Chapter 11: The Map

"Chair," Granger said.

I stared at him.

"Chair, Rae. Now. Whoever it is doesn't see me standing."

I grabbed the wheelchair from against the wall and swung it behind his knees.

He dropped into it so hard the frame rang.

By the time I opened the door, his eyes were black again and his hands were folded in his lap.

The cabin was dark. Somebody had turned off the lamp I always leave on.

The kitchen smelled like gun oil and pipe tobacco.

I knew that smell. I'd known it my whole life.

I hit the light switch.

My father sat at the kitchen table in his work jacket, his silver cuff on his right wrist, his big hands flat on the wood.

"Hello, Rae," he said.

Granger rolled in behind me and stopped.

"Lane," he said. "You're in my house."

"Door was open."

"It wasn't," I said.

My father didn't argue.

"What do you want?"

He looked older than he had at the altar. Grayer. There were pouches under his eyes.

"Jagger came down off the mountain an hour ago," he said. "Holding his wrist. He's telling the Gamma you threw acid on him."

"I didn't throw anything."

"What did you do to him?"

"What you didn't."

He took that without flinching. I'll give him that.

He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a folded paper.

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