The Architecture of Snow (The David Morrell Short Fiction Collection #4) Read Online Free Page B

constable runs the barbershop.”
     
    * * *
     
    “Yes, we’ve been having incidents lately.” The heavyset barber/constable trimmed an elderly man’s spindly hair. “A bicycle was stolen. A cabin was broken into.”
    I took a close look at the man in the chair and decided he wasn’t Wentworth.
    “Town’s changing. Outsiders are hanging around,” the barber continued.
    I recalled the two druggies I’d seen emerge from an alley the previous day. “What are you going to do about it?”
    “Contact the state police. I hoped the problem would go away as the weather got colder.”
    “Please remember I reported the stolen radio. The rental car agency will contact you.” Trying to catch him off guard, I added, “Where does Bob Wentworth live?”
    The barber almost responded, then caught himself. “Can’t say.”
    But like a bad poker player, he hadn’t been able to repress a glance past me toward the right side of the street.
     
    * * *
     

     
    I went to the left to avoid suspicion. Then I walked around the block and returned to the main street, out of sight of the barbershop. As I stepped from an alley, I again had the sense that someone followed, but when I looked behind me, I seemed alone.
    More people were on the sidewalk, many dressed like outsiders, the town finally attracting business as the weekend approached. But the locals paid attention only to me. Trying to look casual, I went into a quilt shop, then continued down the street. Wentworth didn’t live on a country road, I now realized with growing excitement. He lived in town. But I’d checked all the side streets. In fact, I’d used some of those streets to drive north, west, south, and east. Where was he hiding?
    I walked to the end of the street. In a park of brilliant maples, dead leaves crunched under my shoes as I followed a stream along the edge of town. I soon reached a tall fence.
    My cell phone rang.
    “I hope you’ve found him,” a stern voice warned.
    “I’m making progress.”
    “I want more than progress. The Gladstone executives phoned to remind me they expect a better profit picture when I report on Monday. I hinted I’d have major news. Get Wentworth.”
    A locked gate sealed off a lane. I managed to climb over, tearing a button off my sports jacket.
    Sunlight cast the shadows of branches. To my left were the backyards of houses. But on my right, the fence stretched on. A crow cawed. Leaves rattled as I came to a door that blended with the fence. Signs warned NO SOLICITORS and NO TRESPASSING. A mailbox was recessed into the fence.
    When I knocked on the door, the crow stopped cawing. The door shook. I waited, then knocked again, this time harder. The noise echoed. I knocked a third time.
    “Mr. Wentworth?”
    Leaves fell.
    “Mr. Wentworth? My name’s Tom Neal. I work for March & Sons. I need to talk to you about a manuscript we think you sent.”
    A breeze chilled my face.
    I knocked a fourth time. “ Mr. Wentworth? ”
    Finally, I took out a pen and a notepad. I thought about writing that Carver was dead, but that seemed a harsh way for Wentworth to get the news. So I gave him the name of the motel where I was staying and left my cell-phone number. Then I remembered that Wentworth didn’t have a phone. But if he sometimes left his compound, he could use a phone in town, I concluded. Or he could walk to the motel.
    “I’m shoving a note under the gate!”
    Back in the park, I sat on a bench and tried to enjoy the view, but the breeze got cooler. After an hour, I returned to Wentworth’s gate. A corner of my note remained visible under it.
    “Mr. Wentworth, please , I need to talk to you! It’s important!”
    Maybe he’s gone for a walk in the woods , I thought. Or maybe he isn’t even in town.
    Hell, he might be in a hospital somewhere.
     
    * * *
     
    “Did you find him?”
    In the tavern, I looked up from a glass of beer. “No.” Strictly speaking, it wasn’t a lie.
    Becky Shafer stood next to me at the bar.