She said, “You are one sick piece of shit.”
“So it might seem to anyone as unenlightened as you. I’ll leave the Tac Light, so you can inspect your quarters and be certain there isn’t the smallest hope of escape. You’ll want to go down among the dead to assure yourself that there’s no exit from the basement. I’m sorry you have no waders to make that part of the tour less messy.”
He put the Tac Light on the floor, with the beam pointed toward the front of the church.
She was afraid but ready. For years she had been waiting. Now her purpose was at hand.
She turned in the pew to watch him depart through the fiery light of the forthcoming sunset.
He called back to her. “When you’re ready to admit that hope is for fools, that you’re nothing more than another animal born to die, all you need to do is scream. Eventually, I’ll hear you.” He closed the door.
In the unholy silence, she heard the soft scrape of the key in the keyway. The heavy-duty deadbolt seated in the striker plate with a hard, cold clack.
15
Because the summer had brought rain, the gently upsloping meadows were green rather than golden, each rolling into the next. The graceful swells and swales of the voluptuous landscape were almost erotic, pleasing to both the mind and heart, even as the lonely vastness inspired in Wyatt Rider moments of uneasiness, a transient sense of dangerous isolation.
Mile after mile, he saw little evidence to fix this place in the second decade of the twenty-first century. If his Range Rover had been a time machine, he might well have thought he must be traveling in the 1950s, even earlier.
Along the county road and then on private land, an occasional, ugly cell-phone tower broke the peaceful spell of time immemorial. Each had been paid for by Liam O’Hara. His deep pockets allowed him to have the finest service even when getting away from it all at a remote retreat, an indulgence that benefited the widely scattered residents of this part of the county.
The two-lane private road that served Rustling Willows had once been gravel, but Liam had paid to have it paved. A mile and a half from the public highway, fenced meadows began to appear on both sides of the lane, containing none of the horses that had once run and grazed in those confines.
Between the sloping meadows and the foothills lay a broad plateau. To the left were picturesque stables, white clapboard with red-tile roofs, and a caretaker’s cottage, all vacant. To the right, past a windbreak of willows, lay Lake Sapphire, less blue than gold as the westering sun angled its light across the rippled surface.
The handsome low-slung single-story house, set back from and above the lake, was of native stone, with a dark slate roof, large windows to capture the views, and a deep veranda. On the uplands beyond the residence, evergreen forests rose dark and primeval, though the five acres or so immediately surrounding the house were reserved for broad lawns and numerous willows in groups.
A Ford F-150 pickup stood in front of an array of four garage doors. He slotted the Range Rover beside it.
As Wyatt climbed the three stone steps to the teak-floored veranda, a lanky man in boots, jeans, and a denim shirt rose from one of the bentwood rocking chairs. His face had been weathered by sun and wind into the image of stalwart moral character suitable to be the lead of any Western novel by Louis L’Amour.
“Mr. Rider, is it?” he asked.
As they shook hands, Wyatt said, “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Potter. Liam O’Hara says whatever I might need, you’ll provide it.”
“If you ask for a genie in a lamp, sir, I suspect I can maybe get at least the lamp.”
Vance Potter, the manager of Rustling Willows and the adjacent properties that Liam had acquired, did not reside here, but lived with his wife in the town of Buckleton, which lay about nine miles to the south. He used contracted services and local labor to ensure that everything was maintained in perfect order.
“Fact is,” Wyatt said, fishing a business card from his wallet and giving it to Potter, “all I want is privacy and quiet for a few days. Even if you had a genie in a lamp, I’d pass on the three wishes. I know how that always turns out.”
“Nothin’ gotten just by wishin’ for it is worth havin,’” Potter agreed. “So the idea is you come here to the Great Empty to relax?”
The way he phrased the question and a sly glint in his gray eyes suggested that he might be in the habit of regarding official stories as just that—stories.
Wyatt could foresee nothing he might need from Potter other than the keys and an orientation tour of the house, but it was wise to be on the best of terms with the man, which meant being honest with him from the start. “Actually, I’m a private detective.”