Free The City of Your Final Destination by Peter Cameron

him not to come, in a way. But he couldn’t think of it that way. What he had to do was get there and then count on his charm and their mercy. And pray that their mercy was greater than his charm.
    Or maybe he should spare himself the ordeal of getting there and being rejected in person. They could be crazy and dangerous, he supposed. Who knew? Perhaps they had guns and shot strangers. It might be better to admit defeat and fly back home. He could tell Deirdre he had seen them, pleaded with them, and been refused. There was no way she would ever know he had not. Of course, he would be ashamed to do that. Like all things, it was a matter of choice: the shame of going home at this point or the probable mortification of continuing.

CHAPTER SIX

    Arden and Portia were filling a hole in the drive with gravel when they heard a car stop outside the gate. They turned around to see somebody clamber out of it with a suitcase. The car sped away, and the person, who was a young man, stood there in the hot sun and roiling dust, just outside the gate.
    â€œWho is that?” asked Portia.
    â€œI don’t know,” said Arden.
    â€œIs he coming to us?”
    â€œI don’t know.” She waited a moment, but the man just stood there, looking around himself. He seemed a bit dazed. He put the suitcase down on the road and dabbed at his face with a handkerchief. Then he picked up the suitcase and began walking toward them up the drive.
    â€œHe’s coming,” said Portia.
    â€œYes,” said Arden. Who can it be? she wondered. Getting out here with a suitcase. As the man drew closer he revealed himself to be rather good-looking, tall and slim with dark hair and features and skin. He looked tired and dirty and his clothes were rather a mess.

    â€œBuenas tardes,” said Arden, as he approached them.
    â€œYes,” he said. “Buenas tardes.” He put down the suitcase, as if it were impossibly heavy. And then he said, “¿Habla usted inglés?”
    â€œYes,” said Arden.
    â€œOh, good,” he said, and smiled. His teeth were very white. “I am looking for—is this Ochos Rios?”
    â€œYes,” said Arden. “This is Ochos Rios.”
    â€œMy name is Omar Razaghi. I am looking for Arden Langdon.”
    For a moment Arden didn’t answer. She didn’t know what to do. He was a strange man on the road toting a suitcase.
    Portia answered. She looked up at her mother and said, “That’s you.”
    â€œYes,” Arden admitted. “That’s me.”
    â€œOh, good,” said Omar. He smiled again. “I’m lucky. I’m very happy to meet you.” He held out his hand.
    Arden didn’t particularly want to shake it, but she did. It was easier to shake it than to ignore it.
    â€œI wrote to you a couple months ago,” Omar said. “About the biography of Jules Gund. And you wrote me back. Do you remember?”
    â€œYes,” said Arden. “Of course.”
    â€œGood.” He seemed to not know what else to say.
    â€œAnd …” Arden prompted.
    â€œYes,” said Omar. “And … and I wondered if I could talk to you? About the book? You, and the other executors. Not now, but at a time that would be convenient to you.”
    â€œBut didn’t you get my letter?” asked Arden. “We decided not to authorize a biography.”
    â€œYes, I know,” said Omar. “But I wondered—if … well, I’d still like to talk to you.”
    â€œYou’ve come all this way to talk to us?” asked Arden. “Or did you just happen to be passing by?”
    â€œNo,” said Omar. And then he said, “Well, yes, in fact I have. But I really just want to talk to you. I’m sorry to appear like
this. I mean suddenly, out of nowhere. I was going to call you but I couldn’t find a public phone and then someone was driving this way and I thought it might be easier, better,