Light the Hidden Things

by Don McQuinn

  Light The Hidden Things

  by

  Don McQuinn

  Praise for Light The Hidden Things...

  “Light the Hidden Things is a beautiful story about the haunting weight of the past, the hope that comes from second chances, and most of all, the healing power of love. It’s written with power and skill by a seasoned author who understands the nuances of the human heart. Carter Crow’s emotional journey is deeply personal, yet universal. Recommended for romantics everywhere.”

  Susan Wiggs

  #1 New York Times Best Selling Author

  “This is a book about coming home, a book about finding your place after being long gone.”

  Robert J. Ray

  The Weekend Novelist

  "...a book that deserves to be read. It's well-crafted, real, and will stay with you..."

  Owen Wiseman

  "From the beginning you feel like you are right there in the story, feeling their emotions..."

  Bleeding Sweat

  Main Menu

  Start Reading

  Afterword

  Dedication and Acknowledgement

  Contact Information

  Copyright Information

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Carter Crow eased his pickup and the attached Airstream mobile home off the narrow road onto the potholed remains of an asphalt parking lot. He stopped and stepped to the ground with an almost swaggering economy of motion that suggested in a different time he'd have traveled on horseback and probably still could. Rangy, in levis and a short-sleeved blue work shirt, he broke the image by wearing laced field boots instead of a cowboy’s heeled ropers. Crisp features seemed almost aggressive, nothing like handsome. A bristle of close-cropped black hair glinted silver at the temples.

  Reaching inside the cab, he brought out an off-white straw Stetson. Before putting it on he glanced at the barely legible message inked on the sweatband: Semper Fi, old buddy. Ride easy. Fine creases of a smile touched the corners of his mouth for the moment it took to put it on and tilt it just so.

  Several yards to his left stood a dilapidated clapboard building that clearly was once a store-and-house combination. To his right the land eased down to Lake Connolly. Early morning sun turned wavelets into silver filigree on jade. Beyond that a tumbled blanket of forest green so dark it appeared to vibrate sprawled up mountain slopes. Above the tree line austere peaks of bare stone raked the sky. Last winter's snow still patched them on this cloudless late summer day. Crow inhaled to the depths of his lungs, savored firs, the tang of frigid lake water, sun-drenched earth and plants.

  When he returned his gaze to his immediate surroundings, however, he spoke aloud, a deep voice touched by a softening drawl that heightened the sadness of the words. “I’m glad you never saw what’s happened here, Smitty. Good memories ought never be broken.” He hesitated, then huskily, “No more bad memories for you, my friend. No more good ones taken away, either.”

  Reasserting the present, Crow frowned at the opportunistic weeds claiming every break in the shattered parking surface. Three knee-high, scrawny Douglas firs strained for growth. The boarded-up windows of the old building stared back at him. A cement slab in front once held gas pumps; now it suggested a grave marker.

  Still apparently talking to himself, he was gruff. “We made a mistake. We’ll just walk around a bit, then shove off.” He gave a quiet but unmistakable command. “Major, come.”

  A mass of dog tumbled out to stand beside him. It grinned excitement. Muscles bulged under a brown coat relieved by white forepaws and a white blaze on its chest. A wagging tail slapped Crow’s leg. Concentrating once again on the distant scenery, Crow lowered a hand that settled unerringly on the animal’s head, a move of long companionship.

  Frenzied yapping from the building spun them that way. They watched in disbelief as something like a white lint bunny shot out the building’s front door and vaulted off the porch in headlong charge.

  A disheveled woman flew out in pursuit, her yells as strident as the yaps. Bare legs under cut-off jeans flashed in sunshine that emphasized the dirt smudges on her face. Despite the blue bandanna binding her hair, stray skeins rich as strong coffee flared out the right side and in back. A paint-stained black sweatshirt with sleeves cut off at the elbows fluttered and flapped.

  Quickly, the small dog realized the unmoving targets of its wrath were not frozen into immobility by fear. Showing commendable wisdom, it skidded to a stop several yards away. After looking to assure the woman was coming fast, it commenced up-and-down hops that demonstrated unrelenting ferocity without actually moving it the least bit closer.

  Tail wagging happily, Major advanced to investigate. Crow made a sharp sound, then said, “Major, sit.” The dog obeyed instantly, cocking his head from side to side, fascinated by this wondrous entertainment. He voiced approval in a thunderous woof. The white dog shrieked. Crow would have sworn it backed up in mid-leap like a dandelion puff hit by a stiff breeze.

  The woman arrived just in time to whisk her pet out of the air. The move was so quick, the grip so sure, a final yap was squashed down to a muffled yeep. Clutching the animal to her breast, breathless, she demanded, “Call off that beast.”

  Crow regarded her with the same detached amusement Major afforded her dog. He guessed her age as not that much younger than himself, which made her mature enough to consider rational dismissal of a puppy-grade confrontation.

  Further evaluation of her expression knocked the props out from under that hope.

  Too bad, he thought, and allowed himself a hidden sigh. She was attractive, despite all the signs of low-order grunt work. A bad sign; a woman brimming with the righteousness of hard labor was a fertile ground for trouble. And this one looked ready for war.

  There were stains under her eyes. Crow was embarrassed by the conviction she’d been crying. He told himself he couldn’t possibly be a factor in her distress because the tears were long dry. He nevertheless felt completely in the wrong, clumsy, and generally out-gunned.

  Crow’s tip of the hat was slow. The antique courtesy didn’t do much for the woman, but oddly her pet seemed to calm a bit. With a deliberate look down at Major then back to the woman, Crow said, “That’s not right, ma’am.”

  Confusion deepened her frown. “What do you mean, not right? That thing tried to kill Zasu.” Calling down the force of law, she added, “You’re trespassing.”

  Major liked being the center of interest. Unfortunately, as dogs will, he yawned to relieve his excitement. The effect was like looking into a wet, red, suitcase full of teeth.

  The woman’s arm around Zasu visibly tightened. Zasu squeaked. The woman said, “See? She’s terrified.”

  Crow said, “Don’t blame my dog, ma’am. I made all the trouble. He’s just a mutt, doesn’t know about trespass. It’s me that’s out of line. I apologize.” He pointed to the cab and said, “Ride.” The dog jumped in. Crow pushed the door almost closed before adding, “He’s a good dog, ma’am. He’s big and he’s ugly enough to scare off a small storm, but he’s gentle. It’s not kind to call him ‘that thing’ or ‘that beast.’ He’s got feelings.”

  The woman blinked without any loss of suspicious vigilance. “He seems to mind well. He’s just so big.”

  Leaning back against the door of the cab, Crow said, “He’s a big old boy, that’s a fact. Packed tight. Go about one -fifteen, one-and-a-quarter. Called an American Bulldog. Not many around.”

  Zasu squirmed and the woman’s frown dug in again. She said, “Very interesting. I want you to leave anyhow. He looks dangerous.”

  Crow's grin was open, crackling blue eyes and strong teeth. The weathered features warmed with it. “Dangerous is the furth
est thing from his mind. He’s a gentleman.”

  Tired of being left out of the conversation, the subject gentleman pushed his head out the open window and nosed Crow’s hat down over his eyes. While Crow straightened it, the dog’s tail striking the back of the seat was a metronome of friendliness. The woman forced a small smile and said, “Zasu and I will have to take your word for his character. You said he had a name? I didn’t catch it.”

  For a moment Crow was completely taken by the changes her smile wrought. Hastily recovering, he said, “Major.”

  Her hard look was back instantly. Turquoise eyes drilled Crow and he recalled that turquoise is a rock. She whipped out a cell phone. “That’s it, mister. Go. In five seconds I call 911.”

  Wide-eyed, Crow pushed Major away from the driver’s seat. “What brought that on?”

  “I don’t like being made fun of.”

  “I wasn’t making fun.”

  “Ha! Major? Who’d name a dog Major?”

  “Well, me, for one.”

  Thumb on keypad, she hesitated. “You’re not... you know, being smart? I mean it’s like me naming Zasu Ripper. Major’s a funny name.”

  “I’m a funny man.”

  The eyes practically flamed. “I never noticed. Naming a dog something like that’s cruel.”

  “You obviously don’t know many majors, ma’am.” Crow fiddled with his hat, sincere as granite. “They’re a lot like other people, for the most part. And anyhow, people don’t always measure up to what they’re called. Like, my first name’s Carter, which is rightfully a last name, but my last name’s Crow. I’m not often mistaken for a bird. Just so for Major. It’s who he is. We talked it out when he was a pup. It doesn’t trouble him.”

  She smiled again. This time it shimmered, like water waiting to boil, and suddenly laughter spilled through. Crow thought the sound almost overruled the tear stains. Too soon, it was over. It left him with the unsettling notion that it had escaped a bad place.

  Crow decided to do something he rarely did. He made conversation. “You own this outfit?”

  Half-turning toward the building, she said, “Somewhat.” There was no inflection and Crow could only see part of her face, but he was sure there was a grimace.

  It brought Crow up short. It also reminded him to stay out of other people’s lives. Particularly their sorrows. He climbed into the pickup. “Sorry about the commotion.”

  Petting the squirming Zasu, the woman waved off the apology. “No harm, no foul.” She paused, before continuing, “You come here for the fishing?”

  “I did. Fellow that told me about it used to come here. Long time ago.”

  “My uncle built all this. They - my aunt and uncle - lived in the back half. I’m bringing it back.” Challenge buzzed in the last. When Crow didn’t react, apology tinted what followed. “Maybe your friend knew Bake.” She tilted her head toward a wooden sign dangling at roadside from a metal pole. It hung endwise from its remaining chain and someone had punctuated the wood with a rifle so now it read BAKE’S: BAIT. The pole had suffered, as well. A large blotch of paint marked where a car had knocked it into an eastward list. The woman added, “There’s a county-maintained RV site on the lakeshore road, about a mile on.”

  “My friend never mentioned knowing anyone here.” Crow started the engine. “Much obliged for the campsite tip. Is there a good place to eat back in town?”

  “The Silver Dollar’s got okay pub grub. For a real dinner, try Martha’s.”

  “I noticed Martha’s. Sign said home cooking.”

  “Used to be. She’s got a cook now. Good as Martha, but no one’s got the guts to say that.”

  Crow put the truck in gear as the woman walked away. Backing and filling, he took time to mark more details of the location. Beyond the broken parking sites and toward the lake were fire pits, squatting under leafy shade trees like an archeological find. Further down the slope a few firs towered, giants that knew the seasons of centuries. Rhododendrons grew at their bases. Unkempt and leggy, their vigor was careless splendor.

  He watched the woman up the steps of the porch. She strode inside past a lopsided screen door hanging by one hinge. A breeze made it sway, uncertain as a drunken wink. The building itself apparently started life painted green. Then it was blue. The last time anyone bothered to spruce it up, they chose brown. Weathering had peeled off haphazard slabs of all three, giving the walls a mottled appearance that made Crow think of a very dead reptile. A few spots showed the original wood, gray with exposure but still sound, as if the old relic knew disrepair was temporary but pride was forever.

  Turning away, Crow pictured a different time. People on the porch laughed, swapped stories, enjoyed. “Must have been special then,” he said toward the uncaring mountains.

  Later, at the turnoff to the county campsite, he couldn’t decide to stay there or press on. Major dozed on his end of the bench seat. When the truck slowed he sat up to face Crow.

  Crow said, “I know what you're thinking. No way in the world that lady will ever fix up that wreck. You see she’d been crying? A woman like that, crying.” He shook his head. “You hear her laugh?” His words fell to a whisper that had the rasp of dry rope. “Nice. Not as nice as Patricia, though. You never heard her. Not sad underneath, like that lady. Except later, when...” He stopped abruptly.

  Fool. She didn’t sound like Patricia. No one ever laughed like her. No one ever will.

  He shrugged, twisted neck muscles gone stiff. He ended up looking at Major. His smile for the dog was crooked. “See how people crowd into your life? You have to be on your toes: Keep them out. Even the nice ones.” He made a noise in his chest. Not a laugh, not a snarl - a thing that wanted to be both. “Especially the nice ones.”

  Crow drove into the campsite. When he spoke, forced cheer mocked a voice still struggling to pull free of dark reminiscence. “And what’s it mean when you ask someone if they own something and they tell you ‘Somewhat?’ What kind of answer is that?”

  Major lay back down and curled in a tight ball.

  Crow pressed on. “That’s your problem, you know? You’re a fine listener. Gifted, you might say. Conversation-wise, though, you don’t hold up your end worth doodly. Frankly, if it wasn’t for stodgy, you wouldn’t have any personality at all.”

  Major’s wet snuffle had all the earmarks of a rude canine retort.

  * * * * *

  It was just coming dusk when Crow came out of the Airstream and settled to the ground facing the lake. The water was a flat black infinity stretching away toward hulking, slowly disappearing mountains. Rough, runneled bark of a fir pressed against his Pendleton wool shirt.

  He liked the night. In the past it had been the place of stalking, of being stalked. Fear waited for darkness, ticking off the seconds of the sun, licking its chops. Daylight had fear; no question about that. It was different, though. Night time fear slipped into a man like a knife, slick and chill, turning organs into grease.

  Until a man learned to use the night and its fear. A man became darkness. Became fear.

  Crow knew this like few others.

  The time of such things was gone, dead as the dust of the places where he'd learned. He exulted in their going. He never spoke of his pride in his skills. He tried not to think of those who discovered their skills couldn't match his.

  Some things refuse to leave the mind.

  Still, for Crow, the night was true sanctuary. As he'd turned it to his benefit in a time of violence, so now he embraced it - and it him - when he needed peace. There was privacy. There was obscurity and, when things were best, invisibility. In the darkness he thought more clearly, sorted through the good and bad, threw out what he didn't want in his head.

  Night was when he closed his eyes, making the darkness perfect. Intimate. Solitary. When he talked to Patricia.

  She made me think of you. Not because she's alone. I like to think you never thought of yourself as alone. I want to believe you always knew I'd be back.

 
; I'm not going to talk about that. I've said as much about all that as I'm able.

  Remember how you always picked on me to tell you about my day when I came home from work? Graveled me at first, you asking about this, about that. Took a while for me to learn you really cared about what I did. Took even longer to learn I really cared what you did while I was gone, too. Even before Joe. When it was just us. You never believed I cared that much. You talked about doing the floors like it was a penalty. Can't really argue. But they were our floors, my Patricia taking care of our home.

  I still remember your face when I told you I'd show you the right way to make a bed. Never knew until that moment such a soft-spoken lady could have such a rough side to her tongue. Very strong lesson.

  Then you tore me up again next day when I came home with the truffles and flowers. Said I shouldn't ever try to bribe you. I did, though, didn't I? I liked doing it. I don't know why I never said how beautiful you were when I brought home something like that. You always sounded off, real sharp, but I never listened. I just watched what your face said, what your eyes told me. Did you ever know I'd buy one of those silly fancy candy boxes and just grin like a monkey all the way home because I couldn't wait to see how you'd smile and put your hands together under your chin?

  No. I never said. I'm sorry, babe.

  So many sorries.

  There I go again, coloring outside the lines. I said I'd tell you about today.

  There's a calamity up the road. I'm camped next to Lake Connelly. Old clown Major's just behind me in the Airstream, out cold. Anyhow, lady's trying to bring back an old store. Smitty told me about it. You remember Gunny Smith? His wife, Millie? Five boys? Yeah, them. The family that invented noise. He's gone. Falujah. Anyhow, he knew the place long ago. Great little store to take care of fishermen, hunters, campers, vacationers. Place is a wreck. She means to make it work again.

  Not a chance. A dreamer. I see them all the time. Think hard work and good intentions is all you need.