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As William Mckelvey lay twisted in his bed, grizzled barrel chest barely moving, each drawn-in breath rattled like a truckful of gravel being poured through a giant tin culvert. There followed a brief moment during which the echo grew as hollow as a horror-movie tomb, then the gushing exhalation began: a long moist flushing out of spongy lungs clogged by decades of tobacco and woodsmoke.
Asleep, as awake, William McKelvey made a large ungainly lump. But in his dream McKelvey was all air and fire, a sheet-wrapped ghost drifting through West Gull, a small farming centre and tourist town that for almost two centuries had been dinging to the shore of Long Gull Lake, an elongated granite-shored dip on the southern edge of the Precambrian Shield. The sky was black and moonless, the street lamps off. But in the residential area where William McKelvey slept, the tended streets with the expensive homes between the highway and the lake, most of the doors had amber-lit brass coach lamps showing the way for horses that would never come, and through the windows of their glassed-in solariums could be seen the glowing numbers of VCRs and digital docks and sometimes the trembling green and red lights of fax and answering machines.
The main street brought more lights — the white fluorescent glow of the big glass-doored refrigerators in which the convenience store kept its milk and juice, the tricoloured neon pop sign that burned day and night over the counter of the Timberpost Restaurant and the light Luke Richardson kept on atthe Richardson Real Estate office. Luke Richardson. There was a man who could turn a dream into a nightmare. These days he liked to come up to McKelvey and stand too close, his lank black hair shining with grease. "Hey, Bill," he would start, his jaw dropping to reveal the dark poison hole of his mouth. "How's my man? Where you been hiding?" William McKelvey, convinced eight years ago by Luke Richardson to sell his house and farm to the West Gull Rest & Retirement Villa in return for the privilege of resting and retiring there until he died or became a vegetable, would turn and walk away.
The dream-ghost of William McKelvey was looking for fresh brownies in the bakeshop when the radio woke him up.
"Five a.m. at TWANG FM," rhymed the all-night DJ, his tinny voice emerging discreetly from the clock radio William McKelvey kept under his pillow.
He rolled onto his back and began to massage his bad knee. It was late June. The sweet smell of clover and fresh-cut hay lay across the township and filtered through McKelvey's screened window, along with the beginning ripples of birdsong and the restless trembling of the poplars that stood in the yard of the R&R, originally the home of Luke Richardson's great-great-grandfather and now the penultimate residence of two dozen officially ambulatory souls whose bodies, like the slowly collapsing barns that dotted the landscape, now gave only the most provisional shelter to anyone trapped inside.
McKelvey pushed away the covers and silently dressed in the clothes he had laid out. Soon he was padding downstairs, shoes in hand.
Once in the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator door and helped himself to a package of sliced salami and a square of cheese, both of which he stuffed into his fishing vest, a beige labyrinth of pockets and zippers sent to him by his son on the occasion of his seventy-fifth birthday. From one of the pockets within a pocket, he withdrew a key he'd confiscated the afternoon before and used it to unbolt the deadlocked kitchen door.
By now there was just enough light to make silhouettes of the surrounding trees and nearby houses. Even in the few minutes it had taken him to dress and get outside, the birdsounds had grown more complicated, new calls and songs crowding into the pre-dawn sky. He crossed the grass to the sidewalk. A few steps took him to the delivery lane that emerged on Main Street. There, standing beside the real-estate office, the same one his dream-ghost had passed, he peered across the street to Richardson's New & Used. Beside the garage, parked where it had been for the last week, was the white Pontiac.
The white Pontiac! There was a ghost worth catching. He'd first seen it when he was out for an afternoon apple pie and coffee at the Timberpost. Something about its tilt made him think that his own old Pontiac — a gold-orange dinosaur he'd long ago sold for scrap — had somehow wound its way back from wherever it had been, got itself painted, then settled in Luke Richardson's car lot to wait for him.
Unable to believe such a gift, he'd approached it slowly, telling himself that if the upholstery was the same mesh polyester, the steering wheel faded on the left side by sun and sweat, the corner of the glove compartment bent where he'd had to pry it open with a crowbar ...
But this ghost Pontiac had upholstery of gleaming white leather, a white suede-covered steering wheel, a glove compartment that resembled a strongbox. This Pontiac was lower to the ground, equipped with twin stainless-steel exhausts, hood and fenders shaped in expensive aerodynamic curves. This Pontiac was no ghost, it was a bomb — a white bomb — and underneath that hood was most likely some kind of fuel-injected V-8 nuclear power plant that would send the car smoking along on the oversized tires that bulged out from beneath the fenders.
McKelvey wished he'd woken up an hour earlier. He had his old car keys with him, not the exact ones but copies he'd made before selling it. Just in case. Of course this was a different car. But those manufacturers were cheap bastard fools and his key slid unresisted into the lock.
No one was watching. He pretended to be looking through the window as if he, seventy-six-year-old William McKelvey, had won the lottery at five in the morning and decided to spend it on this bomb that had a price of $34,999.99 crayoned in red wax onto its windshield. The key was in the lock and now he tried to turn it. No luck. No matter how carefully he jiggled, it wouldn't work. Then, just because he was a stubborn old ass and he hadn't gotten out of bed for nothing, he tried the passenger door. The lock yielded with a smooth oiled click. McKelvey opened it, leaned across to release the driver's side. He walked around the car and let himself in. Being surrounded by the white bucket seat was like sitting in a cloud of whipped cream. He took the key and carefully, a tiny wiggle at a time, hardly daring to hope, inserted it so-slow-slowly into the ignition. "Please go," he said, twisting it. The engine caught immediately, a deep and powerful purr.
Two seconds later he had adjusted the driver's seat to accommodate his long legs, reversed out of the lot, turned the corner and was cruising down Pine Street, fat tires humming in tune to the engine's low growl. His foot barely touching the accelerator, he floated past the cop shop, then the Brewer's Retail at the edge of town. The light made a narrow red-yellow band along the horizon and the car was skimming towards it; then gravity and impatience grabbed his foot and rammed it to the floor. The big Pontiac rocketed forward, pinning him back like an astronaut in his seat. McKelvey was laughing. Again he stamped the pedal and this time the bomb exploded, shooting him over the hill and into the sun.
After a few miles he turned off the highway and stopped to wipe the price off the windshield. As the sound of the engine drained away, a nearby crow cawed; its sharp wild call tore through the air and McKelvey looked up to see the bird gliding to rest on the top branch of a dead elm. "Good morning, crow," he said. The crow looked down at him, startled, then flapped away cawing into the morning sky. McKelvey began winding his way through the back roads, his window open. The air here was sweeter than town air could ever be, the grass thick and tangled, the maple and oak that lined the fields heavy with their brilliant loads of green, the rising light.
He rounded the corner that the swamp flooded every spring and suddenly his chest filled up with a terrible homesick feeling he wouldn't have known he could still have. Even before the house, his eyes went to the sign. It was centred in front of the row of pine trees he and Carl had transplanted one day when Carl was just six years old and happy to go anywhere with his father in the big pick-up. That summer Carl was always playing in the truck, jumping in and out of the box, trying to climb into the front seat to get at the radio. Evenings at twilight McKelvey would find his son stretched full length in the truck seat, baseball glove clutched like a teddy bear to his heart, listening mouth open and mesmerized to the country music flooding through the oversized Motorola AM/FM McKelvey had hung beneath the dashboard of his old Ford.
RICHARDSON REAL ESTATE, the sign read. Big black letters against a green background with a telephone number beneath. At the side of the front yard, near the road and where the bugs were always the worst, was a set of swings that hadn't rusted yet.
The house. Like the Pontiac it had turned white: the straight polished gleam of its new aluminum siding taunted him like the echo of a two-handed slap. "Tastefully renovated" was how the ad described it. Reading the description of his old farm had made him so angry he blushed.
Country hobby waterfront jewel. Tastefully renovated century home near tourist town offers rural playground for young family. Safe swimming in Dead Swede Lake, outbuildings that could be converted for offices or horses, drained fields, vintage maple bush.
"Country waterfront jewel," he had read aloud, sitting on the porch of the R&R. "Century home." He remembered hanging from his father's huge hand as they wandered through the house for the first time. The damp musty smell of the wet basement rising through the rotting pine-planked floors he would eventually replace with hardwood. The peeling mildewed wallpaper. The windows with more spiderwebs than glass. Waterfront jewel ... rural playground ... safe swimming in Dead Swede Lake. He'd cut the advertisement out of the newspaper, put it in his fishing vest, then kept pulling it out to see if it was still true — like a love letter or a bottle of rye that knew how to fill itself in the dark. A couple of days later the Pontiac had appeared.
A black chain was draped between the gateposts. He undid it, drove in, put the chain back in place. He cruised slowly down the driveway, approaching the metal-clad box that had once been his house with all the caution due an enemy fortress, continued past the kitchen door and parked behind the chicken coop so the car wouldn't be visible from the road. The sun was fully up now, sending brilliant shards of light from the new aluminum windows, the shiny metal door, the white siding. It was amazing that they could buy a man's life like this, then turn it into a tin box looking like it needed to be kicked in. Century home.
This was as far as he had planned: to get the car, drive it to the old farm, park where he couldn't be seen.
But now he was at the house itself, at the doorway he had passed through so many tens of thousands of times. Despite everything they'd done to the outside of this tastefully renovated waterfront jewel, he could feel his mouth forming into a stupid grin, his eyes closing as though inside this bizarrely deformed memory-house his youth was waiting to be stepped into again like an old coat miraculously converted into a handsome new garment. He was sweating and clinging to the brass handle of the new door with its matched metal-vinyl self-hung casing. He was wishing he was back in bed at the R&R listening to the news and the birds squabbling in the feeders. If only Elizabeth would suddenly appear.
The thought of Elizabeth steadied him. He straightened up, looked at the white panelled door with its half-ring of half-moon peek-a-boo windows. Like the swings, the siding, the newly shingled roof, the door made him wonder about the people who'd lived there. Of course they had ripped out the old hand pump in front of the house — a man couldn't even get a drink of water without going inside. He turned away from the house and went to the chicken coop. The electric meter was still there. He threw the master switch. The previous owners had used the coop for storing wood and at one end of the small woodpile they'd left a splitting axe. It had a long hickory handle, the varnish still unworn, and a good solid weight that swung like a comforting pendulum as he limped back across the grass towards the new door.
His shoes were soaked through with dew and he had a sudden memory of himself as a boy, a day like this, barefoot in this very grass, grass so wet he could feel the juice squirting between his toes as he ran.
The rotting wooden steps had been replaced by poured concrete. McKelvey positioned himself carefully, stiffened his bad knee, swung back and then torqued his two hundred and forty plus pounds into low gear as he powered the butt end of the axe into the gleaming brass handle. The lock gave way but when the door swung open McKelvey saw not his nostalgic old kitchen but a great sweep of whiteness that looked like an oversized bathroom in search of a piss-pot. White tiles, white counters and stove, white-enamelled sink, white walls and ceiling, even a white ice-making refrigerator.
McKelvey went to the sink and pulled hard on the new tap. It shot out a thick stream of water that ricocheted off the bottom of the sink and into his face. The telephone rang. A loud old-fashioned bell that started his heart racing and for a moment he was sure that if he picked it up he would hear Elizabeth. For the first time in a decade, he could remember her voice: dry, affectionate, yet with a built-in twist that announced — or was it insisted? — that between her and every other living being was a space that could never be crossed. Then he wondered if the telephone meant someone was calling who had reason to expect an answer. Frightened, he grabbed the axe and bolted outside.
By the time he was back in the comforting whipped-cream leather of the driver's seat, had the big motor purring and awaiting his orders, his stomach was going again. But instead of returning to the road, he drove into the heart of his old farm, going between the barns to pick up an old tractor trail that wound between the fences of two hayfields, through the vintage maple bush, down into the swamp between the maples and the lake. The trail was long unused, the hay uncut, and as he eased the car along the overgrown track between the fields, there were moments when the clover and alfalfa obscured his view before swishing beneath the bumper. In the deep shade of the maple bush the grass was shorter but two or three times he had to stop to remove a fallen limb. Each time he stepped out of the car he left the motor running, afraid that any unguarded moment of silence might drown him. Safe swimming. At the edge of the swamp he stopped and threw in the axe. Here the old trail turned soft and boggy. When the wheels started to spin he slowed to a crawl and then, just to see what would happen, he tried accelerating through it. The big tires whined briefly before the car began to settle. He opened the door. The wheels were half sunk into the mud.
McKelvey grabbed the roof and hauled himself to his feet. His knee locked and he had to massage it again before he could limp around the car and assess the situation. Thirty years ago he'd dumped a few loads of sand to keep this stretch of swampy track out of the water. At the time he'd thought about solving the problem for eternity by mixing in some gravel and ditching the sides so the water could escape. But that would have been an extra week's work. Better just to use the road in late November, after the fall rains, when the frost was in the ground and a thin crust of snow lay on top. He would load up his chainsaw and drive back in the old truck with a couple of sandwiches and a thermos of coffee. A few hours later he'd have enough wood to spend the rest of the day splitting and stacking.
Now the leaves were thick and green. And even though the sky was clear and the sun high, there was a ripe marshy smell.
Mud had spattered the car's fenders and doors. McKelvey got onto a dry spot behind the trunk and opened it to search for a shovel. Not that he would have used it. "Nyet! Absolutely forbidden," Dr. Knight had decreed. "No physical exertion. No exercise. Nothing a pregnant woman wouldn't do." This last had mystified McKelvey since Elizabeth, when pregnant, had done all sorts of things, many impossible for him even when his knee worked, his heart hadn't needed a valve job, and that tractor tire around his gut had been just a few extra layers of muscle, beer and bumbleberry cake.
There was a loud crack. A porcupine that had hoped to scramble unseen up a young maple came crashing through the branches and landed in a juniper bush a few feet away. As it began to waddle off, McKelvey felt something release in his lungs, as if for the last eight years at the R&R, without his even knowing, his breath had been blocked. Now the swamp smell broke down into the odour of rank ferns, beaver shit, fast-growing marsh grass, spruce pitch, maple bark, decomposing bullrushes, frog breath, honeysuckle, a dozen, a hundred, a thousand different messages that crowded and fluttered through his brain like swarms of moths released from a long-closed trunk. He began to hear the peepers, the frogs, the crackling footsteps of the porcupine, the movement of bird wings through the air, the mud bubbling around the Pontiac he'd taken from Luke Richardson's lot.
He reached into his fishing vest, broke off a hunk of cheese with his fingers, wrapped it in salami. He repeated this until the supplies he'd taken from the R&R were used up and the anxious edge in his stomach had settled into a dull digestive warmth. He realized the phone had spooked him out of inspecting the rest of the house. Maybe the bedroom he'd once shared with Elizabeth now had a four-poster with a canopy. The old parlour with wallpaper that had been peeling for sixty years might be a haven warmed by a fireplace with a marble hearth. Or have, built right into the wall, one of those woodstoves with glass doors through which you could contemplate the fire and remind yourself of the days when you were a Neanderthal roasting up a nice chunk of hairy elephant.
McKelvey found a few dead branches and pushed them into the mud under the tires for traction. He climbed back into the car. His shoes — heavy and caked with the slick clay-rich mud — attached themselves to the floormats, which he considered might be useful under the wheels if the wood didn't work. Brute force was for the young and the brainless, those whose bones were still green and pliable. Now was the age of wisdom and cunning. He switched on the motor. It gurgled enthusiastically. McKelvey pushed the accelerator to the floor.
The motor growled and roared. The wheels spun and whined. Shooting up from under the car came a powerful curtain of mud. The car sank even lower. Underneath all that mud were some rocks McKelvey remembered dumping into place on a rainy October afternoon the year his father died. McKelvey opened his door, now level with the mud, keeping the pedal to the floor.
From beneath the hood a thick black cloud of rubber-scented smoke began rising into the swamp's green canopy of leaves. The oversized muscle-bound super-tread tires clawed down to those rocks from long ago. The car jerked upward, then fell back briefly before blasting out of the mud as if kicked in the ass by a 450-horsepower hoof. Spinning and careening, it shot down the trail, mud spraying everywhere. McKelvey's door slammed against a birch tree. When the car came to a forgotten hump, its exhaust system sheared off with a loud explosion.
McKelvey had been trying to lift his foot from the accelerator but the new-born howl of the unmuffled engine frightened him so much that his knee locked again, jamming the pedal to the floor. McKelvey could only hang on to the steering wheel while the car cleared itself a trail through the woods, picking up speed as it fought through the saplings and underbrush. When it reached the beach it shot forward with a roar, the speedometer needle swinging wildly until the car reached an unfamiliar cedar dock which moaned and splintered under the car's weight as it became the runway for McKelvey's bid for outer space.
He screamed. Unconsoled by the whipped-cream comfort of his bucket seat, he clutched the white leather steering wheel and listened to the sound of his own terrified bellow. Ahead of him were the blue sky and jagged pine horizon, beneath him a terrible series of thuds and clunks. With a splash and an ear-splitting sizzle, the white bomb hit the water. Even as it sank, it struggled to take off again, the tires churning up great sprays of water and sand. Then with a fizzle and a hiccup the engine conked out and the car came to rest — a thin film of water lapping over the hood. At some point the windshield wipers had activated themselves. They cleared away the mud and debris to offer McKelvey a view of the centre of Dead Swede Lake. A few hundred feet away a rowboat turned towards him. McKelvey waved at the familiar blocky figure, and went to work on his knee. When he got it loose he rolled down the window, then used his good leg to try to push open the door. He'd always imagined it would be impossible to open a door underwater. In movies people were always having to escape out their windows. But now, maybe because the water wasn't very deep, the door began to move. Just as well because he didn't need a ruler to figure there'd be no wriggling out through the narrow window.
By the time he'd got to shore, emptied his shoes and squeezed out his pantcuffs, the rowboat had drawn up beside the car.
"How's the fishing?" McKelvey asked.
"Slow." The occupant of the rowboat, Gerald Boyce, was short but very wide and though his hair was spun a thick and snowy white, his round baby face was smooth.
"Fucking car," McKelvey said. He stepped closer to the rowboat and peered at Gerald as though he hadn't recognized him before.
"You like a ride?"
He picked up his shoes and socks and put them in his vest pockets. Then he walked his bare feet along the remains of the hot sun-warmed dock until he was positioned to step into the boat.
While Gerald was rowing towards the middle of the lake, McKelvey took a package of makings from the pocket of Gerald's workshirt and rolled himself a cigarette. He still had his own lighter at least. Dr. Knight hadn't said anything about pregnant women not being allowed to start fires.
By the time McKelvey got his smoke set and going, Gerald was near the centre of Dead Swede Lake. A stringer hung from one oarlock. McKelvey pulled it up. A few small bass wiggled enthusiastically, then started trying to swim as he lowered them into the water.
"We could go home and eat them," Gerald said. "You think you can work a fillet knife without slitting yourself?"
McKelvey undid the top buttons of his shirt to let in the sun and air. He would go back to Gerald Boyce's. They would fry the fish and sit on Gerald's broken-down front porch and look out at the orchard of hybrid trees and freak apples that surrounded Gerald's house. He would pick the bones from the charred fish flesh, smoke Gerald's cigarettes, drink his boiled coffee and listen to stories about how Gerald's dead brother Vernon, had tried to save the township from developers and cable television. Every now and then he or Gerald would go into that black hole of a kitchen, the way they used to, and kick the refrigerator to make sure the beer didn't freeze.
The sky was a deep endless blue, the kind of blue McKelvey had always loved as a boy, the kind of blue that promised to turn into a heart-grabbing purple when evening came.
"Sure," McKelvey said. "Fry those fish. Ruin that coffee."
Gerald raised his eyebrows. They were two white furry patches on his smooth and deeply tanned forehead. Beneath them, his eyes: bovine spheres of a rich chocolate brown so full of mute compassion that McKelvey felt his own eyes fill with tears at the thought of how fate had taken his life, shrunk it, dried it out, thrown it so far from its sources that until this moment — suddenly and inexplicably back in the midst of everything that nourished him — he hadn't even noticed.
At this distance the white bomb was just a curving sheet of wet white metal. It could have been anything. Moby Dick. A creamy mermaid haunch. The bulging remnant of a white kitchen fallen from the sky.
"Nice car," Gerald finally said. "Hope you didn't pay cash."
Gerald Boyce was one of three: there had been Vernon, the deceased and sainted reeve; there continued to be Vernon's twin brother, Roydon, an upright stick of a man who'd been West Gull's doctor until he migrated south to be a rich old geezer doing plastic surgery on movie stars and socialites in an Arizona clinic; finally there was Gerald, the forgettable recluse who, aside from digging the occasional winter grave with his fancy front-end loader, had squandered his share of the family money by playing mad-scientist with old television sets, breeding so-called organic fruits and vegetables and using his big cow eyes to draw various local widows and other helpless women into his dubious lair like trusting minnows to a shark's gullet.
Early on the Sunday morning he witnessed the amazing re-appearance of William McKelvey, he had been woken up by the piercing squeak of his rusted mailbox hinges. He lay still, letting his dizziness settle, then went into the kitchen and looked down to the end of his driveway. The mailbox was turned. He slid his feet into the shapeless deer moccasins Vernon's wife, MaryLou, had given him a few Christmases ago and started towards the road. At the mailbox he found a square white envelope that looked like it should be holding a Christmas card or a wedding invitation. His name was hand-printed on the outside. Inside was a single piece of paper that read:
LOOK UP AND YE SHALL SEE HIM
Gerald Boyce looked up. He saw only that the dark blue stain of dawn had yielded to a yellow shimmer announcing the sun.
"Idiot," he said.
At intervals that ranged from weeks to years and at unpredictable hours of the day and night but always when he wasn't looking, someone deposited these bizarre messages in his box, each time in a different kind of envelope, perhaps to trick him into opening it, which he always did. MY WAY IS YOURS had been the previous message. What was that supposed to mean? Was it sponsored by some kind of hitch-hikers' association? He'd put it in his truck and later, while in town, slid it under a windshield wiper at the supermarket parking lot.
He stuffed LOOK UP AND YE SHALL SEE HIM into his pocket and went back to the house for breakfast. He boiled his coffee camp-style just for the strong bitter taste of it. Walking with a slight forward bend to keep his mug from spilling, he set off on his morning rounds: first the chicken coop, the sour-smelling domicile of four sinewy hens long past stewing and a rooster whose feathers had fallen out when Gerald called it a useless tit — he later apologized but the damage was done; next the glass-and-plastic greenhouse now empty except for its raised trays of manicured earth; lastly the garden — long hummocked hay mounds divided by rows of vegetables he brought twice a week to the West Gull supermarket for their local produce section which the locals carefully avoided while tourists clustered round it like vampires at a blood bank. There had been a time when he spent whole days weeding. Now mulch, a Rototiller and laziness had made his life easier, which meant that after he had returned to the house for a second cup of coffee, he got his tackle box and headed towards the lake.
By the time he reached the shore the sun was already above the trees. Hawks squawked and thrummed. Bugs buzzed and bugged. Gerald pushed off and started rowing, the sun clanging against the metallic surface of the water, hammering at him the way it had done all summer.
He was starting to doze in the boat when he heard the sound of a car at the old McKelvey place. After it died away, he rolled himself a cigarette, stroked towards shore and began to fish. He was bringing in his fourth bass when the car started again. For the first time in more years than he could recall, he heard a motor coming from the barns towards the lake. The barely audible hum grew louder, deepened. Then there was the high whine of a stuck car trying to free itself and another silence that was broken by a new roaring — this one wild and ever louder as whatever machine it was bore through the bush towards him. Gerald remembered LOOK ur AND YE SHALL SEE HIM.
He looked up and he saw it — wreathed in a black shroud of smoke, accelerating along the dock until for a brief crazy moment it was airborne, a shining white wingless Armageddon beast launched to avenge the world's sins. It hung suspended while its windshield wipers suddenly went into action, the furiously blinking eyes of a demented monster, after which, with a huge slapping splash followed by a great hissing of steam and rising of vapours, it fell into the water. Gerald Boyce applauded long and loud. He was just about to call for an encore when the car door opened and a thick body pitched into the lake.
He took McKelvey into the boat and rowed him across the lake. He could hardly believe how McKelvey's face had changed: it looked like puffed pale pudding and hung off the bones as though he'd just stepped out of his own coffin — except the coffin had been one of Luke Richardson's fancy cars and was now parked up to its gills in what some incredible wit had christened Dead Swede Lake because more than a century ago, local legend had it, a landless and love-tormented Swedish labourer had swum out into the middle of the lake, yodelled out his heart-struck swan song, then drowned.
Once at the shore McKelvey, pasty face and all, showed a little of the old muscle and threw the boat halfway up the hill in his eagerness to get to the house and have a forkful of fish in one hand, a bottle of beer in the other.
Eventually the fish and the beer were all gone and McKelvey lay sleeping where he had often enough slept before: on the old couch surrounded by a couple of dozen black-and-white TV sets that Gerald had bought cheap forty years ago with the intention of fixing and re-selling them. That idea would have made a lot of money had some idiot not invented colour television just as he was getting down to work.
Gerald was out on his porch reviewing his life's lost opportunities, when Luke Richardson's sleek black Cadillac turned into the drive and came creeping towards him, pale headlights glowing like albino snake eyes. Some people you faced directly; others you just sensed until they broke through the surface like a huge boulder appearing in the middle of your best field. Luke Richardson, after the obligatory pause, got out of his car, closed the door deferentially as though Mammon himself was smoking a cigar in the back seat, and drew himself straight, patting at his trousers and shirt. He was a tall man, Luke Richardson, the kind who liked to get close and look down on you until you backed away. These days he was doing a lot of that: getting close to people, looking down on them, requesting their support for his run at the reeveship. Never said anything bad about Vernon, of course, but everyone knew how he'd tried to screw MaryLou after Vernon died. Also how MaryLou had managed to screw him in return and how Luke Richardson was now running for reeve to get back on top. Luke took off his sunglasses and carefully inserted them in the pocket of his shirt, grinning that big politician grin that made his eyes crinkle up like a shopping centre Santa Claus.
Gerald looked at Richardson's boots. They were dry and shiny, which meant that Luke hadn't yet located his stray lamb. He shook the big hand, soft and ripe, then watched how well Luke kept that smile on his face while he worked his mouth around the sad story of his missing car.