stand and slowed down, peering at the woods to her left. After a few hundred yards a narrow road appeared. Lee Ann turned on to it.
“This should be Pond Road,” she said. “Did you catch a sign?”
“No.”
Lee Ann kept going. The road was paved at first, soon full of potholes, and finally gravel. They went up a slope, then down a long curve, the trees—mostly pine and sycamore—growing denser, some pockmarked with bullet holes.
“Watch for a track on the right,” Lee Ann said.
“That might have been one,” said Nell.
“We’re getting to be like a comedy team,” said Lee Ann, backing up. Branches scraped the bodywork. The car bumped up onto the track, two reddish ruts with a strip of stunted brown grass in the middle. A few squashed beer cans passed under them, and then one that still hadn’t been run over. “I think we’re close,” she said.
The track entered a hollow with a small pond in the middle, and came to an end at the edge of the water. Lee Ann looked around. “See anything?”
“What kind of anything?”
“A cabin, maybe. Some sign of people. I can’t stand nature.”
Nell saw trees, a pocket of yellow wildflowers, a sudden rippling in the pond.
“I’m thinking gators,” said Lee Ann. “I’m thinking snakes.”
“Come on,” Nell said. She got out of the car and immediately smelled smoke. “We’ll just follow the smell.”
“What smell?” said Lee Ann.
Nell started walking around the pond, the earth moist and giving under her feet. More of those yellow flowers grew by the bank; a bullfrog croaked, but she couldn’t spot it. The smoky smell seemed stronger. Not far ahead something glinted at the base of a tree. Nell walked over, picked it up: an empty pint of Knob Creek, an expensive bourbon she’d seen in the liquor cabinet on Little Parrot Cay, a surprising find in a place like this. Then she remembered that Nappy Ferris was—or had been until Bernardine—a liquor store owner. She looked down and saw a sneaker footprint, pointing into the woods.
D E LU S I O N
51
“Over here,” she said.
Lee Ann took a few steps, then stopped and said, “Christ almighty.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Goddamn mud took my shoe.”
She bent forward, her bare foot sticking up in the air; for a moment she could have been some girlish character in a screwball comedy.
Nell was starting to like her. Lee Ann rinsed her shoe in the pond and came over, a mud streak on her face.
“This way,” Nell said.
“What way?”
Nell pushed a branch aside, revealing a faint path heading away from the pond.
“Natty Bumppo,” said Lee Ann.
They took the path, Nell in the lead. The smoky smell was now stronger still and she found herself speeding up. Behind her, Lee Ann’s breathing grew labored.
“You’re in shape,” Lee Ann said. “How come?”
“Because of—” Nell began, cutting herself off when a clearing came in sight, not far ahead. A small cabin stood at the back of the clearing, smoke drifting from a stovepipe that slanted at a forty-five degree angle through the roof. A rusted-out car with running boards and tiny windows lay partly sunken in the ground, vines curling up through the grille.
“This must be it,” said Lee Ann.
“Why are you whispering?”
“I’m not sure,” Lee Ann whispered, and then repeated it at normal volume. “I’m not sure.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“I’m not sure.”
They were both laughing as they crossed the clearing. The cabin was weather-beaten and crooked, the two front windows grimy and cracked. A sticker on the door read: NO SOLICITORS, NO PEDDLERS, NO
TRESPASSING. Lee Ann stepped up and knocked.
No response from inside. Lee Ann knocked again, harder this time.
“Mr. Ferris? You there? It’s Lee Ann Bonner, from the Guardian. ” She was about to knock again when a voice spoke behind them.
52
PETER ABRAHAMS
“What you want?”
Nell and Lee Ann whirled around. A man stood about fifteen feet away, somehow having
“This should be Pond Road,” she said. “Did you catch a sign?”
“No.”
Lee Ann kept going. The road was paved at first, soon full of potholes, and finally gravel. They went up a slope, then down a long curve, the trees—mostly pine and sycamore—growing denser, some pockmarked with bullet holes.
“Watch for a track on the right,” Lee Ann said.
“That might have been one,” said Nell.
“We’re getting to be like a comedy team,” said Lee Ann, backing up. Branches scraped the bodywork. The car bumped up onto the track, two reddish ruts with a strip of stunted brown grass in the middle. A few squashed beer cans passed under them, and then one that still hadn’t been run over. “I think we’re close,” she said.
The track entered a hollow with a small pond in the middle, and came to an end at the edge of the water. Lee Ann looked around. “See anything?”
“What kind of anything?”
“A cabin, maybe. Some sign of people. I can’t stand nature.”
Nell saw trees, a pocket of yellow wildflowers, a sudden rippling in the pond.
“I’m thinking gators,” said Lee Ann. “I’m thinking snakes.”
“Come on,” Nell said. She got out of the car and immediately smelled smoke. “We’ll just follow the smell.”
“What smell?” said Lee Ann.
Nell started walking around the pond, the earth moist and giving under her feet. More of those yellow flowers grew by the bank; a bullfrog croaked, but she couldn’t spot it. The smoky smell seemed stronger. Not far ahead something glinted at the base of a tree. Nell walked over, picked it up: an empty pint of Knob Creek, an expensive bourbon she’d seen in the liquor cabinet on Little Parrot Cay, a surprising find in a place like this. Then she remembered that Nappy Ferris was—or had been until Bernardine—a liquor store owner. She looked down and saw a sneaker footprint, pointing into the woods.
D E LU S I O N
51
“Over here,” she said.
Lee Ann took a few steps, then stopped and said, “Christ almighty.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Goddamn mud took my shoe.”
She bent forward, her bare foot sticking up in the air; for a moment she could have been some girlish character in a screwball comedy.
Nell was starting to like her. Lee Ann rinsed her shoe in the pond and came over, a mud streak on her face.
“This way,” Nell said.
“What way?”
Nell pushed a branch aside, revealing a faint path heading away from the pond.
“Natty Bumppo,” said Lee Ann.
They took the path, Nell in the lead. The smoky smell was now stronger still and she found herself speeding up. Behind her, Lee Ann’s breathing grew labored.
“You’re in shape,” Lee Ann said. “How come?”
“Because of—” Nell began, cutting herself off when a clearing came in sight, not far ahead. A small cabin stood at the back of the clearing, smoke drifting from a stovepipe that slanted at a forty-five degree angle through the roof. A rusted-out car with running boards and tiny windows lay partly sunken in the ground, vines curling up through the grille.
“This must be it,” said Lee Ann.
“Why are you whispering?”
“I’m not sure,” Lee Ann whispered, and then repeated it at normal volume. “I’m not sure.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“I’m not sure.”
They were both laughing as they crossed the clearing. The cabin was weather-beaten and crooked, the two front windows grimy and cracked. A sticker on the door read: NO SOLICITORS, NO PEDDLERS, NO
TRESPASSING. Lee Ann stepped up and knocked.
No response from inside. Lee Ann knocked again, harder this time.
“Mr. Ferris? You there? It’s Lee Ann Bonner, from the Guardian. ” She was about to knock again when a voice spoke behind them.
52
PETER ABRAHAMS
“What you want?”
Nell and Lee Ann whirled around. A man stood about fifteen feet away, somehow having
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