Free Buried Alive by J. A. Kerley Page B

pair of retired optometrists from Dayton, Ohio. Beautiful folks, but Mr Brazelle, Theo, developed Alzheimer’s and it became too dangerous for him in the woods. Sad. The property was on the market for less than a month when Doc Charpentier bought it. The land extends behind the cabin for a couple thousand feet, almost as wide. The cabin sits on thirty acres overall.”
    “Charpentier lives there full time?”
    “He travels occasionally. I think he’s writing a book.Though he mostly keeps to himself, he can be surprisingly social. I’ve seen him at the park lodge talking Plato with vacationing philosophy profs from Western Kentucky University. The next afternoon he’s drinking beer and trading off-color stories with the crew cleaning out his septic tank.”
    “Doctor Charpentier?” McCoy called as we stepped closer. “Hello … Doctor?”
    The hoe kept its rhythmic pattern, Charpentier oblivious to our presence. “He’s wearing a headset,” I said, seeing the telltale white cord trailing from his ears. “An iPod or something.”
    Charpentier kept his back to us as we approached, the hoe chopping merrily away. A dozen feet distant, behind chicken-wire fencing, I saw stands of tomatoes and rows of cabbages. Sugar baby melons vined along the ground, looking like green cannonballs peeking from the leaves. There were hutches to the side, chickens perhaps, or rabbits. Further back, along the tree line, I saw white boxes nestled in the trees: bee hives. Charpentier seemed a man who enjoyed being self-sustaining.
    When we were within a dozen feet of the Canadian psychologist, McCoy called out.
    “Doctor? Doctor Charpentier?”
    Charpentier half turned and saw us. He was wearing a red bandana under the floppy white hat, a sweatband. His face lit with the prospect of visitors and turned away as he set his hoe against a nearby wheelbarrow and pulled the buds from his ears.
    McCoy said, “Doctor, I want you to meet one of your temporary neighbors. He’s renting Road’s End.”
    Charpentier turned fully to me. He stripped away the sweatband, then removed his sunglasses. My knees softened and a hiss rose in my ears.
    Charpentier was Jeremy Ridgecliff. My brother. Two years gone from the Alabama Institute for Aberrational Behavior, an escapee.
    Jeremy grabbed my hand in his right hand, his left hand under my forearm, steadying me. His palm was as hard and dry as oak. His eyes twinkled with delight.
    “So pleased to meet you, Mr Ryder,” he said, his voice inflected with a French accent. “Have you journeyed far?”
    My first attempt at speech was a dry hack.
    “I’m sorry, sir,” Charpentier smiled. “I didn’t quite catch that.”
    “Our guest is from Mobile, Alabama,” McCoy offered. “He’s a police detective. Part of his work involves psychology. A subject we’d like to talk to you about. We have a problem in the Gorge area, and may be able to use your expertise.”
    “My, my … I’m so infrequently useful these days. Anything I can do to help will be an honor, Detective, uh … I’m sorry,” he said, flicking the ear buds at his neck. “I play my music too loud and my ears take a few moments to recover. You said your name was Carton? Is that like Sydney Carton in the Dickens novel,
A Tale of Two Brothers?”
    “Carson,” McCoy corrected. “It’s Carson Ryder. And wasn’t that
A Tale of Two Cities,
Doctor?”
    Jeremy clapped his hands. “Of course. My subconscious mingled the title with two characters in the story, Charles Darnay and Sydney Carton. They were close as brothers.” Jeremy looked at me with amusement. “I forget, Mr Ryder … which man sacrificed himself for the other?”
    “I don’t recall,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
    My brother struck the exaggerated profile of a ham actor. “’Tis a far far better thing I do now than …” He turned back to me. “Or something suitably noble. Now then, Mister
Carson
Ryder, what sort of detecting do you do that involves