Read Online In the Barren Ground by Loreth Anne White - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Loreth Anne White
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it.
It’s why a man like Sturmann-Taylor had built his lodge here. Why he flew his international clients in here—his sheiks, and businessmen and their prostitutes, his political players, actors, financiers, dealers of darker arts. Out here they could indulge their fancies—a private gentleman’s hunt club, so to speak. And discuss business. Sturmann-Taylor showed Crash into the library. A row of French doors looked out over Tchliko Lake. Most of the wall space was lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves, many of which held antique leather-bound first editions. A fire crackled in the hearth. Persian rugs in rich, red tones covered the polished wood floor, and the heads of dead animals mounted on the remaining wall space watched with glass eyes.
The butler delivered the coffees. Sturmann-Taylor closed the door behind him.
“You’ve never told me his name,” Crash said.
“Yes, well, I like my staff to remain in the background. It’s an integral part of the lodge experience. Did you manage to secure it?”
Crash opened the lapel of his jacket and removed a packet. He set it on the antique table, picked up a small espresso cup and saucer. He took a sip. It was rich and bitter. Turkish and very good. He perused the bookshelves, sipping his coffee while Sturmann-Taylor opened his packet and crushed the buds of dried cannabis between thumb and forefinger. He inhaled the aroma.
“Ah,” he said. “Perfect.”
Crash said nothing. He angled his head, reading the titles of several hardbacks. Collectors’ items. All of it had been flown in. He imagined this place was insured to the hilt. Security was top of the line, and very discreet. He’d been checking it out bit by bit on each visit, building a picture.
Sturmann-Taylor opened a drawer, took out his cigarette rolling papers. He began to fashion himself a joint, grinding the buds between his fingers and picking out stalks. He’d said before that he found this old-school process meditative, preferable to using trendy vaporizers. Crash set his cup and saucer down beneath a photo of Sturmann-Taylor and his second wife. He removed a book titled The Minotaur .
“Careful with the spine, don’t pull the books out by the spine.”
Crash rolled his eyes in the privacy of his turned back. He flipped through the pages.
Sturmann-Taylor licked the end of the paper, sealed his joint. He flicked his lighter and lit his joint, inhaling deeply. He held his breath.
Keeping himself busy, Crash replaced The Minotaur and selected a book titled The Hunger from the shelves. He opened the cover. On the title page was an old-fashioned ink drawing depicting a creature that looked like a man crossed with a wolf. Cadaverous body with prominent ribs and hollowed-out stomach. Huge, blackened teeth that dripped blood. Gnarled talons for fingers held a decapitated woman’s head up by the long hair. Blood dripped from the ripped neck of the head. The head’s eyes were missing from the sockets and part of the cheek had been clawed off.
He turned the page, read the poem.
In the Barren ground of the soul
nothing can grow.
For here is bitter and cold where
the sun hangs low.
Where a midnight caribou mutilation
awakens a howl of emptiness with ice
where once there was heart.
And it comes with hunger
for blood in its mouth.
For, in the Barrens of the soul
monsters take toll . . .
Crash frowned, and flipped through the rest of the pages while Sturmann-Taylor exhaled slowly, then grinned like an old movie star who’d never lost his star quality or mojo. “Really is the good shit. I’ll need more. Lots more.”
Crash snorted. “Might have to play it low-key for a while. New cop in town. She’s already been on my ass for flying in liquor. Damien, the jerk, flogged it to a kid who nearly died.”
“A female cop?”
“On a lone crusade to clean up Twin Rivers, God knows why. Few enough pleasures out here as it is for some of these guys. She’s made herself some
It’s why a man like Sturmann-Taylor had built his lodge here. Why he flew his international clients in here—his sheiks, and businessmen and their prostitutes, his political players, actors, financiers, dealers of darker arts. Out here they could indulge their fancies—a private gentleman’s hunt club, so to speak. And discuss business. Sturmann-Taylor showed Crash into the library. A row of French doors looked out over Tchliko Lake. Most of the wall space was lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves, many of which held antique leather-bound first editions. A fire crackled in the hearth. Persian rugs in rich, red tones covered the polished wood floor, and the heads of dead animals mounted on the remaining wall space watched with glass eyes.
The butler delivered the coffees. Sturmann-Taylor closed the door behind him.
“You’ve never told me his name,” Crash said.
“Yes, well, I like my staff to remain in the background. It’s an integral part of the lodge experience. Did you manage to secure it?”
Crash opened the lapel of his jacket and removed a packet. He set it on the antique table, picked up a small espresso cup and saucer. He took a sip. It was rich and bitter. Turkish and very good. He perused the bookshelves, sipping his coffee while Sturmann-Taylor opened his packet and crushed the buds of dried cannabis between thumb and forefinger. He inhaled the aroma.
“Ah,” he said. “Perfect.”
Crash said nothing. He angled his head, reading the titles of several hardbacks. Collectors’ items. All of it had been flown in. He imagined this place was insured to the hilt. Security was top of the line, and very discreet. He’d been checking it out bit by bit on each visit, building a picture.
Sturmann-Taylor opened a drawer, took out his cigarette rolling papers. He began to fashion himself a joint, grinding the buds between his fingers and picking out stalks. He’d said before that he found this old-school process meditative, preferable to using trendy vaporizers. Crash set his cup and saucer down beneath a photo of Sturmann-Taylor and his second wife. He removed a book titled The Minotaur .
“Careful with the spine, don’t pull the books out by the spine.”
Crash rolled his eyes in the privacy of his turned back. He flipped through the pages.
Sturmann-Taylor licked the end of the paper, sealed his joint. He flicked his lighter and lit his joint, inhaling deeply. He held his breath.
Keeping himself busy, Crash replaced The Minotaur and selected a book titled The Hunger from the shelves. He opened the cover. On the title page was an old-fashioned ink drawing depicting a creature that looked like a man crossed with a wolf. Cadaverous body with prominent ribs and hollowed-out stomach. Huge, blackened teeth that dripped blood. Gnarled talons for fingers held a decapitated woman’s head up by the long hair. Blood dripped from the ripped neck of the head. The head’s eyes were missing from the sockets and part of the cheek had been clawed off.
He turned the page, read the poem.
In the Barren ground of the soul
nothing can grow.
For here is bitter and cold where
the sun hangs low.
Where a midnight caribou mutilation
awakens a howl of emptiness with ice
where once there was heart.
And it comes with hunger
for blood in its mouth.
For, in the Barrens of the soul
monsters take toll . . .
Crash frowned, and flipped through the rest of the pages while Sturmann-Taylor exhaled slowly, then grinned like an old movie star who’d never lost his star quality or mojo. “Really is the good shit. I’ll need more. Lots more.”
Crash snorted. “Might have to play it low-key for a while. New cop in town. She’s already been on my ass for flying in liquor. Damien, the jerk, flogged it to a kid who nearly died.”
“A female cop?”
“On a lone crusade to clean up Twin Rivers, God knows why. Few enough pleasures out here as it is for some of these guys. She’s made herself some
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