A Fold in the Tent of the Sky Read Online Free

over breakfast. “If you want to do some sight-seeing, we can let you have one of the cars for a day or two.” He was wearing a suit at ten o’clock in the morning, twenty yards from the beach. The waiter brought him orange juice and a coffee and he sat there taking alternating sips of each as Peter finished his omelet.
    â€œThere’ll be more of you trickling in over the next few weeks—but don’t feel compelled to introduce yourself. It’s not a Shriners convention.” His straw fedora was in his lap; his hair looked thinner in sunlight.
    â€œâ€˜More’?”
    â€œThe others, new recruits like yourself.” He smiled. “Not quite like you, all different really.” Thornquist turned in his chair and gazed off toward the pool—a kid about sixteen was moving beach chairs around, swiping at them, brushing them off with the towel he kept draped over his shoulder, lining them up in the morning sun. “All alike, but all different.” He pulled his gaze back and smiled, tipping his head to one side—Peter thought of the actor Anthony Hopkins for a second —a false smile, something salesmen are trained to do. “Like I said: get your bearings first, relax.” He looked out toward the beach. “Enjoy the amenities.” He slid his chairback noisily, draining his orange juice glass at the same time. His hat was on his head now. His bottom lip came out to tell the world he was thinking. He stood up and said, “If you need anything—” then nodded the rest of it.
    His hand was in his pocket; Peter thought he was pulling out money—a tip for the waiter, maybe; but he came up with a small metal box. It was a dull, filing-cabinet gray, about the size of two packs of cigarettes side by side. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Abbott, when you get a minute, today or tomorrow, a quiet time in your room—see if you can tell me what’s inside. No pressure. We’ll talk about it in a day or so.” The smile again. “Over coffee.” He placed it gently next to Peter’s egg-smeared plate. There was a notarized seal along one side, and a little sticker on the lid, like a price tag—with the number “16” written on it.
    Peter spent the next few days waiting for something to happen, for these other “recruits” to show up so he could start earning his keep. He strolled along the beach and explored the small town about a twenty-minute walk down the road. It had a Shell station selling “Robbie’s” lottery tickets and Coke. He found a place on the waterfront that served jerk chicken, rice and peas, Jamaican beer. As he walked back toward Calliope a flock of kids in uniforms came out of their school, running past him, gangling and graceful all at once.
    The ruins of an old mill on the craggy hill overlooking the bay was something he decided to leave till later. Peter steered clear of it as he always did with old abandoned places. He sensed, however, that it had something to do with why they had hired him; that they wanted him up there listening, smelling out the dank past of the place. He still hadn’t touched the metal box Thornquist had given him. It was where he’d leftit that morning: in his room on the shelf above the hookless coat hangers.
    â€œYou’re a very gifted man, Mr. Abbott.” Ms. Franklin—her first name was Jane, Peter had discovered; she called him “Mr.” so he kept calling her “Ms.”—was interviewing him in a part of the place he’d never seen before. The terrace beyond the French doors faced away from the ocean; it looked out on a scrubby hillside scarred with power lines; a microwave relay tower poked through the green crown of the hill beyond it.
    â€œWhen you were in college you volunteered for an ESP experiment, do you remember? Guessing Zener cards? Your psych prof suggested you do it.” A plain cream cotton T-shirt