BooksBarbecue
Back 3 a.m.
Chapters (67)
  1. :01
  2. :02
  3. :03
  4. :04
  5. :05
  6. :06
  7. :07
  8. :08
  9. :09
  10. :10
  11. :11
  12. :12
  13. :13
  14. :14
  15. :15
  16. :16
  17. :17
  18. :01
  19. :02
  20. :03
  21. :04
  22. :05
  23. :06
  24. :07
  25. :08
  26. :09
  27. :10
  28. :11
  29. :12
  30. :13
  31. :01
  32. :02
  33. :03
  34. :04
  35. :05
  36. :06
  37. :07
  38. :08
  39. :09
  40. :10
  41. :11
  42. :12
  43. :13
  44. :14
  45. :15
  46. :16
  47. :00
  48. :01
  49. :02
  50. :03
  51. :04
  52. :05
  53. :06
  54. :07
  55. :08
  56. :09
  57. :10
  58. :11
  59. :12
  60. :13
  61. :14
  62. :15
  63. :16
  64. :17
  65. :18
  66. :19
  67. 3:46 a.m.

They both flash their best Who? Us? faces.

“Yes, you. Murdock, you’re in charge. Don’t let Tweetledee get out.”

Meow.

“I lied,” I say, then open the door and quickly shut it.

::::

The walk up the long dirt drive to the house takes two minutes. A full moon overhead illuminates the house in a soft glow, which appears to be in great shape for its age, though I surmise it had a face lift and a tummy tuck at some point.

My father points out two shadows patrolling the tall weeds under a giant birch to our immediate right — the two goats getting a late-night snack.

They raise their heads as we approach the porch, but don’t appear overly concerned with our presence.

Guard goats, these are not.

After an unsuccessful couple seconds of searching for a doorbell, I reach up and grab the brass door knocker and bang it softy against the wood three times.

Nothing happens for thirty seconds, and my dad lifts the door knocker and bangs it five times loudly.

“Well, if that didn’t wake him, at least now all the neighbors in a five-mile radius are up,” I say.

He shrugs. “We didn’t come all this way for nothing.”

Fifteen seconds later, the creak of aging floorboards can be heard from behind the door, which is opened by a black woman in a purple robe.

“Good evenin’,” she says with a bright smile. “Sorry it took me so long to get to the door; my hearing isn’t so good anymore.”

She is maybe in her early sixties, and I wonder if she is Mr. Ewen’s wife, maid, or both.

She answers the question for me. “I’m Maggie, Mr. Ewen’s help.”

I thought help an outdated term, but this is Virginia and we are below the Mason Dixon line, where I know the rules are different.

“Mr. Ewen is expecting you. He’s in his study. I’ll show you the way.”

My dad and I follow in behind her.

We enter a narrow hallway. The lights are low and everything is a different shade of brown. I pull out my cell phone and look at the time.

3:06 a.m.

I flick on the voice recorder app I installed and hit record, then put it back in my pocket.

“May I make you some tea or pour you a drink?” Maggie asks over her shoulder.

“I’m fine,” I say.

“Do you have any scotch?” my dad asks.

I turn and glare at him.

He puts his hands up as if to say, “What?”

“Sure do. Good stuff too,” Maggie replies, then stops at a closed door.