The hamlet of Boones Mill was little more than a dusting of homes nestled among rolling hills, with a string of industrial buildings and stores fronting along the highway, and it was so unassuming that Jeffrey almost missed the turn north on Boones Mill Road, a two-lane ribbon of dark asphalt winding through the trees. He stomped on the brakes and the car pulled hard left as he twisted the wheel, and he silently prayed that the tires were in better shape than the rest of the sedan.
He kept his speed down, looking for any signs that might guide him to his destination — a tiny tributary called Wild Goose Lane. According to the map he’d memorized, it would be about five miles from the turnoff, but the odometer was broken, so his carefully crafted plan was already in jeopardy. Another problem was that the three small roads he’d passed had no markings, and if that held true it would be easy to miss.
Jeffrey slowed even further as he crept toward a sign announcing highway 689 on the right. He closed his eyes for a second and envisioned the map, and saw that his target was four small lanes further north — maybe a mile, at most. Shutting the radio off with a stab of his thumb, he peered at the passing roads and pulled off at the fourth one. A medium-sized two-story house sat fifty yards from the road on the left side, and he rolled by it on a single lane of pavement as he motored to the professor’s address — the only home on the cul-de-sac.
A bend curved into the trees, and when he reached the dead end he was confronted with a rusting iron gate held in place with a padlocked chain, barring further progress. He stopped the car and shut off the engine, squinting at a structure in the distance, obscured by a grove of mature trees. A glance at the No Trespassing sign gave him pause, but then he summoned up his resolve and squeezed around the right fence post, a gap in the barbed wire just large enough to accommodate him if he was careful.
Dried twigs crackled underfoot as he trod along the two tire ruts that passed for a drive, and as he neared the ponderous trees he could see a small, simple single-story house in dire need of a coat of paint, its desiccated faded brown wooden shingles peeking through a peeling veneer of mottled white. He was thirty yards from the building when a woman’s voice called out to him from a separate building to its left, likely a garage.
“Stop right there.”
Jeffrey squinted at the shadows around the building and saw the double barrels of a shotgun pointed in his direction, held by a young blond woman. She looked to be a few years younger than Jeffrey and wore jeans and a brown sweater, and even having a firearm trained on him couldn’t keep him from noticing that she had an unconventional beauty to her slightly asymmetrical features, the perfect complement to an unruly head of long, thick hair. He raised his hands over his head and stopped walking.
“I’m sorry. I tried calling, but the number’s disconnected.”
“I guess you can’t read too well, or did you miss the bright yellow sign at the gate?” she asked, the weapon steady in her hand.
“I saw it. But I really need to find out if Professor Samuel Norton lives here, and I didn’t see any other way of doing it.”
The shotgun was unwavering. “Who wants to know?”
“Jeffrey Rutherford. I’m an attorney.”
“You’d think an attorney would realize that trespassing on property in rural Virginia can get you shot. What do you want?” she asked, and then a male voice called out from the front doorway of the house.
“Kaycee! That’s no way to treat a guest, even an uninvited one. Mr. Rutherford, please accept my apologies for my granddaughter’s protective impulses. It’s nothing personal, I assure you.”
The speaker emerged from the entryway, a tall man with a full head of almost white hair, his body thin to the point of fragility, his chocolate corduroy trousers and denim shirt hanging off a bony frame. Kaycee appeared uncertain, and then grudgingly lowered the weapon. Jeffrey took several tentative steps towards him, closing some of the distance, and the old man waved impatiently.
“Come on then. Rutherford, eh? Have you got any identification with you?”
“Of course. Driver’s license, credit cards…”
“Let’s see the license,” the man said, gesturing for Jeffrey to hand it over. Jeffrey reached into his back pocket and removed his wallet, slid a laminated card out, and continued to walk to where the man stood.
“Kaycee. Would you do the honors? I don’t have my reading glasses.”
She paced to where they stood and took the license, gun now pointed at the ground, and stared intently at his name and photo before handing it back to him.
“Says Jeffrey Rutherford. San Francisco.”
“I’m looking for Professor Samuel Norton. I’ve come a long way and need to talk to him.”
The man nodded and slowly stepped forward. “You can call me Sam. We’re not big on formalities out here. Kaycee, do you think you could make us a pitcher of that wonderful iced tea you spoil me with?” the professor asked, shaking Jeffrey’s hand with a surprisingly firm grip, his eyes clear in spite of his advanced years.
“Sure, Grandpa. It’ll only be a few minutes,” she said, and then moved past him into the house.
“So you want to talk to me. Here I am. Have a seat and let’s talk,” Sam said, motioning to a pair of weathered wooden chairs on the porch. Jeffrey did as instructed and took the straight-backed one, reasoning that the rocking chair was probably the old man’s.
“I can probably guess, but what brings you out here into God’s country?” Sam asked, his eyes studying Jeffrey’s profile as they both looked out at the Taurus, which seemed a mile away from there.
“My brother.”
The professor nodded. “As I suspected. You look somewhat like him. How is he?”
“He’s dead. Killed in the plane crash a couple of weeks ago out of New York,” Jeffrey said tonelessly. “He left me a note with your name on it. Said to speak to you. So here I am.”
Sam looked visibly shaken, his face ashen, a slight tremor in his hands, which he folded and unfolded nervously. “Good God. I’m sorry. He was such a nice fellow. I know that’s inadequate…”
“It’s appreciated. But frankly, I’m puzzled as to why he was so insistent that I meet with you.”
“Yes, I’m sure you are. It’s a puzzling story. And ugly, even if ancient history.”
“I think you should know that in the note, he predicted his death. He left it in case he died. Only a week or so before the plane explosion.”
They were interrupted by Kaycee, who emerged from the dark interior with a pitcher and two glasses on a rectangular wooden tray. She set it on the small table between the chairs and took Jeffrey’s measure, her frank assessment disconcerting for its intensity. Jeffrey tried to avoid staring back, but it was impossible, and he was again struck by the flash of intelligence in her eyes and her undeniable presence, the lucky recipient of every fortunate gene Jeffrey could imagine.
“Do you need anything else?” she asked Sam, eyes still on Jeffrey.
“No, thank you, sweetheart. I’ll let you get back to what you were doing. We’re just going to shoot the breeze for a while.”
She seemed reluctant to leave, but then turned and bounced down the two wooden steps and returned to the garage.
“Kaycee is a miracle, a true gift. She’s been out helping me for the last few months. I fell and hurt my knee pretty badly, and she dropped everything to come tend to me. Like her mother, God rest her soul, in that regard. She’d do anything for you, and never complain.”