The Barrens & Others by F. Paul Wilson Read Free Book Online Page B

invited himself in. Not that it would matter much. Either way, he was going in and staying for a while. He just liked to know what he was getting into before he made his move.
    One thing was sure: He wasn't going to find any money in there. The old guy had to be next to destitute. But even ten bucks would have made him richer than Gil. He looked at the rusting blue late-sixties Ford Torino with the peeling vinyl roof and hoped it would run. But of course it ran. The old guy had to get into town to cash his Social Security check and buy groceries, didn't he?
    Damn well better run .
    It had been a long and sloppy trek into these marshes. He intended to drive out.
    Finally the mail truck clinked into gear, did a U-turn, and headed back the way it had come. The old guy shoved a couple of envelopes into his back pocket, picked up a rake that had been leaning against the Ford, and began scratching at the dirt on the south side of the house.
    Gil decided it was now or never. He straightened up and walked toward the shack. As his feet crunched on the gravel of the yard, the old man wheeled and stared at him with wide, startled eyes.
    "Didn't mean to scare you," Gil said in his friendliest voice.
    "Well, you sure as hell did, poppin' outta nowhere like that!" the old man said in a deep, gravelly voice. The cigarette between his lips bobbed up and down like a conductor's baton. "We don't exactly get much drop-in company out here. What happen? Boat run outta gas?"
    Gil noticed the we with annoyance but played along. A stalled boat was as good an excuse as any for being out here in the middle of nowhere.
    "Yeah. Had to paddle it into shore way back over there," he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.
    "Well, I ain't got no phone for you to call anybody–"
    No phone! It was all Gil could do to keep from cheering.
    "–but I can drive you down to the marina and back so you can get some gas."
    No hurry." He moved closer and leaned against the old Torino's fender. "You live out here all by yourself?"
    The old man squinted at him, as if trying to recognize him. "I don't believe we've been introduced, son."
    "Oh, right." Gil stuck out his hand. "Rick... Rick Summers."
    "And I'm George Haskins," he said, giving Gil's hand a firm shake.
    "What're you growing there?"
    "Carrots. I hear fresh carrots are good for your eyes. Mine are so bad I try to eat as many as I can."
    Half blind and no phone . This was sounding better every minute. Now, if he could just find out who the rest of the we was, he'd be golden.
    He glanced around. Even though he was out in the middle of nowhere at the end of a dirt road that no one but the mailman and this old fart knew existed, he felt exposed. Naked, even. He wanted to get inside.
    "Say, I sure could use a cup of coffee, Mr. Haskins. You think you might spare me some?"
    *
    George hesitated. Making coffee for the stranger would mean bringing him inside. He didn't like that idea at all. He hadn't had anybody into the house since the late sixties when he took in his tenants. And he'd had damn few visitors before that. People didn't like coming this far out, and George was just as glad. Most people pried. They wanted to know what you did way out here all by yourself. Couldn't believe anybody sane would prefer his own company to theirs.
    And of course, there was the matter of the tenants.
    He studied this young man who had popped out of nowhere. George's eyes weren't getting any better– "Cataracts only get worse," the doctor had told him – but he could plainly see that the stranger wasn't dressed for boating, what with that blue work shirt and gray denims he was wearing. And those leather shoes! Nobody who knew boats ever wore leather shoes on board. But they were selling boats to anybody with cash these days. This landlubber probably didn't know the first thing about boating. That no doubt was why he was standing here on land instead of chugging about the harbor.
    He seemed pleasant enough, though.