Lineage(60)

He stopped the Land Rover a few yards from the door of the garage and swung his feet out onto the gravel, which crunched beneath his shoes. His mind scanned the different accusations that he could use to shock the old man into confessing his part in the intrusions, but then a thought he hadn’t considered reared its head and he nearly turned and went back to his car. What if John was married or had children still living at home with him? What would they say when they opened the door to his bedraggled appearance, his hair standing up from sleep, and words of anger spewing out of his mouth?

He decided that he really didn’t care. John was the only other person besides himself who had keys to the house. He was the only one who seemed to have a problem with him buying the property in the first place. Before he could rethink it further or quell the animosity within, he found himself standing on the narrow porch, his fist rapping against the storm glass.

There was almost no hesitation before the inner door opened and the caretaker’s tired face peered out at him with concern. John opened the screen, removing the barrier between them.

“What’s the meaning of this?” John’s voice sounded as though he had gargled with some of the gravel from his driveway, and again the faint smell of spirits hung about the man.

“Show me your keys,” Lance said, his voice a blade in the early morning air. The caretaker wrinkled his nose and stepped farther out of the house, causing Lance to take a short step back.

“Why?”

“You know why. There was someone in the house again this morning, and this time he was in my room while I was sleeping. I’m trying to be rational about this, but if you don’t show me your keys right now, I’m calling the cops.”

John stared at him for a few moments, his eyes nearly hidden behind the thick growth of white eyebrows pulled downward in a scowl. Without looking away, the older man reached into his pants pocket and drew out a bundle of keys on a single key ring. He tossed the lump of jingling metal into the air and Lance caught it. He searched through the ring, pausing to examine each key that perfectly matched the set he had left hanging from his ignition. After a few more seconds of inspecting the keys, he looked up and searched John’s face for any hint that the other man was nervous or anxious for him to be gone. He found none.

“You didn’t copy these? Hand them out to anyone?” Lance asked, still studying John’s face. The caretaker simply held out his hand. Lance let the keys drop into the old man’s outstretched palm. After a moment John looked Lance in the eyes.

“I’ve worked for the various owners of that house for over fifty years. These keys were entrusted to me and they haven’t left my sight. Now, you’ve accused me twice of something I am not guilty of. I won’t take it a third time.”

John turned and yanked the storm door open and pulled himself into the house. Lance felt his anger drain away, as if a plug had been pulled inside of him. He reached out a hand and began to speak, but the inner door slammed shut before he could. He let his arm drop to his side in defeat. The light went out inside the house, leaving him standing in the brightening gray of the morning.

“Sorry,” Lance said to the closed door. He turned and walked down the stairs, throwing a glance over his shoulder at the window. He might have seen John standing there in the incomplete darkness of the house, or it might only have been a shadow. He couldn’t tell.



The door to the gun shop opened smoothly and without a sound. As he shut it behind him, Lance looked around the tidy space and reasoned that if the proprietor took as good of care of his wares as he did his shop, he was in the right place.

The shop was long and narrow, stretching away from the front door like a large shoebox. The center of the store was dedicated to a dual-sided stand that held firearms of every kind, their lidless eyes staring at the ceiling. An L-shaped glass display case ran the length of the store, and Lance could see the heavy outlines of handguns upon the shelves within. The walls behind the case were also adorned with wooden racks, but held fewer weapons than the ones in the middle of the space. A doorless opening yawned at the very rear of the store, and as Lance watched, a man roughly the size of a full-grown grizzly bear emerged from the dark rectangle and stood to his full height.

“Hello there!” the man called in a booming voice that sounded to Lance like a bass drum. “What can I do for ya?”

Lance approached the rear counter and, although he wasn’t a short man whatsoever, looked up at least five inches to the hulking figure behind the glass case. The man’s face was wide and round and covered in a brambly beard. His hair was unkempt and stuck out at all angles beneath a baseball cap that was nearly falling off the back of his large head.