would they send us plans if they were here already?”
“To throw us off the track?”
“I still think it was you,” Frances said, “or someone who looks a lot like you, or like you used to look. But whoever it was, I’m going to find out.”
Makepeace looked as pleased as his death-mask face could manage. “I hoped you would, Mrs. Farmstead,” he said.
Frances studied the cabin nestled in a grove of oak trees. A lot had happened to her and to Adrian in ten years, as well as to the rest of the world. Consultants seldom needed to meet in person with their clients anymore, and Adrian had retreated from his urban apartment to this rustic isolation. Frances had visited his apartment a couple of times, but Adrian’s move had been part of the distancing process that had resulted, over the past half-dozen years, in little more than holiday greetings. She hadn’t even known he had moved until she had inquired for him at his former building.
Now she wondered whether she had identified the situation correctly. Maybe it wasn’t a Hitchcock scenario after all; maybe it was a horror story or a mystery. It was important to get the genre right. Otherwise you wouldn’t know what to look for or how to behave.
The cabin had no close neighbors. The taxi that had brought her had passed a few farmhouses along the way, but none were near enough for its occupants to keep track of Adrian’s coming and goings. Here, far from the city, Frances missed its busybodies. In the police shows, neighbors witnessed whatever happened at any time of day or night; the difficulty was persuading them to talk. Maybe that was what Adrian had been looking for: anonymity. The only community that mattered to him was scattered around the world, and had only a faint hope of coming together, some day, out among the stars.
Finally, after circling the house and finding only a browsing rabbit to startle into leg-kicking terror and a quail that exploded from some underbrush, Frances decided to go in. The door was unlocked. In the movies an unlocked door was a cue for the detective to draw his pistol and sidle cautiously into the room beyond, steadying his weapon with both hands, aiming first one way and then the other. But she had no weapon, and she swung the door open and walked in, uncertainty fluttering in her stomach.
The doorway opened directly into a living room. It had smooth painted walls, casement windows, and a hardwood floor—not at all like the inside of a cabin; it was one thing to desire the rough-hewn honesty of a cabin and another to live in one. The only concession to tradition was a big fireplace set into the left wall; in front of it was a rag rug and a sofa upholstered in multi-colored tapestry, with matching chairs at each end. A desk, with a closed laptop computer on top, stood against the opposite wall. Beside the desk, a lawyer’s bookcase with glass fronts held three shelves of eclectic books. No one else was in the room, and everything was neat, the way Frances remembered Adrian’s apartment, as if the cabin had been untenanted since he left or was taken.
Two doorways, one with a closed door, occupied the far wall. She opened the door to the one on the left. Beyond was a bedroom with an adjoining bath. The bed was made and the bedroom was empty and neat; so was the bath, with folded towels draped in racks. The shower was dry. The other doorway led to a kitchen and breakfast table with four chairs. For the first time Frances noticed something out of place; the remains of breakfast dishes cluttered the table: a bowl, a box of cereal, a mug, a spoon. The bowl was empty, but the mug was half full of cold coffee; a sheen of oil floated on top.
Adrian had been interrupted just after breakfast but before he had finished his coffee. She went back to the living room and sat down in one of the tapestry-covered chairs, frustrated. So big a problem; so little information. She thought back to her earlier observation about the cabin:
“To throw us off the track?”
“I still think it was you,” Frances said, “or someone who looks a lot like you, or like you used to look. But whoever it was, I’m going to find out.”
Makepeace looked as pleased as his death-mask face could manage. “I hoped you would, Mrs. Farmstead,” he said.
Frances studied the cabin nestled in a grove of oak trees. A lot had happened to her and to Adrian in ten years, as well as to the rest of the world. Consultants seldom needed to meet in person with their clients anymore, and Adrian had retreated from his urban apartment to this rustic isolation. Frances had visited his apartment a couple of times, but Adrian’s move had been part of the distancing process that had resulted, over the past half-dozen years, in little more than holiday greetings. She hadn’t even known he had moved until she had inquired for him at his former building.
Now she wondered whether she had identified the situation correctly. Maybe it wasn’t a Hitchcock scenario after all; maybe it was a horror story or a mystery. It was important to get the genre right. Otherwise you wouldn’t know what to look for or how to behave.
The cabin had no close neighbors. The taxi that had brought her had passed a few farmhouses along the way, but none were near enough for its occupants to keep track of Adrian’s coming and goings. Here, far from the city, Frances missed its busybodies. In the police shows, neighbors witnessed whatever happened at any time of day or night; the difficulty was persuading them to talk. Maybe that was what Adrian had been looking for: anonymity. The only community that mattered to him was scattered around the world, and had only a faint hope of coming together, some day, out among the stars.
Finally, after circling the house and finding only a browsing rabbit to startle into leg-kicking terror and a quail that exploded from some underbrush, Frances decided to go in. The door was unlocked. In the movies an unlocked door was a cue for the detective to draw his pistol and sidle cautiously into the room beyond, steadying his weapon with both hands, aiming first one way and then the other. But she had no weapon, and she swung the door open and walked in, uncertainty fluttering in her stomach.
The doorway opened directly into a living room. It had smooth painted walls, casement windows, and a hardwood floor—not at all like the inside of a cabin; it was one thing to desire the rough-hewn honesty of a cabin and another to live in one. The only concession to tradition was a big fireplace set into the left wall; in front of it was a rag rug and a sofa upholstered in multi-colored tapestry, with matching chairs at each end. A desk, with a closed laptop computer on top, stood against the opposite wall. Beside the desk, a lawyer’s bookcase with glass fronts held three shelves of eclectic books. No one else was in the room, and everything was neat, the way Frances remembered Adrian’s apartment, as if the cabin had been untenanted since he left or was taken.
Two doorways, one with a closed door, occupied the far wall. She opened the door to the one on the left. Beyond was a bedroom with an adjoining bath. The bed was made and the bedroom was empty and neat; so was the bath, with folded towels draped in racks. The shower was dry. The other doorway led to a kitchen and breakfast table with four chairs. For the first time Frances noticed something out of place; the remains of breakfast dishes cluttered the table: a bowl, a box of cereal, a mug, a spoon. The bowl was empty, but the mug was half full of cold coffee; a sheen of oil floated on top.
Adrian had been interrupted just after breakfast but before he had finished his coffee. She went back to the living room and sat down in one of the tapestry-covered chairs, frustrated. So big a problem; so little information. She thought back to her earlier observation about the cabin:
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