“Ahead on our right?” she asked.
“See the red-checkered shirt?” He pointed. “Maybe fifty yards out.”
“Yeah.” She wetted her lips, glanced at him. “So we take a slow approach?”
“Nice and slow. Let’s see what he’s doing, who might be with him.”
She nodded. They crept forward at a deliberate pace, Nick in the lead. Branches snapped under his footsteps, and he winced, made a mental note to watch his step.
The woodcutter continued to split lengths of wood. Nick saw, not far from the worker, a ramshackle house even smaller than Grandpa Lee’s residence, and in much worse condition. The shack was constructed of a miscellaneous assortment of boards, and slewed sideways. It seemed a strong breeze might blow it apart.
“See that house?” Nick asked. “Damn, who the hell are these people?”
“There’s a wagon, too,” Amiya said. “It looks like it’s drawn by a horse, like something from a hundred years ago.”
Nick saw it. It looked as if the wagon was half-filled with cords of wood. This woodcutter, whoever he was, was chopping wood to transport to another location. But to where? The plantation?
They had drawn within twenty or so yards of the worker and finally got a better look at him. Although they were at his back, their position gave them a good look at his overall profile. It was a man: he was slender, of average height, half of his face covered with a wild, rust-colored beard. He wore a dirty straw hat. His red-checkered shirt was spotted with holes, the ragged edges flowing over his waist. He wore mud-splattered denims and dusty work boots. He might have been any age between forty and seventy: his face was so covered with what looked like soot that it was difficult to be sure.
The man stopped chopping wood. He straightened, balanced the axe on his shoulder. He turned around.
Involuntarily, Nick did a sharp intake of air. “What the heck is wrong with his face?”
“Some kind of disfigurement,” Amiya said, under her breath.
The man hadn’t appeared to spot them. He wandered toward the shack. Ambling with a slight limp, he disappeared inside the house.
Nick had watched enough. He started forward.
“Hey,” Amiya said.
“Listen, this is my family’s land,” Nick said. “I need an explanation for what this guy is doing here. This is trespassing.”
“Okay, hang on.” She caught up to him.
They came into the clearing where the man had been working. Ahead, in the dirt lane, the horse grumbled.
“Crazy,” Nick said to himself.
The front door of the house was slightly ajar, but Nick didn’t see the man or anyone else; it was too dark inside to make out anything from a distance. Nick approached.
“Hello!” he said. He kept his grip on the gun. “I’m Nick Alexander. My family owns this property. Is anyone here?”
“Hello!” Amiya called.
Nick reached the door’s threshold, Amiya at his side. He rapped on the wood with his fist.
A hand emerged from the darkness and seized his wrist. Someone snatched him into the blackness.
Behind him, Amiya screamed.
19
Nick opened his eyes to find himself lying on his back, surrounded by pungent, chopped firewood and someone lying on top of him. He was in motion, the greenish canopy of trees above scrolling like dark clouds across a sky.
The person’s head lay against his left shoulder, curly hair on his face. He recognized the fragrance of the shampoo and the texture of the hair.
Amiya.
