The Bones of Wolfe by James Carlos Blake

Author:James Carlos Blake [No, The Bones of Wolfe A Border]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780802156884
Published: 2020-07-29T21:25:09+00:00

The big living room has been done in Old West decor. Lots of dark wood and leather, Indian blankets and rugs, some Remington sculptures and paintings that could pass for originals and maybe are. Moss leads us to a wide stairway and up to the second floor, then down a long hallway and around a corner into a shorter one, before he stops in front of a closed door and nods at it. The editing room. Not a sound seeps from within.

Frank draws Moss away from the door and pushes him toward Rayo. She grips him by the collar the same way Frank did and backs up to the wall, holding Moss in front of her and the Glock barrel alongside his head. He looks like he’s just been told he has cancer. Because the door opens inward and to our left, we stand on that side of it, me up against the jamb, Frank a little farther back and aiming his pistol at the door. I gingerly try the knob. It turns with ease and I slowly push the door forward, gradually revealing a large room, softly lighted, the walls lined with shelves holding a variety of photographic and sound equipment. The door’s half open before we can see the blond man sitting at a table on the other side of the room with his back to us. Wearing headphones and dressed all in denim, sleeves rolled to the elbows, he’s intent on a movie on the wall screen before him in which three naked young persons, a guy and two women, are cavorting on a bed. On the table is a bulky electronic instrument of some kind with a broad panel of levers and slides and connected to a computer equipped with an extra-large keyboard. At one end of the table are a big plastic ice chest and a large, lid-covered food tray, a short stack of paper plates and one of paper napkins. He’s engrossed in the scene and working with the panel controls, bringing the action into close-up and then drawing back again into a wide shot of the trio in their writhing. The players are linked to each other in a configuration commonly called a daisy chain. He works a slide that softens the lighting of the scene just a touch.

Frank juts his chin forward and I advance into the room until I’m ten feet from Lance, who remains absorbed in his work. Frank comes up beside me, digs a quarter out of his pocket and lobs it toward the table in a high arc. It thunks next to Lance’s hand and bounces high, and he recoils sharply—snatching off the headphones with one hand and flicking a switch with the other in what seems an instinctive move that freezes the screen action—and swivels halfway around to gape at us with our pistols pointed at him. He’s bewildered, but I wouldn’t call him terrified. Got a measure of cool. Judging by his incipient crow’s-feet and the few tinges of gray in his hair, I’d say he’s early fifties.

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