remote.”
“That also appealed. Listen, Mr. Rhodes, is it?”
“Yes.”
“It’s nice to meet you. But I’m runnin’ outta time to catch my dinner. So unless there’s somethin’ special I can help you with?”
“Nothing in particular. Just trying to get a feel for the place. I’ll let you get back to it. But do you mind if I take your photo? Write down your name?”
The man freezes, tensed, but then answers, “That would be fine. That’s Taylor spelled as you’d expect, Lindhurst too, unless you’re a very creative speller. I imagine you want to take my picture while I’m in the water?”
“Yes.” Will smiles. “That would be great.”
So Will snaps a photo of the guy standing in the trout stream somewhere along the French-Spanish border, casting a long perfect arc into the soft late-afternoon light. It’s a pretty good shot, a gold star on a fine day.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Lindhurst. Thanks for your time.”
This is Will’s life—in countries not his own, with people he doesn’t know.
—
When Will is out of sight, Taylor Lindhurst casts again, but he has lost his concentration, and is no longer really fishing. What he is doing is killing time until the interloper is decidedly gone.
Then Taylor wades to shore. He glances after the journalist, doesn’t see any sign of the guy. He packs his tackle quickly, growing more rushed with every item. He hustles down the path, stubbing his toe on a moss-covered rock. Comes up limping but continues to hurry, practically running when he hits the turnoff to the landscaped portion of his property.
He owns the entire side of this hill, a few hundred savage acres and a pristine stream, a sturdy old house surrounded by a wildflower field, a swimming pool to one side, and a very long driveway, the keys sitting in the ignition of a beat-up Renault truck. He wants to live well, but he doesn’t want to look that way when he’s in town, buying groceries.
Taylor stuffs items into his overnight bag, wondering if he should take the truck or hike into the mountains, over the border, disappearing into the wilds of northwestern Spain.
He never expected it to happen like this. If indeed this is really happening; he’s not sure. It’s possible that this guy is exactly what he claims, a harmless travel writer.
Taylor climbs into the faded yellow truck he bought from the same grizzled old farmer who sold the house to him. Taylor turns the ignition, a sputter, a cough, a stall.
Damn.
He primes the engine, turns the key again. Another sputter, another cough…
This time it turns over, thank God. He hopes he can reach the main road before the young American can return to his car, which probably sits a kilometer downstream.
The truck bumps down the narrow dirt drive, hemmed in on either side by tight dense shrubs and towering vine-choked trees, a spine-rattling thud through a deep pothole, the glove box popping open, ejecting insurance papers and his driver’s license and a tattered Faulkner paperback he keeps in there for unanticipated reading opportunities.
He ignores the new mess, and twists his torso to retrieve his mobile from his pants pocket, but bangs his knee. Even in the privacy of his own truck, he refuses to cry out.
Taylor scrolls through his contacts, one distracted eye on the treacherous road, doing a poor job of both tasks, and the front right side of the vehicle suddenly falls away, a loud thud and a violent jarring that he feels in his entire body, with an emphasis on the rib cage and the top of his head, which hits the ceiling.
The truck is no longer moving.
“Damn.” He pushes open the door, a creak and a hitch halfway through, a loud screech at the end, the panels hanging even less plumb now. But the upside is that with the truck stopped, Taylor can pay full attention to his phone. He finds the contact, hits Call.
Call failed.
“Oh you’ve got to be joking.”
The single bar of reception blinks, disappears, reappears, disappears
“That also appealed. Listen, Mr. Rhodes, is it?”
“Yes.”
“It’s nice to meet you. But I’m runnin’ outta time to catch my dinner. So unless there’s somethin’ special I can help you with?”
“Nothing in particular. Just trying to get a feel for the place. I’ll let you get back to it. But do you mind if I take your photo? Write down your name?”
The man freezes, tensed, but then answers, “That would be fine. That’s Taylor spelled as you’d expect, Lindhurst too, unless you’re a very creative speller. I imagine you want to take my picture while I’m in the water?”
“Yes.” Will smiles. “That would be great.”
So Will snaps a photo of the guy standing in the trout stream somewhere along the French-Spanish border, casting a long perfect arc into the soft late-afternoon light. It’s a pretty good shot, a gold star on a fine day.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Lindhurst. Thanks for your time.”
This is Will’s life—in countries not his own, with people he doesn’t know.
—
When Will is out of sight, Taylor Lindhurst casts again, but he has lost his concentration, and is no longer really fishing. What he is doing is killing time until the interloper is decidedly gone.
Then Taylor wades to shore. He glances after the journalist, doesn’t see any sign of the guy. He packs his tackle quickly, growing more rushed with every item. He hustles down the path, stubbing his toe on a moss-covered rock. Comes up limping but continues to hurry, practically running when he hits the turnoff to the landscaped portion of his property.
He owns the entire side of this hill, a few hundred savage acres and a pristine stream, a sturdy old house surrounded by a wildflower field, a swimming pool to one side, and a very long driveway, the keys sitting in the ignition of a beat-up Renault truck. He wants to live well, but he doesn’t want to look that way when he’s in town, buying groceries.
Taylor stuffs items into his overnight bag, wondering if he should take the truck or hike into the mountains, over the border, disappearing into the wilds of northwestern Spain.
He never expected it to happen like this. If indeed this is really happening; he’s not sure. It’s possible that this guy is exactly what he claims, a harmless travel writer.
Taylor climbs into the faded yellow truck he bought from the same grizzled old farmer who sold the house to him. Taylor turns the ignition, a sputter, a cough, a stall.
Damn.
He primes the engine, turns the key again. Another sputter, another cough…
This time it turns over, thank God. He hopes he can reach the main road before the young American can return to his car, which probably sits a kilometer downstream.
The truck bumps down the narrow dirt drive, hemmed in on either side by tight dense shrubs and towering vine-choked trees, a spine-rattling thud through a deep pothole, the glove box popping open, ejecting insurance papers and his driver’s license and a tattered Faulkner paperback he keeps in there for unanticipated reading opportunities.
He ignores the new mess, and twists his torso to retrieve his mobile from his pants pocket, but bangs his knee. Even in the privacy of his own truck, he refuses to cry out.
Taylor scrolls through his contacts, one distracted eye on the treacherous road, doing a poor job of both tasks, and the front right side of the vehicle suddenly falls away, a loud thud and a violent jarring that he feels in his entire body, with an emphasis on the rib cage and the top of his head, which hits the ceiling.
The truck is no longer moving.
“Damn.” He pushes open the door, a creak and a hitch halfway through, a loud screech at the end, the panels hanging even less plumb now. But the upside is that with the truck stopped, Taylor can pay full attention to his phone. He finds the contact, hits Call.
Call failed.
“Oh you’ve got to be joking.”
The single bar of reception blinks, disappears, reappears, disappears
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