and blinding. The ground was soggy enough to pull you down like quicksand.
"Boy, I'll bet it's beautiful out here when the weather's nice," Donna said when we'd reached the porch and were safe under the overhang.
She was right. Several hundred yards ahead of us was the river, lined with weeping willows. On the distant shore were steep hills and an impenetrable forest of pines. It was almost like being in the mountains. We turned back to the front door.
Now there was a man standing there. A tall, gray-haired man in a three-piece suit. He might have been a bank president in a TV commercial. Except for the shotgun in his arms. That was a very inappropriate prop for a bank president to be carrying.
Cabins in this area seemed to be inhabited by some really strange people.
He pulled the inner door open and said, "May I help you?"
"Is there a reason for the shotgun?" I asked.
"Unless you're illiterate, you read several signs on the road leading here. They each say NO TRESPASSING. That's the reason for the shotgun."
Now that I could see him more clearly, I saw that he had a patrician face that had turned a bit jowly. He was in his early sixties or so. He had clear blue eyes that curiously held no expression, almost like a doll's. I assumed that he was Dr. Kern, the guy whom Leonora Bridges had referred to as "a family friend" and the man the biker had said everybody was afraid of.
"I'm Jack Dwyer," I said. "This is Donna Harris."
He nodded. "My name is Dr. Kern."
I tried to avoid Donna's eyes when he said that. She's got this Eureka! look that sometimes tips our hand.
"We don't mean to trespass, Dr. Kern," I said. "I guess we just kind of got lost in the rain."
He nodded. He looked sad. The shotgun he held suddenly looked ineffectual. He didn't scare me anymore. He just made me curious.
"So is there some way I can help you?" he asked.
I wasn't sure what I was going to say next. Donna, with great charm and even greater conviction, said, "We only stopped because I need to use a restroom."
"Oh, of course," he said. He indicated for us to come inside and pointed out the bathroom to her.
The interior smelled sweetly of log smoke. The rain on the roof made everything feel cozy and safe, with the big fieldstone fireplace, the rows of bookcases with a few hundred hardcovers, the simple elegance of the leather furniture. There was a TV set as big as my Civic and a dining table next to a huge stained-glass window. The table looked like it could seat about twenty people. A bouquet of red paper roses looked lonely on the long table.
"You're from the city?" he inquired.
"Yes."
He went over and laid the shotgun down on a desk. "I apologize again for the gun. The way things are these days . . . well, you understand."
"Of course."
He saw where my eyes had rested. His mouth. The blood.
"Oh, I banged myself on a door," he said, daubing at the red stuff.
I smiled. I hope I looked sincere. He seemed a decent enough guy.
"Do you live here?"
"Oh, no," he said, "I only bring some of my patients here occasionally. I have a clinic about a mile from here."
"I see."
"The patients appreciate getting out. In good weather, this is a very nice environment."
"It certainly is."
We both glanced up the long stairs. I wondered if Donna had taken a couple magazines in there with her. The doctor and I were fast running out of things to talk about. I was wondering if I was going to ask about the migration habits of squirrels when Donna appeared again. To me it was obvious that she was excited about something.
"Thank you very much," she said to Dr. Kern.
"Not at all. And, as I was saying to Mr. Dwyer, I do apologize about the shotgun. We've had vandals lately."
"I understand," Donna said.
He smiled at her. She was easy to smile at even though she was six feet tall and could eat your meal and hers in three minutes flat.
He walked us to the door. We said our good-byes again and we ran to the car.
Inside, Donna said, "Boy, did I find some