A False Dawn by Tom Lowe

and wondered if Max could sniff the darkness on my clothes that probably clung to me like a curse.  I could smell rain in the wind coming across the marshes.  Two purple martin gourds hung from a pole, clanking into each other in the stiff breeze.  The wind chimes were sounding like an angry bell ringers. 
    Max was unusually silent as I approached the car.  Maybe a spell had been cast on her or me.  “If I stink like a dungeon, Max, I’ll put the windows down to get some air in here and blow the ghosts out.”  Her tail resumed its normal blur.  Spell busted.
    There was no car in front of the silver Airstream.  I drove by the trailer and parked about one hundred feet away under the boughs of a live oak. 
    “Max, I’ll be right back.  Anybody fly by on a broomstick—bite ‘em.”  I pulled out my shirttail, hiding the pistol that was wedged under my belt.
    The Airstream looked like an advertisement in a page from an old Saturday Evening Post .  Circa, 1950’s.  There was no mailbox.  No address.  
    I strolled around the perimeter like a lost fisherman circling the small backyard, which was fifty feet from the river.  A canoe was turned upside down, supported above the ground by two sawhorses. 
    The trailer had no rear door.  Approaching the front door, I wasn’t sure whether to knock or kick through it.  The only backup I had was a ten-pound dachshund.  I knocked hard.  I couldn’t hear anyone moving inside.  As I turned the handle, the door opened with a squeak.  I pulled out my pistol and entered.
    The smell of burnt wood, dried grasses, and rich humus came from the shadows of the interior.  The tiny living room had a worn rust-colored couch, unfinished wooden rocker and a bookcase.  On the shelves were a dozen small canning jars, each sealed.  Most were filled with tree bark, roots, leaves, soil, and dried berries.
    I searched the premises.  Not sure of what I was looking for or what I might find.  Was he a sex offender?  A murderer?   Was he simply cut from a different branch?
    The kitchen was smaller than most bathrooms.  No sign of eaten food.  No empty cans in the trash.  The bar-sized refrigerator had no food in it. 
    There was a closed door leading to what I assumed was the only bedroom.  My grip tightened around the Glock as I slowly turned the doorknob with my left hand.  How many times in Miami had I felt the same thing?  Entering a rat hole where a killer, high on drugs and adrenaline, was coiled like a snake.  Would Billie be on the other side of the door with a bow pulled back, the tip of an ancient arrow ready to impale me to the wall?   I raised the pistol and shoved the door open. 
    Dust danced in the streaming light coming from a single window.  There was a cot next to one wall.  A multicolored Seminole blanket folded neatly at the head of the cot.  On the blanket was an eagle feather.  I knelt down and looked carefully at the feather.  I spotted a long gray hair on the blanket.
    The room grew darker as storm clouds blocked the sun.  There was a clap of thunder and rain began to beat the aluminum trailer like a thousand drumsticks.  I sat on the cot, laid my gun down, and picked up the eagle feather.  Holding it, my hand trembled.  I could see dried blood at the base of the quill.
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    LATER THAT NIGHT THE RAIN tapered to a gentle drizzle.  After I fed Max, I poured two ounces of Irish whiskey and took down a photograph of my wife Sherri from the old river rock mantle.  I walked to the porch and sat.  A whippoorwill sounded across the river.  A sonata of frogs filled the rainy night air.  Under a cone of light spilling from the kitchen onto the porch, I looked at Sherri’s face.  I touched the image, my fingers moving across cold glass.  I longed for her warmth, her smile, her laugh.   God, how I missed her.
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    WE WERE ON A much-delayed vacation.  Sailing from Miami to Key Largo.  It was later in the afternoon and the sky was splashed in