the end of the yard.
Grady was six years older than he’d been when his dad died. His mother could talk more frankly about love and loss, about grief and faith, about the sharpness of her pain, than she had talked back in the day.
Although she had withheld from him the depth of her anguish and her fear about their future—for a while, they had been in danger of losing the house—she never deceived him. She had always told him as much as she thought he was old enough to handle.
The night of the day that Sneakers died, Grady realized that all ofhis mother’s sterling qualities arose from the same basic virtue. She loved Truth, and she did not lie.
Until she drew her last breath—far too young—she never told him a falsehood. Because of her, Grady valued nothing higher than veracity.
In this age, lies were the universal lubricant of the culture. A love of Truth and a commitment to it were seldom rewarded and were often punished.
So you came home to the mountains, and you built tables and chairs and consoles in one Craftsman style or another. The simple materials and the clean lines of such furniture revealed where a woodworker dared to take a shortcut or to employ a substandard technique. Honest craftsmanship and a commitment to quality were evident in a finished piece, and no one could spin the truth of your work into a lie.
As Grady sat at the table, watching the night, as Merlin sat sentry at the French door, the south end of the moonlit yard suddenly became slightly brighter than it had been. The source of the light lay out of sight.
Grady rose, stepped around the table, and put his face to the window. He expected to see lights in the workshop, which earlier he locked tight. Instead, the glow came from the garage, to which the workshop was attached.
Nevertheless, he knew this intruder must be the same that had toured the workshop and later had taken the baked chicken breasts.
Fourteen
U pon finding the bloody handprint on the wall near the head of the cellar stairs, Henry Rouvroy considered firing the shotgun down into the darkness. Restraint was not a quality of character natural to him, yet he managed to resist the urge to squeeze the trigger.
When he flicked the switch and light bloomed, he found no one waiting at the bottom of the stairs. He let out his pent-up breath.
Listening to the room below, he became convinced that someone down there likewise listened to him.
He almost whispered a name. But he kept his silence for fear of receiving an answer in a familiar voice.
Anyone in the cellar could leave by the outer door, which opened onto exterior stairs that led up to the lawn. Henry couldn’t imprison the intruder, but he could prevent him from returning to the ground floor by this route.
After switching off the cellar light, he closed the door and slid the bolt into the latch plate. He doubted it would hold against a determinedassault. He fetched a chair from the nearby dinette, tipped it on its back legs, and wedged the headrail under the doorknob.
He continued his sweep of the house, making sure no one was concealed anywhere, checking that windows were securely latched. He felt exposed at every pane of glass while he closed the draperies.
In the bedroom, on the bed, he had left the pistol with which he had killed Jim and Nora. During his absence, someone had taken it. The shoulder holster and the spare magazine were also gone.
A small smear of blood brightened the beige chenille bedspread.
Two spaces remained to be searched: the closet and the bathroom. Both doors were in the same wall, and they were closed.
Taking a wide stance to brace himself against the recoil, Henry leveled the pistol-grip shotgun at the closet, fired, fired again. In this closed space, the sound slammed off the walls with a blowback that he could almost feel. He fired two rounds at the bathroom.
The buckshot punched holes through both of the cheap hollow-core doors, with enough velocity remaining to tear up whoever
Grady was six years older than he’d been when his dad died. His mother could talk more frankly about love and loss, about grief and faith, about the sharpness of her pain, than she had talked back in the day.
Although she had withheld from him the depth of her anguish and her fear about their future—for a while, they had been in danger of losing the house—she never deceived him. She had always told him as much as she thought he was old enough to handle.
The night of the day that Sneakers died, Grady realized that all ofhis mother’s sterling qualities arose from the same basic virtue. She loved Truth, and she did not lie.
Until she drew her last breath—far too young—she never told him a falsehood. Because of her, Grady valued nothing higher than veracity.
In this age, lies were the universal lubricant of the culture. A love of Truth and a commitment to it were seldom rewarded and were often punished.
So you came home to the mountains, and you built tables and chairs and consoles in one Craftsman style or another. The simple materials and the clean lines of such furniture revealed where a woodworker dared to take a shortcut or to employ a substandard technique. Honest craftsmanship and a commitment to quality were evident in a finished piece, and no one could spin the truth of your work into a lie.
As Grady sat at the table, watching the night, as Merlin sat sentry at the French door, the south end of the moonlit yard suddenly became slightly brighter than it had been. The source of the light lay out of sight.
Grady rose, stepped around the table, and put his face to the window. He expected to see lights in the workshop, which earlier he locked tight. Instead, the glow came from the garage, to which the workshop was attached.
Nevertheless, he knew this intruder must be the same that had toured the workshop and later had taken the baked chicken breasts.
Fourteen
U pon finding the bloody handprint on the wall near the head of the cellar stairs, Henry Rouvroy considered firing the shotgun down into the darkness. Restraint was not a quality of character natural to him, yet he managed to resist the urge to squeeze the trigger.
When he flicked the switch and light bloomed, he found no one waiting at the bottom of the stairs. He let out his pent-up breath.
Listening to the room below, he became convinced that someone down there likewise listened to him.
He almost whispered a name. But he kept his silence for fear of receiving an answer in a familiar voice.
Anyone in the cellar could leave by the outer door, which opened onto exterior stairs that led up to the lawn. Henry couldn’t imprison the intruder, but he could prevent him from returning to the ground floor by this route.
After switching off the cellar light, he closed the door and slid the bolt into the latch plate. He doubted it would hold against a determinedassault. He fetched a chair from the nearby dinette, tipped it on its back legs, and wedged the headrail under the doorknob.
He continued his sweep of the house, making sure no one was concealed anywhere, checking that windows were securely latched. He felt exposed at every pane of glass while he closed the draperies.
In the bedroom, on the bed, he had left the pistol with which he had killed Jim and Nora. During his absence, someone had taken it. The shoulder holster and the spare magazine were also gone.
A small smear of blood brightened the beige chenille bedspread.
Two spaces remained to be searched: the closet and the bathroom. Both doors were in the same wall, and they were closed.
Taking a wide stance to brace himself against the recoil, Henry leveled the pistol-grip shotgun at the closet, fired, fired again. In this closed space, the sound slammed off the walls with a blowback that he could almost feel. He fired two rounds at the bathroom.
The buckshot punched holes through both of the cheap hollow-core doors, with enough velocity remaining to tear up whoever
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