unlocked the door and poked his head in.
“Chuck, you at home? It’s Quentin, I’ve got your mail!”
No answer. Chuck had obviously gone out. It was what Quentin had expected. Chuck was probably out deer hunting and forgot to tell Mordecai to hold the mail, or he’d gone to San Francisco to visit his sister, which he did once a year.
Quentin walked around to the window. The fall deer season ended in a few weeks. Sure, he would have gone out and used up his tag fee. He knew Chuck. He lived on deer meat and chickens he raised, and in summer a large vegetable garden he planted. He had learned how to can things, too. He and Marie used to compare notes on their gardens.
A snowmobile started up across the meadow at the bed-and-breakfast, then another. Quentin walked around to the window. It was dark in the cabin. He pulled out his mag-lite and turned it on. He let the beam move over the rough wooden table. He smiled when he saw the new Apple computer. He moved the light across the living room and saw the Christmas tree.
Everything was in order. Neat. A set of canning jars was out on the kitchen counter, the jars lined up, neat; their lids stacked nearby. Quentin moved the beam of light to the hallway and stopped. There were several gun cases. He walked into the hallway and opened the gun lockers, looking for a .30-30. That was what Chuck would have taken with him, knowing that the deer this late in the season hid during the day in heavy brush.
Quentin moved the light from case to case. There were scores of military-style assault rifles—probably semi-autos, Quentin guessed—combat shotguns, and high-powered hunting rifles, all perfectly legal.
“No machine guns,” Quentin said out loud. That guy Cooley doesn’t know a machine gun from a horse’s ass. He saw an empty space in an older antique wooden gun case with a glass front. That was it. He’d gone hunting and had forgotten to tell Mordecai, their mailman. Still, that was a lot of mail. He would have gone out overnight, at most, not more than two days.
Quentin turned around and looked out at the new bed-and-breakfast across the field through the cabin’s open door. It was a stone building, two-story. No one he knew could afford to stay there. It cost four hundred dollars a night. Someone in town had told him it cost three million to build. He could see the steam coming out the windows of the indoor pool even this far away.
I better call up to the Ranger station and let them know just in case. If he doesn’t come back by tonight, we’ll start a formal search .
Quentin took the mail from his belt and laid it on the wooden table next to the canning jars. He kept one envelope and wrote a short note across the back.
Chuck—Please call me at the office.
Want to know you are OK.
Quentin.
Quentin took the package from where he’d stuck it in his jean jacket and laid it on the table. He glanced at the return address: Remington Firearms, Fort Wayne, IN.
* * *
It was snowing hard when Chuck Phelps gave up trying to fix the snowmobile. There was a gold-colored gas stain on the snow where the fuel pump had ruptured. Most men would have been scared. He was at least ten miles into the Emigrant Gap wilderness and it was snowing. He realized there was no fixing the pump and he would have to walk out. Compared to the Tet offensive in Hue, this would be a cakewalk, he told himself. No sweat.
His mustache and beard were covered in wet new snow. He took off his blaze-orange balaclava, rolled it out so that it could cover his face and slid it down. Better, he thought. He looked at his watch. It was 3:30 in the afternoon on Tuesday. He’d gone too far to make it back home on foot in one day. That meant he would have to keep moving all night or sleep here. He’d dig a snow cave, he decided, then start back home in the morning.
Stupid , he thought, getting angry enough to come out too far, not checking the weather report. My
“Chuck, you at home? It’s Quentin, I’ve got your mail!”
No answer. Chuck had obviously gone out. It was what Quentin had expected. Chuck was probably out deer hunting and forgot to tell Mordecai to hold the mail, or he’d gone to San Francisco to visit his sister, which he did once a year.
Quentin walked around to the window. The fall deer season ended in a few weeks. Sure, he would have gone out and used up his tag fee. He knew Chuck. He lived on deer meat and chickens he raised, and in summer a large vegetable garden he planted. He had learned how to can things, too. He and Marie used to compare notes on their gardens.
A snowmobile started up across the meadow at the bed-and-breakfast, then another. Quentin walked around to the window. It was dark in the cabin. He pulled out his mag-lite and turned it on. He let the beam move over the rough wooden table. He smiled when he saw the new Apple computer. He moved the light across the living room and saw the Christmas tree.
Everything was in order. Neat. A set of canning jars was out on the kitchen counter, the jars lined up, neat; their lids stacked nearby. Quentin moved the beam of light to the hallway and stopped. There were several gun cases. He walked into the hallway and opened the gun lockers, looking for a .30-30. That was what Chuck would have taken with him, knowing that the deer this late in the season hid during the day in heavy brush.
Quentin moved the light from case to case. There were scores of military-style assault rifles—probably semi-autos, Quentin guessed—combat shotguns, and high-powered hunting rifles, all perfectly legal.
“No machine guns,” Quentin said out loud. That guy Cooley doesn’t know a machine gun from a horse’s ass. He saw an empty space in an older antique wooden gun case with a glass front. That was it. He’d gone hunting and had forgotten to tell Mordecai, their mailman. Still, that was a lot of mail. He would have gone out overnight, at most, not more than two days.
Quentin turned around and looked out at the new bed-and-breakfast across the field through the cabin’s open door. It was a stone building, two-story. No one he knew could afford to stay there. It cost four hundred dollars a night. Someone in town had told him it cost three million to build. He could see the steam coming out the windows of the indoor pool even this far away.
I better call up to the Ranger station and let them know just in case. If he doesn’t come back by tonight, we’ll start a formal search .
Quentin took the mail from his belt and laid it on the wooden table next to the canning jars. He kept one envelope and wrote a short note across the back.
Chuck—Please call me at the office.
Want to know you are OK.
Quentin.
Quentin took the package from where he’d stuck it in his jean jacket and laid it on the table. He glanced at the return address: Remington Firearms, Fort Wayne, IN.
* * *
It was snowing hard when Chuck Phelps gave up trying to fix the snowmobile. There was a gold-colored gas stain on the snow where the fuel pump had ruptured. Most men would have been scared. He was at least ten miles into the Emigrant Gap wilderness and it was snowing. He realized there was no fixing the pump and he would have to walk out. Compared to the Tet offensive in Hue, this would be a cakewalk, he told himself. No sweat.
His mustache and beard were covered in wet new snow. He took off his blaze-orange balaclava, rolled it out so that it could cover his face and slid it down. Better, he thought. He looked at his watch. It was 3:30 in the afternoon on Tuesday. He’d gone too far to make it back home on foot in one day. That meant he would have to keep moving all night or sleep here. He’d dig a snow cave, he decided, then start back home in the morning.
Stupid , he thought, getting angry enough to come out too far, not checking the weather report. My
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