|
|
|
|
|
|
|
had accomplished this rather impressive list in the short span of two and one-half hours, amidst a now driving rain which the locals were calling a lake squall. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Brenda had tried valiantly, but the day, the hour and the ordeal had taken their toll. She had repeated her story for each of them, and now she was exhausted. At the moment, she sat in the far corner of the room next to the potbellied wood-burning stove with an old woolen blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She had a cup of coffee tightly clenched between her hands, and she had slipped off into her own world. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"You say you're a writer?" Caleb asked. He was a white-haired, hawk-nosed man with cracked and weathered skin and a musky voice that sounded like it was coming at you through damp speakers. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"I checked him out," Madden confirmed. "He's a writer, all right; had the boys at the RCMP post down at Waverly punch him up on their computer." Then he turned and looked at me. "They tell me you're a professor, too, right?" |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
It didn't particularly seem like the time or place to get into a long dissertation on the subtle differences between a professor and a writer-in-residence, so I let Jake's explanation stand, confirming it with a nod. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Harlan Gorman was the silent type. For the past hour he hadn't said more than a couple of words. Again, I had the distinct |
|
|
|
|
|