“Getting too old for farming.”
“You want me to read any particular part?”
“Chapter five.”
Gabriel stared at him curiously. “Why that one?”
“Don’t know other than the number five just popped into my head.”
“Mr. Sam, you think Miss Tippi might want us to read her some other books too?”
Quarry turned away from him to stare at his fallen daughter. “No, son, I think the one book’ll be just fine.”
“Then I’ll get to it.”
Gabriel walked past him and clicked on the overhead light. The sudden blast of illumination was painful to Quarry and he turned away.
I’ve definitely become a creature of the night, he thought.
He didn’t notice Gabriel staring at him until the little boy said, “Mr. Sam, you doing okay? Anything you want to talk about?”
Quarry focused on him as Gabriel sat there next to Tippi, the precious Austen novel cradled in his hands.
“Lots I want to talk about, Gabriel, but nothing you’d find
interesting.”
“Might surprise you.”
“Might,” Quarry agreed.
“That was real nice what you did. Leaving this place to Ma.”
“And to you , Gabriel. And to you.”
“Thank you.”
“You go on and read now. Chapter five.”
Gabriel turned to this task and Quarry listened for a while and then he walked downstairs, his boots clunking hard on the floorboards. He sat on the front porch for a bit admiring a night that had a crispness too rare down south.
A minute later he was driving his old truck. He bounced and heaved over uneven dirt roads. Finally he got there, pulled to a stop, and climbed out. His stride ate up the distance, but he halted before he got to the little house he’d built. He squatted on his haunches about ten yards from it.
Two hundred and twenty-five square feet of perfection, stuck out here in the middle of nowhere. His legs weary, he finally sat on his butt in the dirt and continued to stare at the house. He flicked a smoke out of his pack, slipped it between his lips, but did not light it. It just dangled there like a piece of straw. Somewhere along the treeline an owl hooted. In the sky he could see the wink of an airplane as it skated by. No one up there could see him here in Alabama. The plane would never land here, probably heading on to Florida or maybe Atlanta. Never stop here. Not much here worth stopping for, he knew. Still, he lifted his hand up and did a slow wave to the passengers even though he doubted any of them were looking out their windows.
He got up and strode over to the spot where Carlos would be. He looked back at the house, did a rough eye trajectory, probably for the thousandth time. It hadn’t changed, not once. Not a millimeter. The camera was up there, the live feed to Carlos. The remote that would trigger it all. The SAT phone to Quarry at the mine. The dynamite. Willa. Her real mother. Daryl. Kurt already lying dead in a shaft in the south end. His Patriot buried in ignominy.
Ruth Ann.
Gabriel.
And finally Tippi.
See, that was the hardest part of all. Tippi.
He left the knoll and walked with a purpose in the direction of the house. This time he kept going, though, and walked up to the porch. He didn’t unlock the door. He just sat on the planked porch, his back against a support post; his gaze dead on the door.
That was the hardest part.