He never should have opened the door.
Neal Carey knew better, too-when you open a door, you’re never really sure what you’re letting in.
But he had been expecting Hardin, the old shepherd who came every day at teatime to sip whiskey with him. It was raining-had been raining for five solid days-and by all rights Hardin should have arrived for “a bit of wet to take the chill off.”
Neal pulled his wool cardigan tighter around his neck, edged his chair a little closer to the fire, and hunched down lower over the table to read. The fire was waging a brave but losing battle against the cold and damp, which was miserable even for March in the Yorkshire moors. He took another hit of coffee and tried to settle back into Tobias Smollett’s Ferdinand Count Fathom, but his mind just wasn’t on it. He’d been at it all day, and now he was ready for a little conversation and a spot of whiskey. Where the hell was Hardin?
He looked out the small window of the stone cottage and couldn’t see a thing through the mist and driving rain, not even the dirt road that climbed up from the village below. His was the only cottage on this part of the moor, and on this afternoon he felt more isolated than ever. He usually liked that-he only hiked down to the village every three or four days to pick up supplies-but today he wanted some company. The cottage usually felt snug, but today it was suffocating. The one electric lamp didn’t do much to brighten the general gloom. Maybe he just had cabin fever; he had been up there for seven months, alone save for Hardin’s visits, with only his books for company.
So he didn’t stop to think when he heard the knock. He didn’t look out the window, or ease the door open, or even ask who was there. He just got up and opened the door to let Hardin in.
Except it wasn’t Hardin.
“Son!”
“Hello, Dad,” Neal said.
That’s when Neal Carey made his second mistake. He just stood there. He should have slammed the door shut, braced his chair against it, jumped out a back window, and never looked back.
If he had done those things, he never would have ended up in China, and the Li woman would still be alive.
Don Winslow
The Trail to Buddha's Mirror
PART ONE The China Doll
Don Winslow
The Trail to Buddha's Mirror