Abandon

FIFTY

T

he man behind the divan stood up, the machine pistol quivering in his grasp.

There was a flash, Abigail thinking he’d pulled the trigger, the walls of the sitting area lighting up, the snow glinting. It went dark again. Muffled thunder rolled through the basin, shook the chandelier, the weakened floor trembling beneath her feet.

Abigail rose up slowly, her arms outstretched in deference to the weapon. When the lightning came again, she noticed the streaks of blood down the man’s face, his eyes rimmed with black bruises.

“Are you with them?” he whispered again.

“With who?” Abigail asked.

“The men in masks. There were—Get back!” he yelled and Abigail saw the machine pistol shift to her father.

Lawrence said, “You see my hands, right? I promise you we aren’t a threat. In fact, we’re probably in the same—”

“I’ll decide that.” His eyes returned to Abigail. “What are you doing here?”

“We arrived in Abandon this afternoon, a team of six. Downstairs in the foyer is the third remaining member of our party. Tonight, while we were exploring the town, those men in masks took us hostage. They killed our guide and a man named Emmett.”

“Tell me the names of the men who attacked you.”

Abigail had to think for a moment, her mind edging into overdrive. “Isaiah. Stu . . . and Jerrod. Jerrod was also one of our guides on the hike in. But they’re dead now.”

“All?”

“Yes.”

“How’d the other two die?”

“Isaiah and Jerrod fell off a cliff near the pass a couple hours ago.”

“What were you doing up there in this storm?”

Abigail hesitated only a second or two. “Looking for these gold bars. Did you kill Stu?”

The man nodded slowly.

“What happened to you?” Abigail said. “Your face—”

“Is it bad?”

“Yeah.”

“You two look pretty banged up yourselves.”

The man lowered the machine pistol. He stepped out from behind the divan, walked into the beam of her headlamp, tall and very thin, though even through the bruises, he had gentle eyes, which Abigail instinctively trusted. His silver-and-black down coat appeared to have been ripped through the middle by a knife swipe, and his stringy brown hair lay pasted with sweat to the sides of his face.

“I’m Quinn,” he said.

“Abigail.” Though it was difficult to tell with all the bruising, she placed his age around forty.

Her father stepped forward. “Lawrence.”

“Lawrence Kendall?”

“Have we met?”

Quinn smiled. “No, but I’m an admirer of your work.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve been in the history department at the U of A, Tucson, the last seven years. This ghost town’s been my passion for a long time.”

“Thought I was the only one. What’s your last name?”

“Collins.”

“Haven’t heard of you.”

“I’ve only published in my field, Colonial America and the Revolutionary War. Abandon’s more like a hobby, I guess.”

“Last great mystery of the West.”

“Absolutely. But I just got tenure this year, so I’m hoping to get funding and support for a semester of real study. Maybe even a grant to come here for a summer.”

“Good luck getting a permit for that.”

“Yeah, my attitude’s been, Fuck the Forest service. I’ve been coming up from Arizona every year to spend time in this canyon, do a little elk hunting on the side. But it’s a real thrill to meet you, Lawrence.” Quinn reached out to shake his hand. “I’ve read everything you’ve written on Abandon.”