Charlie St. Cloud Page 0,14

word for word every evening. Charlie had looked up Mr. Guidry’s condition. It was called early-onset Alzheimer’s and it afflicted his short-term memory. He couldn’t recall yesterday or the day before, but he could still summon images from the distant past. That was why he had no idea he had cleaned his wife Betty’s grave the day before, but he could still imagine her in his arms the very first time they danced at the prom. It was why he didn’t have a clue that Charlie often picked him up at night but could remember the puzzled look on Betty’s face when the stroke rippled through her brain all those years ago.

Mr. Guidry folded his dust rag neatly and tucked it in his satchel. He switched off the tape player and made one last inspection.

“I love these hollyhocks,” he said, running a hand along the crimson bloom of one plant. “You know, they were Betty’s favorite.”

“I think you told me once,” Charlie said, picking up Mr. Guidry’s bag and cassette machine.

“Did I ever tell you about the time Betty planted the whole backyard with pink hollyhocks?” he said, tucking the red watering can under his arm and shuffling toward the cart. “They grew seven feet high!”

“I think you mentioned it once.”

“Night, Betty,” he said, climbing into the front seat. “Sweet dreams, my love. Be back soon.”

As they headed down the hill, Mr. Guidry recited the story of the hollyhocks for the thousandth time. Charlie loved the way Mr. Guidry twinkled with each word and how the tears always fell as they passed under the iron gates and made their way onto West Shore.

“Thanks for the story, Mr. Guidry,” Charlie said.

“Want to come over for dinner tonight? I’ll cook one of Betty’s favorites. Finest meat loaf on God’s green earth.”

“Thanks,” Charlie said. “I’d love to, but there’s somewhere I have to be.”

“Suit yourself,” Mr. Guidry said. “You have no idea what you’re missing.”

He watched Mr. Guidry get into his gold Buick and slowly pull out onto the two-lane road. Then he checked his watch. It was 6:12 P.M. Sundown was exactly thirteen minutes away. The great iron gates creaked as he pushed them shut. It was definitely time to squirt oil in the hinges. Then again, there was something reassuring about the familiar sound.

He turned the big skeleton key in the lock. Waterside was now closed for the night, not to reopen until eight the next morning. He walked back to his cart and sat down in the seat. He looked out across the grounds, where sprinklers were shooting mist into the air.

The serenity around him was palpable. Now he had this paradise to himself; fourteen hours until the world returned. For him, these were the most precious moments. Time for himself. Time to be. Time to think. But most of all, time for his most important activity, hidden deep in the woods.

SEVEN

THE FOREST OF SHADOWS WAS THE LAST UNDEVELOPED section of Waterside, twenty snarled, tenebrous acres of oak, hickory, and elm, and very valuable property. Charlie regularly heard rumors that one developer or another was panting to snap up the land for condominiums. But this enthusiasm cooled a few months ago when the real-estate agent died mysteriously and a prospective buyer collapsed from a brain hemorrhage.

Now folks whispered that the woods were haunted.

Charlie knew better. The forest was the most perfect place in Waterside, and it suited him fine that no one dared venture into the gloom. On this night, he steered the cart along the bumpy trail and stopped next to the blue spruce. A squadron of Canada geese honked overhead. The light was low, speckling the undergrowth. He checked over his shoulder, a matter of habit. Of course no one was following, but he had to make sure. Absolutely sure.

Then he quickly changed out of his uniform, wadding the pale blue shirt and khakis into a ball and pulling off his boots. He put on an old Celtics sweatshirt, jeans, and running shoes. He reached under his seat, pulled out his baseball glove and ball, and stepped into the woods. No one else would have spotted the slim footpath between the trees. It began on the other side of a rotting log, then widened into a trail that had been tramped down from his walk every night for thirteen years. It followed the line of a little hill to its crest, past a copse of maple trees, then dropped down beside a waterfall and swirling pool.

Charlie, who knew