“Love you, brother. Never said that to a—”
“You, too, man. You, too. Family, you know?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, the suspense is killing me, so . . .” Jerrod turned away. He stared at the tip of his boot, thought how pretty the snow was falling on it, and what a strange last thought this was.
Isaiah raised the machine pistol, positioned the barrel a few inches from the back of Jerrod’s head. He calmed himself, held the red dot steady.
Jerrod slumped over into the snow.
Isaiah fired another Kool, sat for a while, smoking, listening to the wind, watching snow pile up on the rock, on Jerrod. For the moment, it melted on his friend’s warm face.
At length, Isaiah stood up. But he felt empty, something unfinished. He had a notepad in his backpack, and he pulled it out and found a pencil, sat hunched over the paper, shielding it from the snow. He scribbled down five words, tore out the sheet of paper, and slipped it into the pocket of Jerrod’s parka.
Isaiah gathered up his things, then followed the ledge for thirty feet until it slimmed out into nothing. As he began the slow and treacherous descent into the canyon, he kept thinking of what he’d written for his friend, wished it could have been more, repeating Jerrod’s epitaph in his head like a plain-song.
This man was a soldier.
This man was a soldier.
FIFTY
The man behind the divan stood up, the machine pistol quivering in his grasp.
There was a flash, Abigail thinking he’d pulled the trigger, the walls of the sitting area lighting up, the snow glinting. It went dark again. Muffled thunder rolled through the basin, shook the chandelier, the weakened floor trembling beneath her feet.
Abigail rose up slowly, her arms outstretched in deference to the weapon. When the lightning came again, she noticed the streaks of blood down the man’s face, his eyes rimmed with black bruises.
“Are you with them?” he whispered again.
“With who?” Abigail asked.
“The men in masks. There were—Get back!” he yelled and Abigail saw the machine pistol shift to her father.
Lawrence said, “You see my hands, right? I promise you we aren’t a threat. In fact, we’re probably in the same—”
“I’ll decide that.” His eyes returned to Abigail. “What are you doing here?”
“We arrived in Abandon this afternoon, a team of six. Downstairs in the foyer is the third remaining member of our party. Tonight, while we were exploring the town, those men in masks took us hostage. They killed our guide and a man named Emmett.”
“Tell me the names of the men who attacked you.”
Abigail had to think for a moment, her mind edging into overdrive. “Isaiah. Stu . . . and Jerrod. Jerrod was also one of our guides on the hike in. But they’re dead now.”
“All?”
“Yes.”
“How’d the other two die?”
“Isaiah and Jerrod fell off a cliff near the pass a couple hours ago.”
“What were you doing up there in this storm?”
Abigail hesitated only a second or two. “Looking for these gold bars. Did you kill Stu?”
The man nodded slowly.
“What happened to you?” Abigail said. “Your face—”
“Is it bad?”
“Yeah.”
“You two look pretty banged up yourselves.”
The man lowered the machine pistol. He stepped out from behind the divan, walked into the beam of her headlamp, tall and very thin, though even through the bruises, he had gentle eyes, which Abigail instinctively trusted. His silver-and-black down coat appeared to have been ripped through the middle by a knife swipe, and his stringy brown hair lay pasted with sweat to the sides of his face.
“I’m Quinn,” he said.
“Abigail.” Though it was difficult to tell with all the bruising, she placed his age around forty.
Her father stepped forward. “Lawrence.”
“Lawrence Kendall?”
“Have we met?”
Quinn smiled. “No, but I’m an admirer of your work.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve been in the history department at the U of A, Tucson, the last seven years. This ghost town’s been my passion for a long time.”
“Thought I was the only one. What’s your last name?”
“Collins.”
“Haven’t heard of you.”
“I’ve only published in my field, Colonial America and the Revolutionary War. Abandon’s more like a hobby, I guess.”
“Last great mystery of the West.”
“Absolutely. But I just got tenure this year, so I’m hoping to get funding and support for a semester of real study. Maybe even a grant to come here for a summer.”
“Good luck getting a permit for that.”
“Yeah, my attitude’s been, Fuck the Forest service. I’ve been coming up from Arizona every year to spend time in this canyon, do a little elk hunting on the side. But it’s a real thrill to meet you, Lawrence.” Quinn reached out to shake his hand. “I’ve read everything you’ve written on Abandon.”
FIFTY-ONE
They came upon June at the base of the steps. She was standing by her husband, one hand on the banister that had run through him, the other caressing his shaved head.
“Just us, June,” Abigail said.
She glanced up at them, void of expression, catatonic.
“Who’s that with you?” she asked.
“This is Quinn. He was being held here by Isaiah and Stu.”
Quinn froze when he saw Emmett, brought his hand to his mouth, whispered, “Oh God. June, is it? I’m so sorry. Is there anything—”
“No, there isn’t. I just need to be alone with him.”
Abigail touched her arm, said, “Maybe you should—”
“No! Go!”
They left June with her husband and sat down nearby on the cascading staircase that flowed toward the large oak doors.
Abigail pulled three water bottles out of Lawrence’s pack and rolled two of them across the floor to Quinn.
“Thank you.” Quinn unscrewed the cap and ravenously downed the entire twelve ounces in one long gulp. Then he leaned back against the steps and gingerly ran his fingers across his face as if reading Braille, trying to picture how the damage had distorted it.
“Isaiah did that?” Abigail asked.
“Quite a violent streak in that man.”
“So what, exactly, happened to you?”