In a Lonely Place by Karl Edward Wagner

Author:Karl Edward Wagner
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Valancourt Books
Published: 2022-10-19T00:00:00+00:00

iii

Afternoon shadows were long when Dell drove the other two men down to the house in his pickup. The farmhouse was a two-story board structure with stone foundation, quite old, but in neat repair. Its wide planks showed the up-and-down saw marks that indicated its construction predated the more modern circular sawmill blade. The front was partially faced with dark mountain stone, and the foundation wall extended to make a flagstone veranda, shaded and garlanded by bright-petaled clematis.

Another truck was parked beside Kenlaw’s Plymouth—a battered green 1947 Ford pickup that Brandon recognized as belonging to Dell’s father-in-law, Olin Reynolds. Its owner greeted them from the porch as they walked up. He was a thin, faded man whose bony frame was almost lost in old-fashioned overalls. His face was deeply lined, his hair almost as white as Brandon’s. Once he had made the best moonshine whiskey in the region, but his last stay in Atlanta had broken him. Now he lived alone on his old homestead bordering the Pisgah National Forest. He often turned up about dinner time, as did Brandon.

“Hello, Eric,” Olin called in his reedy voice. “You been over to get that ’chuck that’s been after my little girl’s cabbages yet?”

“Hi, Olin,” Brandon grinned. “Shot him yesterday morning from over across by that big white pine on the ridge.”

“That’s near a quarter-mile,” the old man figured.

Brandon didn’t say anything because Ginger Warner just then stepped out onto the porch. Dell’s younger sister was recently back from finishing her junior year at Western Carolina in nearby Cullowhee. She was tall and willowy, green-eyed and quick to smile. Her copper hair was cut in a boyish shag instead of the unlovely bouffant most country women still clung to. Right now she had smudges of flour on her freckled face.

“Hi, Eric,” she grinned, brushing her hands on her jeans. “Supper’ll be along soon as the biscuits go in. You sure been keeping to yourself lately.”

“Putting together some of my notes for the thesis,” he apologized, thinking he’d eaten dinner here just three nights ago.

“Liar. You’ve been out running ridges with Dan.”

“That’s relaxation after working late at night.”

Ginger gave him a skeptical look and returned to her biscuits.

With a ponderous grunt, Dr. Kenlaw sank onto one of the wide-armed porch rockers. He swung his feet up onto the rail and gazed thoughtfully out across the valley. Mist was obscuring the hills beyond, now, and the fields and pasture closer at hand filled with hazy shadow. Hidden by trees, the Pigeon River rushed its winding course midway through the small valley. Kenlaw did not seem at ease with what he saw. He glowered truculently at the potted flowers that lined the porch.

“What the hell!” Kenlaw suddenly lurched from his rocker. The other three men broke off their conversation and stared. Balancing on the rail, the archeologist yanked down a hanging planter and dumped its contents into the yard.

“Where the hell did this come from!” he demanded, examining the rusted metal dish that an instant before had supported a trailing begonia.

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