Chapters (46)
- COVER PAGE
- PRAISE
- DEDICATION
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- SNEAK PEEK: EXIT .45
The kitchen door was open to the rear of the property, and Vincent could hear water now—a faint lapping, a fountain-like tinkle. He stepped outside ahead of Erin into another dirt yard fenced by chicken wire. A pine tree overhung one corner, and in its shade was a child’s wading pool: a foot-high metal frame lined with blue plastic and half-filled with water. In its centre, a man in his forties sat cross-legged and naked, eyes shut and dousing himself with handfuls of water, ladled up loosely with smiling dreaminess. Six feet away, another man—sixtyish, also naked—sat in a deckchair reading a faded copy of an old Steinbeck—Cannery Row. As Vincent stepped outside, he dropped the open book to his lap for modesty and said, ‘What are you—’
Then he saw Erin, and caught himself. He swallowed, and said nothing.
The man in the pool was still ladling water, but his eyes were open now, and the smile was gone.
Vincent offered his hand to the man in the chair. ‘Wayne Forsyth? I’m Vincent. This is Erin Jones. Maybe we can have a talk.’
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SIX
The guy in the pool looked to be Hispanic, and Vincent figured this was Leo the gardener. Wayne Forsyth said, ‘How’d you find us?’
Vincent said, ‘Leo’s wife made a good guess.’
Forsyth glanced toward the road. ‘Who else is coming?’
Vincent said, ‘We haven’t told anyone, if that’s what you mean. But that’s not to say no one else knows you’re here. Hiding at a parent’s house isn’t exactly an expert move.’
Forsyth smiled thinly. ‘This is temporary. We’re leaving tomorrow.’
Leo said, ‘I thought we were going to see how things go, and make a—’
‘No, we’ve discussed this. It’s tomorrow.’
Leo flicked water at him. ‘Yeah, well, the story keeps changing, doesn’t it?’
Forsyth ignored him, pointed to the house. ‘If you don’t mind … first door on the right is a linen cupboard. Should be some towels.’
Vincent went and looked as directed, came back with a towel each for Forsyth and Leo. They got themselves appropriately covered, and Forsyth said to Erin, ‘You must be Eugene’s daughter.’
‘That’s right.’
Forsyth looked down at the Steinbeck now lying on his chair, as if trying to recall some piece of written wisdom or comfort. In the end he just went with, ‘I didn’t want any of this to happen.’
Erin said, ‘I’ve been hearing that a lot lately.’
Forsyth held up a hand. ‘It’s not what you think.’
‘I’ve heard that one, too.’
He looked away from her, bit his lip, as if the nuance of the situation was beyond his power of description. When he spoke again his voice was lighter, placating: ‘Why don’t we bring out some more chairs. I’ll tell you everything, I promise. I can explain everything.’