hermit heart.
Mile by lonely mile, he waited for the distinctive rustle of plastic in
the cargo space behind the back seat.
He was certain the raccoons were dead. He didn't understand why he
should expect them to revive and tear their way out of the bags, but he
did.
Worse, he knew that if he heard them ripping at the plastic, sharp
little claws busily slicing, they would not be the raccoons he had
shoveled into the bags, not exactly, maybe not much like them at all,
but changed.
'Foolish old coot,' he said, trying to shame himself out of such morbid
and peculiar contemplations.
Eight miles after leaving his driveway, he finally encountered other
traffic on the county route. Thereafter, the closer he drew to Eagle's
Roost, the busier the two-lane blacktop became, though no one would
ever have mistaken it for the approach road to New York City--or even
Missoula.
He had to drive through town to the far side, where Dr. Lester Yeats
maintained his professional offices and his home on the same five-acre
property where Eagle's Roost again met rural fields. Yeats was a
veterinarian who, for years, had cared for Stanley Quartermass'
horses--a white-haired, white-bearded, jolly man who would have made a
good Santa Claus if he'd been heavy instead of whip-thin.
The house was a rambling gray clapboard structure with blue shutters
and a slate roof. Because there were also lights on in the one-story
barn-like building that housed Yeats's offices and in the adjacent
stables where four-legged patients were kept, he drove a few hundred
feet past the house to the end of the graveled lane.
As Eduardo was getting out of the Cherokee, the front door of the
office barn opened, and a man came out in a wash of fluorescent light,
leaving the door ajar behind him. He was tall, in his early thirties,
rugged-looking, with thick brown hair. He had a broad and easy
smile.
'Howdy. What can I do for you?'
'Looking' for Lester Yeats,' Eduardo said.
'Dr. Yeats?' The smile faded. 'You an old friend or something?'
'Business,' Eduardo said. 'Got some animals I'd like him to take a
look at.'
Clearly puzzled, the stranger said, 'Well, sir, I'm afraid Les Yeats
isn't doing business any more.'
'Oh? He retire?'
'Died,' the young man said.
'He did? Yeats?'
'More than six years ago.'
That startled Eduardo. 'Sorry to hear it.' He hadn't quite realized
so much time had passed since he'd last seen Yeats.
A warm breeze sprang up, stirring the larches that were grouped at
various points around the buildings.
The stranger said, 'My name's Travis Potter. I bought the house and
practice from Mrs. Yeats. She moved to a smaller place in town.'
