AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I nod. “Thank you again, Mallorie.”
Embarrassment stains her cheeks. That she made small talk with me, and I—what? Didn’t seem interested enough? All this time learning to blend in, and now I’m living here among the civvies, realizing I don’t.
“Any time,” she says. “I’ll keep you posted as we move toward closing. I know where you live.” She shakes her finger.
I offer a tight smile. It was intended to look genuine and kind, but as the circumstances go, the half-grimace seems to be the best that I can do.
Three minutes later, Ms. Pryce’s pale blue Buick SUV is rolling down the long driveway, toward Blue Moon Road, an offshoot of a long, scenic road that leads from northeast Gatlinburg, Tennessee, to the stretch of I-40 between Hartford and Newport.
Alone again at last, I turn to face the house and look up at the porch. It’s at the top of sixteen thick, stone stairs, and like the rest of the second and third floors, rests atop a tall stone foundation that serves as the external walls of the lowermost level.
The movement of the porch swing catches my eye and snatches a knot of tension in my chest. I’ll need to bolt it down. Perhaps even remove it.
It’s the little things, I think. I can’t control it all, but what I can…
I look around me, at the verdant pine forest, and I allow myself a moment of satisfaction. This was unplanned, but it works out perfectly. Not just for the larger plan, but because I’ve always loved the cover of a forest. Sure as fuck beats somewhere dry and barren.
I turn back to my new-ish bike, a Harley Wide Glide I parked beside the garage, on the right side of the house. Stashed in the vegetation near the house’s stone base is my pack. I throw it over my shoulder, then walk up the stairs and unlock the front door with the only key that’s sized to fit a deadbolt.
The slick, mahogany door opens to the house’s high-end kitchen. It’s got granite, stainless, all the shit people are always crowing about on TV shows like House Hunters. The floors are all hardwood, and there’s no wall or other dividing line between the kitchen and the cavernous living area.
The living room is done in dark woods and stone, with a two-story ceiling, an enormous, L-shaped couch in a soft, shearling-type material, a weathered leather recliner, a coffee table that looks to have been made of tree limbs, and two thick, cedar rocking chairs.
Across from the couch, on the wall to my right, is an enormous stone fireplace with a mantel that sports what has to be a five-foot-long flatscreen. The back wall of the living area—which also happens to be the rearmost wall of the house—is part slider door. I know from my tour this morning that the door opens to a stilted, second-story deck that overlooks the forest.
To the right of the slider door, nestled into a corner, is a large gun cabinet. My gaze clings to it for a moment. Then I stride through the kitchen, into the den, and hang a left, heading down a staircase that leads to a wine cellar and home gym.
I walk through both dark spaces and into the small bathroom between—clearing the floor. (Some habits never die). Then I go back up to the main floor, carry my pack over to the gun cabinet, and, using a small pick I’ve got in my pocket, unlock the cabinet door. The keys on the key ring appear to be a garage key and two house keys—one a deadbolt, the other not. No one’s mentioned anything about Haywood coming back for the contents of this gun cabinet, so for now I’m going to call it mine. I stash my weathered M-14, my M4 Commando, and my HK MP5 there, but leave my TAC-338 in its hard case.
With my bag over my shoulder and the McMillian case in my right hand, I make a quick pass with my left hand over the butt of the .45 at my hip, then start to climb up to the top floor.
The third floor houses two bedrooms and two bathrooms, plus a library. It’s probably 2,000 square feet up there, with maybe 1,000 of those dedicated to the palatial master suite. I feel a jab of want as I remember the rustic-opulent space, with its pale stone fireplace, soft, faux bearskin rug, luxurious-looking king-sized bed, and two big, bay windows facing south.
When I’m halfway up the staircase, I turn and grip the bannister. I’m still getting winded pretty easily, but it’s better than it was a few months back. I shut my eyes and fill my lungs and try to focus on being present. Right here, right now.
Fuck, I’m tired.
I climb slowly up the remaining eleven stairs and clear the floor. When I’ve satisfied my irrational impulse, I return to the master. From the doorway, the fireplace is on the left, a stone behemoth in the middle of a wall of built-in mahogany shelves. The king-size bed is on the right, between the bay windows. I lay my gun case and my bag on the bed’s silky, sage-green spread and unzip the bag. Nestled between shirts and pants, socks and boxer-briefs, are a bunch of cans of Red Bull. I pull the cans out and line them on the night stand to the bed’s left.
Then I check my watch.
It’s 2:12 p.m.
I pop open a can and take a few warm swallows, then set it back down. My stomach growls. My gun case looks strange there on the elegant bedspread. I want to see the .338, so I take it out. I run the fingers of my right hand over its cool grip. I peer through the Leupold MK4 scope, then stand with the gun in hand.
One small step toward the left bay window, and I turn back toward the bed and lay the heavy gun atop the mattress. I take the scope off and take it with me to the window.
Through the thick woods, I can see the green tin roof of the little cabin next door. I peer through the scope and watch some leaves flutter down onto it. How long until Gwenna White emerges for her afternoon workout?
I stand there waiting—two hours and six minutes. With the quiet precision of my trade, I track her up the hill behind her house, moving from the left window to the one on the right of my new bed. When her small form becomes a long shadow, I walk downstairs.
I stand around the kitchen for a moment, feeling lost. Then I fire up the Keurig and make myself a mug of hot chocolate.
THREE
GWENNA
The rest of Wednesday passes in a thick haze of relief. Everything seems better now. My cappuccino—stale-tasting the last time I brewed one—tastes delicious this time. The sheets on my bed—just regular, silky sheets—feel outright luscious. My closet—an honest-to-God danger zone—appears before me as a giant stack of lovely things. I’m fortunate to have them. I’ve got a soft robe, a cozy couch, a beautiful clearing near the top of the hill where I can work out.
