“The old-timer in there says he's known Bucky Martin for years. 'Nice fella. Pretty much keeps to himself.' Go up this road a half a mile and turn left. The farm is about five miles from there.”

The road became narrow and bumpy, the tarmac almost an afterthought. The farms alternated with thick patches of woods, and they almost missed the turnoff. The only marker was an aluminum mailbox with no name or number on it. A dirt driveway, past the mailbox into the woods. They turned onto the driveway, and passed through a copse of trees that shielded the house from the highway. Eventually the trees gave way to pastures where small herds of cows grazed. Finally, at least a half a mile from the road, they came upon the farmhouse.

The big two-story building was built in an era when three generations lived together to work a farm. The decorative windows and stained glass indicated that the owner had been successful enough to afford extra touches. A porch ran across the front. Behind the house was a red barn and silo. Next to the barn was a corral with two horses in it. A fairly new pickup truck was parked in the yard.

Austin swung into the circular driveway and parked in front of the house. No one came out to greet them. There was no curious face in the windows.

“Maybe you should let me go first,” Austin suggested. “It might help if I do a little prep work before you meet face-to face.”

“That's fine,” Buzz said. “I'm losing courage fast.”

Austin squeezed Martin's arm. “You'll be fine.” He didn't know what he would have done in the man's place. He doubted he would have been as calm. “I'll check him out and break it to him gradually.”

“I appreciate that,” Martin said.

Austin left the car, went up to the front door, and knocked several times. No one answered. Nor was there a response when he twisted the knob of the old doorbell. He turned around and threw his hands apart so Martin could see. He descended the porch and walked behind the house to the barn. The only sound was the soft clucking of chickens and the occasional grunt from a rooting pig.

The barn door was open. He walked inside, thinking that barns smelled the same the world over, an unmistakable combination of manure, hay, and big animals. A horse snorted as he walked by its stall, maybe thinking he was bringing it sugar, but there was no sign of Martin. He called out a hello and when there was no response walked out the back door. The chickens and hogs came over to their fences, thinking he had food for them. A lone hawk wheeled in the sky. Austin turned and stepped back into the barn.

“Can I help you?”

The figure of a man was framed in silhouette.

“Mr. Martin?” Austin asked.

“That's me. who're you?” the said. “Speak loud, son. My hearing isn't what it used to be.”