The Straw Men 3-Book Thriller Collection: The Straw Men, The Lonely Dead, Blood of Angels. Michael Marshall

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      I picked up one of the other brochures more or less at random, just making sure it was expensive.

      ‘Like to take a look at this one,’ I said.

      Chip checked, nodded delightedly. ‘It’s a peach,’ he said.

      ‘And while we’re in the area,’ I added, as if an afterthought, ‘let’s check this place out too.’

      I shoved the single piece of paper across the desk at him. He glanced at it, then folded his hands together and looked at me.

      ‘With The Halls, Mr Lautner,’ he said, judiciously, ‘exclusivity is very much the name of the game. We would be looking at very high-end, in monetary terms. Six million would no longer suffice. By quite some margin.’

      I gave him my best and richest smile.

      ‘Like I said. Show me something special.’

      An hour later I was listening to Chip talk about golf. Listening again. Still listening. Would, I was beginning to fear, always be listening. Early in the drive, before we were even out of Dyersburg, he’d quizzed me on my own commitment to the game. I’d rashly admitted I didn’t play, though luckily stopped short of adding, ‘Why on earth would I, for the love of God?’ He stared at me for so long, with a look of such stunned incomprehension, that I said I was intending to take the sport up just as soon as I was settled – that this ambition was, in fact, foremost among my reasons for seeking a property of this type. He’d nodded slowly at this, and then taken it upon himself to give me a crash course on everything there was to know about the game. I reckoned I could bear about another fifteen minutes, and then I’d just have to kill him stone dead.

      I’d already endured being shown the house in Big Sky, with its Sub-Zero appliances and Honduran maple flooring and fireplace handcrafted by some moron out of big pebbles. In the end I simply shook my head. Chip clapped me encouragingly on the shoulder – we were well on the way to best buddies by now – and we trooped back to the car. We drove back down to the main road and followed it further into the mountains, Chip giving me the lowdown on what he perceived to be two tiny flaws in Tiger Woods’s game – both of which he considered to be related to racial temperament. The sky, which had been clear in the early morning, was now the same colour as the road. The Gallatin River, cold and fast, ran along the left. On the other side was a narrow band of valley, filled with trees. The mountains rose steeply on either side, a notch up into the Rockies. You travel far enough down this way you come up out onto a high plain and then swing east into Yellowstone Park, the caldera of a dormant supervolcano that last erupted six hundred thousand years ago. Molten rock has been gathering in the hollows underneath it since then, and my father told me one time that local legend speaks of a faint buzzing noise on the shores of Yellowstone Lake – the sound of pressure slowly building deep in the rock. Apparently the whole lot could go off again any day, plunging us right back into the Stone Age, which would be a bummer. The way I felt after an hour with Chip, I believed I was capable of triggering it just with the crackling coming from my head.

      Twenty miles down the road, Chip pulled over to the right, apropos of nothing as far as I could tell. He hopped out of the car and hurried over to the fence, where I realized there was a small and unassuming gate. This surprised me. Big Sky, in common with most such places, had a huge great entrance, fashioned from trees that had already been sizeable when the Farlings were as yet unheard-of in the area. This gate looked like it led to nothing more than a service road. Chip leaned close to the right-hand side, and I saw his lips move. I realized that an intercom had been built into the post. He straightened and waited for a moment, peering into the sky. A few drops of rain had begun to fall. Then he turned back, listened to something, and walked back to the car.

      By the time he was strapped back in, the gate had opened. Chip drove through, and it shut again immediately behind us. He steered us along a track beyond, two patchy lines where the grass had been flattened. He drove carefully, but I was still bounced around. I winced. ‘Kind of a rustic thing, is it?’

      He smiled. ‘You’ll see.’

      The track continued for maybe a quarter of a mile, cutting at an angle away from the main road and toward a dense stand of trees. As we rounded them, the surface abruptly changed. From two worn lines in the scrub it switched to narrow but immaculate blacktop. I turned quickly in my seat, and saw that the main road was now invisible, obscured behind the trees.

      ‘Cunning,’ I said.

      ‘Nothing is left to chance at The Halls,’ Chip intoned. ‘Those who choose to make their homes there can count on the very highest standards of privacy.’

      The path turned back away from the river, winding behind an outcrop to follow a steep course up a gully, curving further and further around to remain obscured from the main road. Within a few minutes it was hard to believe that the highway had ever existed. Somebody had put genuine thought into The Halls. I was mildly impressed. ‘How long has this place been here?’

      ‘Development started seven years ago,’ Chip said, peering through the windshield against the rain. ‘Just a shame you’re not going to see it in better weather. You get a good snowfall up here, you’re going to think you’ve died and gone to heaven.’

      ‘Have you sold many?’

      ‘Not a one. There’s only ten home sites, and they’re in no hurry to fill the last few. Be honest with you, their leaflet does them no favours. I’ve told them they should have some pictures on it.’

      We were approaching the top of a rise now, having climbed at least five hundred feet in a long series of zigzags.

      ‘None of the other realtors I talked to seemed to know about it.’

      Chip shook his head. ‘It’s our exclusive. Leastways, it is now.’

      He winked at me, and for just a second I got a glimpse of the man Mr Farling might be when he shut his door behind him at night. I turned away, suddenly sure that it had been a good decision not to introduce myself by my real name. I got the feeling that Chip might have recognized the name Hopkins sooner than he would that of a dead Los Angeles architect, however many movies the latter’s buildings had been in.

      A gate now became visible, as we turned a final bend. It was made not of wood, but of very large pieces of mountain rock, and sat on the top of a small rise, so that what lay beyond was not visible. As we drew closer, I saw that the words ‘The Halls’ had been handcarved into it, in the same typeface they’d used on their sales sheet.

      ‘This is it,’ Chip chirped, superfluously.

      On the other side of the rise the road turned sharply left. I got an impression of a range of higher peaks half a mile away, but this was obscured by another bank of trees. Behind them was a fence that stretched off in both directions. The fence was very high, hiding everything that lay beyond. The rain was coming on harder, and the sky looked black fit to burst.

      ‘The course is over the other side,’ Chip said, switching seamlessly onto autopilot. ‘Nine hole, Nicklaus père et fils design, bien sûr. As they say – who can beat a pair of Jacks? Naturally it’s under cover at this time of year, and who needs it – with the Thunder Fall and Lost Creek runs barely minutes away? Imagine the convenience of world-class outdoor facilities, only a short drive from homes to delight the most discerning and sophisticated buyer.’

      Indeed, I thought. And imagine me poking a finger up your nose.

      ‘This is СКАЧАТЬ