The House on Creek Road Read online

  Still, a little more protection might be a good idea.

  CHAPTER SIX

  IT WAS A JUVENILE TRICK.

  When he’d double-clicked on the A drive, an empty screen had come up, as if Jack’s diskette was blank. Did Jack think for a minute anyone would be fooled by that? Revealing the hidden menu was child’s play. With a couple of clicks of the mouse, Reid told the computer to show the menu, and the diskette’s files appeared.

  Okay. Reid smiled. That was more like it. Two hundred files crowded the screen, give or take a dozen. Still, the strategy would only slow him down, not stop him. Give the man a B for effort.

  A few minutes later Reid began to have a better idea just how much it would slow him down. A password had been applied to each of the files. He sat back in his chair and stretched, hands clasped behind his neck. An unintentional sigh caught his partner’s attention.

  “Problem?” Croker came to stand beside Reid. “What’s McKinnon doing?”

  “Hiding a needle in a haystack.”

  “You can still find the needle, though.” It wasn’t so much a vote of confidence as an order.

  “Of course. It might take a while, though.”

  “A while?”

  Croker hadn’t let up since they’d found the diskette. He was like a kid constantly asking his dad if they were there yet. “It depends how careful Jack was. He might have followed all the rules for creating virtually unbreakable passwords, or he might have used his mother’s middle name for each file. I don’t know how hard it’ll be to get in. I’ll run a password cracker program. It might open all the doors in seconds. Or days. Or weeks. There’s a small possibility of never.”

  “But you’ll be using more than one computer. You’ve got a network here, right?”

  Reid nodded. His head had started to ache, and the movement made it worse. He got up from the desk, making sure his body language conveyed his determination that his schedule was his business. He would take a walk to the corner, get some fresh air and some pizza, despite the early hour, and, more importantly, a break from this insistent man. Without Croker’s humorless impatience, the project could be fun. Like the games he and Jack used to play.

  The invisible band around his head tightened.

  JACK ANSWERED THE DOOR in his pyjamas. A heavy robe, its collar half twisted under, hung open over dark gray bottoms and a navy sweatshirt that was worn to soft comfort. With one hand he kept feeling for the other end of the robe’s tie. He smiled groggily when he saw Liz. “Is it morning?”

  “Officially.” She had been up since six, sketching, making a fruit salad for her grandmother’s breakfast, thinking about the black car and the two men and the gentle dogs growling, forcing herself to wait before coming to Jack’s. Wishing she could backtrack a few minutes, to just before she’d clanged the cowbell hanging beside the door, she reached behind him and found the trailing tie. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks.” Jack squinted at the sun. “Eight-seventeen?”

  “Not bad.” She showed him her watch. “Eight-twenty.”

  He didn’t ask what had brought her to his door at that hour. He stepped back, and the dogs rushed into the house. When Liz followed, they acted as if they hadn’t seen her for days. Being around Jack turned them into puppies.

  He headed straight for the coffeemaker. “Espresso, I think. Doubles.”

  Liz took a quick look around the kitchen. At first glance, at least, nothing seemed to be disturbed. If she’d been a burglar, she wouldn’t have left the stainless steel coffeemaker on the counter, or the laptop and fax machine on the table. Jack’s guitar would be worth taking, too.

  The last time she was here, it was in the living room and now it leaned against the kitchen wall. She imagined Jack sitting beside the table, the guitar balanced on his knee, fingertips strumming. Did he sing, too? She’d like to hear that, his mellow voice lilting with music. Bittersweet tunes about lost love, and love to come, hiding his feelings behind the lyrics. Could a knight be a balladeer? Why not? A warrior-poet, equally adept with sword or song.

  The sound of the coffee grinder dispelled the pleasant picture. “I guess I woke you.”

  “Good thing, too. I meant to get up at seven.”

  “Even at Grandma’s, people don’t drop over this early. Unless they want breakfast.”

  “Do you want breakfast?”

  “No! I came to make sure everything was all right.”

  He looked at her curiously. “Everything’s fine.”

  “Good.” He seemed to be waiting for an explanation. “The dogs and I were out walking yesterday, and before we knew it we found ourselves at the edge of your woods.” She pointed backward over her shoulder, then swiveled her finger a hundred and eighty degrees. “Those woods—”

  Strong coffee, almost syrupy, hissed into the first mug. Jack handed it to Liz, then began filling one for himself.

  “We saw a car parked behind your house, completely off the driveway, almost as if it was being hidden from the road intentionally. Then two men came out the back door. Well, one came out and the other one sort of lurked out of sight.” Jack didn’t look the least bit startled, so she added, for emphasis, “They’d been inside.”

  “I’m sorry they worried you. A friend of mine dropped in.” Jack held his drink near his mouth, breathing in the steam. He blew gently over the surface of the coffee.

  “Oh.” He knew, and he didn’t mind. She could have slept in. “They told Martin they were friends of yours, but I wasn’t sure. It would have been easier to believe them if they hadn’t been in the house, and if the dogs hadn’t been growling.”

  “Your cousin was here?”

  That, at least, had surprised him.

  “We had a whole little flap about your visitors. The dogs quivered angrily, I rushed home to tell Grandma, she called Martin, he stomped over demanding an explanation…this is what happens when there’s no movie theater for miles. We’ve got to entertain ourselves somehow.”

  Jack was laughing, the caution she usually saw in his face gone. “I’m lucky to have such thoughtful neighbors.”

  “There’s a fine line between neighborly concern, and nosiness, though.”

  “Maybe there’s not a line at all.”

  “Hey—”

  He left his mug on the table, and took a carton of eggs out of the fridge. “Breakfast?”

  “No, really.” She had satisfied herself that he and his house were all right, so she should leave, not hang around enjoying the coffee and the opportunity to stare at Jack in this appealing morning mode.

  “I’d like the company,” he said. “I’ll have everything ready in a few minutes.”

  “Can I help?”

  “Just relax. I have a routine.”

  He poured olive oil into a cast-iron skillet, followed by a clump of butter—that had to be the day’s recommended fat intake right there. While the butter melted, he took two plate-covered bowls from the fridge, and after sprinkling paprika and garlic into the fat, emptied first one bowl, then the other, into the pan. Precooked potatoes and sausages began sizzling on contact, the potatoes turning a glistening golden red.

  “I never thought of precooking things for breakfast.”

  “My uncle and I always did it. Otherwise we wouldn’t have time for something hot.”

  The uncle, again, the one who complained about his unwashed neck and never read him nursery rhymes. Liz wanted to ask why Jack had lived with his uncle. What had happened to his parents? He tended to retreat when the conversation became even slightly personal, though. Besides, whatever evidence she’d provided to the contrary, she wasn’t nosy. It was just that his house was between town and her grandmother’s place. She couldn’t help going past it. She couldn’t stop the dogs from running to it.

  Jack flipped the potatoes and pushed the sausages back and forth, then broke four eggs into the pan. “It won’t be long now. Couple of minutes.” He took cutlery from a drawer, plates and glasses from a cupboard and ketchup an
d a pitcher of orange juice from the fridge, swinging doors open with his foot and shutting them with his elbow or his hip. Liz leaned against the table, wondering why it was so relaxing to watch a man who was self-sufficient in the kitchen.

  Bella and Dora had chosen places beside the table and were watching every move Jack made. Their eyes moved up when he lifted the spatula to turn the eggs and down when the eggs returned to the pan. After a few seconds, Jack divided the breakfast in half and slid equal portions onto two plates. He made room for them on the table, pushing his laptop to the far end and piling seed catalogs and assorted papers beside it. “I guess I should work at my desk.”

  “Then you wouldn’t be beside the coffeepot.” Warmed by a friendly glance from Jack, Liz began to lower herself onto the nearest chair. His hand shot out, holding her steady, then pulling her upright.

  “Better take the other one. It’s rickety, but this one’s losing its leg. Fixing it is on my to-do list.”

  Still aware of Jack’s touch, Liz sank onto the chair that was less likely to dump her on the floor. He was stronger than he looked. His hand had cupped her elbow gently, but she was sure he could have lifted her with one arm. She said the next thing that popped into her head, and then wished she could take it back. “I’ve based a character on you after all. A fairy.”

  Uncertainty, consternation and amusement scrolled over his face. “You found you’re able to work here, then. That’s good.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  He sat with one leg out at an angle to help balance the damaged chair. “Do I have green leggings and those gauzy wings?”

  Smiling, she shook her head.

  “That’s a step in the right direction. Magic?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Am I a king?”

  “More of a knight.”

  That idea seemed to agree with him. Dotting ketchup on his potatoes, he said, “So there must be battles.”

  “I haven’t worked out the plot yet. Would you like to be in a battle?”

  “Of course. With swords and trumpets and tiny horses to ride. Otherwise there’s not much point being a fairy.”

  Liz smiled at the image. He must have read some children’s fiction as a boy. Maybe he’d borrowed books from the library when he was past nursery rhyme age, using a friend’s card because his uncle wouldn’t let him have one, and riding his bicycle because his uncle wouldn’t drive him, and reading under the covers at night so his uncle wouldn’t stop him. “Do you prefer a personal conflict, or a showdown between good and evil?”

  “A showdown, I think. A big, important victory.”

  “Followed by an epic poem from the court bard and gold from your king?”

  He looked amused, but she saw that trace of sadness or longing again, as well. How had she ever thought his eyes were silver? They weren’t cold and metallic. They were more like a cloud…no, like water, cool water on a cloudy day. Deep enough to lose yourself in. Reflective. And hiding something.

  “More juice?”

  Liz blinked, bringing Jack’s face back into focus. “No, thanks. It was good, though. Almost like fresh-squeezed.”

  “It is fresh-squeezed.”

  “That explains it.” She’d squeezed an orange once and got all of two gulps for her efforts. “How was your trip to Brandon? Did you get what you needed?”

  “I had a great day. Found a cultivator right off the bat, then had lunch with a friend who told me nineteen different ways what a fool I was to get into farming. In the afternoon I tracked down a secondhand tree baler from a grower just outside the Brandon Hills. Beautiful place. You wouldn’t know there was a city just down the road.”

  “What does your friend think you should be doing?”

  After a pause long enough that Liz began to wonder if he would answer, he said, “Ned thinks computers are my vocation, not just a job I tried for a while.”

  “Were they just a job you tried for a while?”

  He smiled, then gave a little shrug. “They were a vocation.”

  That didn’t sound as if he sold or repaired them. “But not anymore?”

  “Not anymore.” His tone said there shouldn’t be any more questions, either.

  Bella and Dora had positioned themselves in the promising zone between Jack and Liz, but so far they’d been ignored. Liz gave each of them half of her last sausage, then placed her knife and fork across her empty plate. “That was delicious. I suppose now I can’t make eggs for dinner.”

  “Were you going to?”

  “Scrambled eggs and stir-fry are my two specialties.”

  “I love stir-fry. Want me to come early and chop?”

  “I want you to come early and cook the whole dinner, but that’s not what we’re going to do. You and Grandma can’t lift a finger tonight.” She carried her plate to the sink. Before she could touch the tap, Jack was at her side, taking the dish away.

  “I don’t ask women who drop in for breakfast to wash dishes.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “I’ll clean up later. Why don’t you come outside with me? I’d like to show you something.” He took a jacket from the hat stand and held it out to her. “That sweater won’t be warm enough.”

  He wrapped his robe tighter, stepped into a pair of green-soled rubber boots and headed down the back steps with the dogs right behind him. Liz followed, pulling on the coat he’d given her. The sleeves dangled past her hands.

  “I look like Stephen.”

  “Then Stephen must be awfully pretty.” Jack reached out to fiddle with her collar. She heard a zipping sound. He unrolled a shiny, nylon hood, and tied it under her chin. “Did you know you lose ninety per cent of your—”

  “—body heat through your head,” she finished, more pleased than she had been in years to learn that a man thought she was pretty. “And you without a hat.”

  In answer, he turned up the collar of his robe. Liz fell into step beside him, wishing she could tuck her arm through his. Was it because he was friends with her grandmother that she kept getting the feeling she already knew him? She had to remind herself not to behave too intimately, given the five minutes or so they’d spent together. How much time had it been? Two hours in all? Three?

  “Where are we going, Jack?”

  “Not far.”

  “Give me a hint.”

  “About three hundred feet east, and fifty feet north.”

  Liz looked around, getting her bearings. She preferred to have distance described in terms of left or right, in front or behind. What three hundred or fifty feet looked like, she had no idea. “We seem to be walking in your front yard. Would your lack of decent clothing be a clue we won’t be leaving it?”

  “Maybe.”

  “There’ll be a notice about you on the bulletin board if you’re not careful. Newcomer Jack McKinnon was seen flaunting his pyjamas Saturday morning while decent people were hard at work.”

  His laughter felt so companionable, she nearly did put her arm through his. They walked side by side, close enough that she sometimes bumped against him. He didn’t try to widen the distance between them. Bella and Dora trotted in circles, nosing the dry grass. Every now and then they found something promising, a branch, a stone, or paper waiting for the next breeze, and picked it up eagerly before racing to Jack. He accepted each offering, throwing it for them to find again.

  He stopped when they reached the oak grove.

  “Is this our destination?” It didn’t seem likely, since she could see it from the road.

  “Not quite.”

  “Susannah and I used to play out here.”

  “In the Ramseys’ yard? Why, with all those acres of your own?”

  “This place was on our rounds. Mrs. Ramsey made great oatmeal cookies.”

  “The crunchy kind, or chewy?”

  “Crunchy. Raisins, no nuts.”

  “Mrs. Duncan, three doors down from us, made the chewy kind. She’d meet me at the door sometimes when I brought her newspape
r, and give me a cookie in exchange. She made ’em big.” Jack held his hands six inches apart, thumbs and forefingers curved in a circle.

  “You had a paper route?”

  “Oh, yeah. For years. They nearly gave me a gold watch when I retired.”

  Liz smiled, trying to picture him as a boy, but all she could do was make him shorter. His face, guarded and kind, stayed the same, and his eyes were still that soft, warm silver.

  “Now for the fifty feet north.” He led the way beyond the oaks to a cultivated bed about as wide as he was tall, but much longer. Tiny evergreens grew close together in rows six inches apart. “This is it. My transplant bed. A thousand seedlings.”

  “They’re just twigs. It’s hard to believe you could ever make a living from them.”

  “I could have started trees from seed, but I bought these when they were a couple of years old, to save time. They’ve been in the ground for a year, developing good root systems.”

  “You’re giving them a head start?”

  “That’s right. I’ll plant them out in the field the spring after next. By then they’ll be strong enough to do well without coddling.” He paused. “I hope this won’t be a problem for you, Liz…I’ve heard from the provincial lab. Your grandmother’s field is perfect.”

  She felt one little pang of something unpleasant. Not jealousy exactly. Traces of territorial imperative? But that was all, and it was gone in a second. “I’m glad, Jack. How long will you have to wait for the first harvest?”

  “Eight, ten years.”

  “You’re a patient man.”

  “I’m learning. Farming fosters a Zen state of mind.”

  “I don’t know if I could take the frustration. When you grow wheat you’ve got a loaf of bread in your hands by the end of the season.”

  Jack smiled. “But children don’t look at a loaf of bread in awe.” His face sobered. “At least most of them don’t, thank goodness. Not in this neck of the woods, anyway.”

  “Is that why you’re doing this? To make things magical for kids?”