The Drought by Patricia Fulton, Extended Imagery Read Free Book Online

fire and drought, offered refuge for those in flight and in turn had soaked up its share of spilt blood. Now rising from the earth’s crust stood the house Griffin built—a monstrosity in opulence, out of place in a town where houses were often made from scraps of corrugated tin. A black wrought iron fence, easily eight feet in height and topped with spikes, marked the perimeter of the property, adding fuel to the gossip in town. “Why does a man need such privacy?” “What do ya suppose he’s hiding up there?” “Who do ya suppose he’s trying to keep out?” “More likely trying to keep in.”
    Dora’s name might be mentioned then, in a hushed tone of respect used for the missing or the dead. Another round of tsking would ensue this time by the women wondering about the poor child, innocent in all of this, raised without the love of a mother.
    The Aston Martin traveled along the dark narrow streets of Junction, passing small houses already astir with the news of the missing Casteel kid. Inside the expensive car, Barry Tanner still dressed in swim trunks and covered with the grime of the day looked uncomfortable and out of place against the expensive leather seat. The image of the Carlton Fisk ball flying over his head, just out of reach, kept repeating in a permanent, damning loop that had his fingertips twitching in anticipation of a catch that would never happen.
    *
     
    Ascending another narrow road, they left the town behind. Barry’s eyes remained on the window as they drove through the gated entrance, down the cobbled drive lined with pecan trees, beyond which lay a perfectly manicured lawn, still green despite the drought and the county wide watering ban. The house with its worn stone, copper fluting and large mahogany doors should have stirred in him a sense of pride but he had learned at a very young age even the most beautiful surroundings could become a prison. At the front of the property the automated gates swung together, silently closing off his only avenue of escape. His face reflected in the dark window, remained expressionless but his heart—his heart pumped, wildly infused with a strange mixture of fear and hope, a sensation known intimately by every inmate praying for clemency they know will not come.
    A walkway extended over the driveway from the house to the first set of garages. Griffin drove under this walkway and into a courtyard where an additional five garages housed an exquisite collection of automobiles. From this rear courtyard there were several entrances into the house. Holding to a peculiar habit, Griffin walked along a quaint stone path, delicately lined in moss which led to the front of his house. Once on the front stoop, he stopped to admire his property then inserted the key into an ancient lock fixture adorned with a lion’s head and turned the key.
    The interior of the house was equally overstated. The floors were a dusty pink Italian marble. A sweeping staircase descended from the upper levels in a grand flourish of oriental carpet and intricate railing. A mural depicting Dante’s nine circles of hell was painted across the ceiling, the writhing figures of purgatory rendered with such realism it looked as if they might plummet at any moment to the marble below. He placed his keys in a bronze dish near the door, picked up the day’s mail, and walked across the foyer unmindful of the trail of mud he left behind. For all appearances it looked as if he had forgotten about his wayward son.
    Barry refused to follow his father to the front of the house. He entered through a side door and was waiting in the kitchen when Griffin stepped into the room. Their eyes met for a moment, Barry’s defiant; Griffin’s dismissive. Griffin knew Barry well enough to know when he was looking for a fight and he had no intention of giving in tonight. “You must be starving. I believe Rosa left you some dinner.”
    “Cut the crap, Dad.” Barry’s lower lip trembled. He raised his arms and