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Boone double checked the map. He finger-traced the route. He stabbed the boys’ locale and growled into the intercom. “There ''is'' no other way out. If they haven’t coming past they must still be in there.” | Boone double checked the map. He finger-traced the route. He stabbed the boys’ locale and growled into the intercom. “There ''is'' no other way out. If they haven’t coming past they must still be in there.” | ||
A cold wind whipped up the valley | A cold wind whipped up the valley. Aggie looked west. It was fearsome dark a mile down the lake. “[[liquidity|Liquidity]] situation is tightening up, Boone. We be wet if we don’t move.” Underscore and exclamation point: a fat globule of rain slapped the windshield. | ||
Boone snapped shut the map and slid into the cabin. He barked into the two-way: “Ok. Let’s go. Boys: prime your | Boone snapped shut the map and slid into the cabin. He barked into the two-way: “Ok. Let’s go. Boys: prime your [[GMSLA]]s. Put the rain shields up and get ready for action. Something’s going down. I ''feel'' it.” | ||
“Roger that, Boonester.” | |||
“Okay. We’re coming through. Boone ''out''.” | |||
Up on the exit points, the boys shucked their [[repo]]s. Aggie loaded a twenty-ten, bumped the stock and mounted the running board. | |||
Boone holstered the [[C.B.]] He slammed the [[AIF]] into forward, set wipers on high and stomped on the gas. Aggie locked her elbow and hung on tight. | |||
Boone | The road hugged the lake coast. Boone hugged the road. They shot past deserted waterside chalets: ''des res'' for the Oberland elite, battened down for winter. The rain got heavy. Aggie snagged a grab-handle and swung into shotgun. | ||
The depo whined. Road clear. No sign of the Wickliffe semi. | |||
Boone rode the camber hard. The AIF growled. The vehicle belted through roadkill and assorted autumn detritus. Aggie navigated. She punched the dash. The GPS came and went. The road was slick. The AIF got squirrelly on the corners. | |||
The depo whined. No sign of the semi. | The depo whined. No sign of the semi. | ||
They shot past a deserted hotel | They shot past a deserted hotel, boarded up for winter. The dwellings thinned out. The trees came thick and fast now. The road gained elevation: smashing lake-views through stair-rods and spindly trees. | ||
The depo whined. No sign of the semi. | The depo whined. Alles klaar: No sign of the semi. | ||
They road dipped down. They shot past an old school. ''Not'' boarded up. Lights beamed through the gloaming: | They road dipped down. They shot past an old school. ''Not'' boarded up. Lights beamed through the gloaming: Schweizer nippers learning times tables. Boone gunned the AIF and left the Swiss nippers for dust. They rode a mile of dotted chalets and charming vistas on the lake. The rain was biblical. | ||
The depo whined. No sign of the semi. | The depo whined. No sign of the semi. | ||
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Boone fished leaves out of his mouth. | Boone fished leaves out of his mouth. | ||
“Guess we better go see if the | “Guess we better go see if the Schweizer nippers can give us a tow.” | ||
They fashioned paper hats and trudged back through the rain. They rocked up at the school they’d seen: quelle surpise: ''not'' a school. Some kind of ''orphanage''. Set back behind a wrought iron gate and imposing statue of a wanderer in the fog: <blockquote>''“Give me your poor, huddled, lost little [[Special purpose vehicle|special purpose vehicles]]. Give them all to me: yea, even unto their tens of thousands. I will nourish them. I will feed them. I will shelter them, just as they will shelter you, and your taxable income.”'' </blockquote> | |||
The house was a grand old gothic mansion. It was set back from the lake in defended by firs, snuggled into the folds of the mountain. A jumble of architectural styles grafted on, like some Frankensteinian horror-show. An A-Frame extension. Out right, an art nouveau wing, of glass and wrought iron, glowed and sparked like a firefly. The main reception: a neoclassical portico, emblazoned in cursive font: Ugland House. Behind: a grand post-Raphaelite portrait of an old man with a cracking moustache. [[George Robert Maguire Ugland|George R. M. Ugland]], 1827-1957. | |||
The door opened. A young administrator stood behind. He said, “The masters are are entertaining clients this evening. But come in: it seems nasty out. He smiled an oily smile. | The door opened. A young administrator stood behind. He said, “The masters are are entertaining clients this evening. But come in: it seems nasty out. He smiled an oily smile. | ||