had been looking out for Stockton’s boy in Africa, three months ago; Stockton took a certain mellow satisfaction in knowing he could pay the man back with interest. To be honest, a trip through the little door was probably worth any number of overweight, intellectually lazy sons.
A birdcage sat on the coffee table, covered with a sheet of red linen. Or maybe it was white linen and only looked red in the horror-house light, Stockton wasn’t sure. If Stockton were running the presentation, he would’ve started with the birdcage, but he wasn’t, and Charn wouldn’t.
“Thanks for agreeing to meet me, Mr. Charn,” Fallows said. “I’m very interested to hear about the little door. Stockton tells me there’s nothing like it anywhere in the world.”
Charn said, “A-yuh. He’s right enough. Thank you for comin’ all t’way to Boston. I don’t much care to leave Maine. I don’t like to leave the door for long, and ’tisn’t necessary for me to travel widely to drum up business. Word passes around. The truly curious come to me. I only offer the two hunts a year, and next is on the twentieth of March. Small groups only. Price nonnegotiable.”
“I heard about the price. That’s most of the reason I came—the sheer entertainment value of hearing what kind of hunt a person could get for a quarter of a million dollars. I can’t imagine. I spent forty thousand to kill an elephant and felt I overpaid.”
Mr. Charn raised an eyebrow and cast a questioning look at Stockton. “If it’s beyond your means, sir, then—”
“He’s got the money,” Stockton said. “He just needs to see what he’d get for it.” He spoke with a certain smooth, confident humor. He had not forgotten how he himself felt when he was in Fallows’s boots, recalled his own disgust at the price tag and his icy unwillingness to be conned. The pitch had turned him around, and it would turn Fallows around, too.
“I’m just wondering what I could possibly shoot that would be worth that kind of bread. I hope it’s a dinosaur. I read a Ray Bradbury story about that when I was a kid. If that’s what you’re offering, I promise not to step on any butterflies.” Fallows laughed.
Charn didn’t. His calm was almost uncanny.
“And if I do shoot something—I understand I can’t even keep the trophy? All that money and I bring home squat?”
“Your kill will be preserved, mounted, and kept at my farmhouse. It may be viewed by appointment.”
“For no additional fee? That’s decent of you.”
Stockton heard the edge in the old soldier’s voice and fought down an urge to put a restraining, comforting hand on Fallows’s arm. Charn wouldn’t be offended by a brittle tone or a sarcastic implication. Charn had heard it all before. He’d heard it from Stockton himself only three years ago.
“Of course viewing is free, although should you like to take tea while you’re visiting, there is a modest service charge,” Charn said in a blasé tone. “Now I should like to share a short video. It is not professionally produced. I made it myself, quite a while back. Still, I feel it is more than adequate to my needs. The video you are about to see has not been altered in any way. I don’t expect you to believe that. In fact, I am sure you will not. That is no matter to me. I will establish its veracity beyond any doubt before you leave this room.”
Charn pressed a button on the remote.
The video opened with a view of a white farmhouse against a blue sky on the edge of a field of straw. Titles whisked onto the screen, sliding from left to right.
Charn Estate, Rumford, Maine
They were the sort of titles you could create in-camera if you didn’t care that it made your video look like childish junk.
There was a cut to a second-floor bedroom, with homey New England touches. An urn, patterned with blue flowers, stood on the bedside table. A brass bed dressed with a handmade quilt took up most of the space. Stockton had slept in that very bed on his last trip to Rumford—well, not slept. He had lain awake the whole restless night, springs digging into his back through the thin mattress, field mice scuttling frantically in the ceiling. The thought of the day to come had put sleep well out of reach.
New titles swept in, chasing off the previous titles.
4 rustic bedrooms, shared bathroom facilities
“Pretty sure ‘rustic’ means cold and uncomfortable,” Stockton