to her for your safety, because if I even suspect you’ve brought someone along or that someone knows, you’ll go to jail or you’ll die. One or the other, guaranteed. And I hope you aren’t stupid enough to trace this number. I promise you it’s stolen.”

“How do I know I won’t be hurt?”

“You don’t. But if I get off the phone with you and I’m not convinced you’ll be on that flight, I’ll call the police tonight. Or I may visit you while you’re sleeping. You’ve got to put that Smith and Wesson away sometime.”

I stood up and spun around, the gun clenched in my sweaty hands. The house was silent, though chimes on the deck were clanging in a zephyr. I looked through the large living room windows at the black lake, its wind-rippled surface reflecting the pier lights. The blue light at the end of Walter’s pier shone out across the water from a distant inlet. His “Gatsby light,” we called it. My eyes scanned the grass and the edge of the trees, but it was far too dark to see anything in the woods.

“I’m not in the house,” he said. “Sit down.”

I felt something well up inside of me-anger at the fear, rage at this injustice.

“Change of plan,” I said. “I’m going to hang up, dial nine one one, and take my chances. You can go-”

“If you aren’t motivated by self-preservation, there’s an old woman named Jeanette I could-”

“I’ll kill you.”

“Sixty-five, lives alone, I think she’d love the company. What do you think? Do I have to visit your mother to show you I’m serious? What is there to consider? Tell me you’ll be on that plane, Andrew. Tell me so I don’t have to visit your mother tonight.”

“I’ll be on that plane.”

The phone clicked, and he was gone.

 

 

LOCKED DOORS

Published July 2005 by Thomas Dunne Books

 

DESCRIPTION: Seven years ago, suspense novelist Andrew Thomas’s life was shattered when he was framed for a series of murders. The killer’s victims were unearthed on Andrew’s lakefront property, and since he was wanted by the FBI, Andrew had no choice but to flee and to create a new identity. Andrew does just that in a cabin tucked away in the remote wilderness near Haines Junction, Yukon. His only link to society is by e-mail, through which he learns that all the people he ever loved are being stalked and murdered. Culminating in the spooky and secluded Outer Banks of North Carolina, the paths of Andrew Thomas, a psychotic named Luther Kite, and a young female detective collide. Locked Doors is a novel of blistering suspense that will scare you to death.