Gryphon_ New and Selected Stories - Charles Baxter [202]
In D———, Krumholtz had picked up the keys for the rental car from an agent wearing rainbow suspenders. As soon as he found himself in traffic, he knew he had been misdirected. His goal had been Happy Valley Road, which led north out of the city in the general direction of Mallard’s compound, but somehow he had detoured onto a collection of chain restaurants and stores on Sam Wallis Boulevard, which was not actually a boulevard but a narrow two-way street with left-turn lanes that appeared out of nowhere and traffic lights that turned red almost without warning. On both sides Krumholtz saw slumped drivers, their faces shadowed with glumly placid Christian resignation. He was used to the honking of defiant urban car horns, but here in D———, traffic proceeded within an ominous defeated silence. The GPS in the rental car had been disabled, but Krumholtz decided he wouldn’t have been able to use it anyway. After stopping at a FirePower gas station for directions, he asked the kid behind the inside counter where Happy Valley Road was.
“You from here?” the kid asked. He did not make eye contact with Krumholtz.
“No.”
“You want to get to Happy Valley Road?”
“Yes.”
“Business?” The kid unwrapped a Charm Skool candy bar, then bit into it.
“Yeah. I’m going to see James Mallard.”
The kid whistled between lips browned by milk chocolate. “You’re going to see him? No one sees him. He’s like Baron von Dracula or somebody. Also I heard he’s blind.”
“That’s not what I heard,” Krumholtz said.
“Huh. Reason I ask about Happy Valley,” the kid said, “is that it’s hard for outsiders to find.” He took another bite of the candy bar and chewed thoughtfully. “You gotta turn around, go past the Señor Big Cheese and the On Spec! Glasses place, then angle past the curve where the U-Store-It thing is, and then you have to watch carefully, because Happy Valley Road is just past the Au Secours MegaDrug, there on the right.”
“Thanks,” Krumholtz said. “Thanks a lot. By the way, you’ve got a bit of chocolate, right there, on your chin.”
“That’s what I meant to do,” the kid said. He turned around and opened the till, counting the singles, giving his back to Krumholtz.
Once out of D——— and headed up Happy Valley Drive, Krumholtz had consulted his directions. He was supposed to turn off Happy Valley onto Eitel Avenue, which would take him to County Road M, and then to Valhalla Road, where Mallard lived. But now, having twisted and turned on the roads that seemed to have no destination at all in mind, that wandered through swampy areas and then back up to rocky plateaus before descending again, he had found himself in this post-wilderness spot that looked as if the first-growth trees had been cut years ago before the spruce and maples had replaced them. He had never been in northern Minnesota before, but the manufacturer’s rep on the airplane headed toward D——— had told him that there were still wolves up here. He could believe it. “Wolves,” his fellow passenger had said. “And moose.” The passenger sat back. “Oh, and the bears. I forgot to mention the bears. And they all eat things.”
How many places could you find in the world where a cell phone wouldn’t work? Krumholtz checked his watch again, a cheap drugstore brand, and noticed that it had stopped. The time was still two thirty and would be two thirty from now on. He was very late. Folding himself back into his car—he was a big man, and the top of his head had almost continual bruises and bumps from lintels and beams and overhead luggage racks and doorframes—he started the engine and edged forward back onto the road. Overhead, the hawk circled away.
Ahead of him the road began another series of indecisive twists and turns, heading into a forest so dense that a desolate canopy of branches blocked the sky and shielded the road from the sun. He felt as if he were drifting into a tunnel of vegetation where the usual norms had been reversed. Here the trees were permanent, but the route was temporary and