Part 6
Vernon Stanley awoke to incessant pounding. Disbelief held him frozen in bed for several moments, then reality grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. Anger bubbled in his chest. Jerking the covers off, he sat up and planted his feet on the floor, then reached for his glasses on the bedside table. "I told you to leave me alone! Didn't you listen to one word I said?" Grumbling, sliding both feet into his slippers, then standing to pull on his robe, he shuffled out of his room and down the dark hall.
"Young upstart thinks he can come in here and take over everything." Vern waved one hand through the air, punctuating his remarks, and kept a careful grip on the stair railing with the other hand. "Town wants to get rid of me? Wants to put me out to pasture – to hell with them! Not like I cared about any of those worthless, no-good, always-complaining, never healthy vermin, anyway!"
He arrived at the landing and turned carefully to make his way down the second set of stairs. The storm had taken out the power hours ago. He had a generator in the barn, but the temperature had dropped since the rain started, dissipating the heat and leaving behind a pleasant, though moist, atmosphere, so he hadn't cranked it up yet.
The pounding grew louder. "Shut up, you crazy fool! Can't you see I'm moving as fast as I can? Gets so a man can't have any peace around here, anymore. Used to be a fellow could go a month without folks turning up at his front door, now it's Grand Central Station around here, dammit."
Reaching the main floor, he walked toward the front door, but on second thought, detoured for a flashlight he kept in a drawer just inside the living room. He realized he'd neglected to turn off the battery-powered lantern burning in front of one of the long windows on either side of the door. Angry with his forgetfulness, he snapped it off. He could hear the pounding rain and the sudden question of why in the world Travis Mansfield would be calling on him in the middle of a storm struck him as odd. He turned on the flashlight. The powerful white beam pierced through the gauzy curtains, illuminating two figures huddled by his door; neither form looked familiar. Granted, his eyes weren't as sharp as they used to be, but recognition did not register, and he instantly became suspicious.
Tucking the flashlight under his arm, he turned for the living room and reached for the shotgun he kept over the fireplace. A quick check of the condition (he cleaned it every Saturday), then he dropped two shells into the double barrels. Feeling a little more confident, he hurried back to the door. The pounding had remained steady.
"Who is it? Speak plain - I've got a shotgun."
The pounding stopped. Silence reigned for a heavy minute, then a tired, hoarse voice strained through the wood and glass. "I'm a Federal Agent, sir. My partner's injured; we need your help."
Not what he expected. Deciding to err on the side of caution, Vernon reached and turned the lock, then stepped away from the door. "It's open. Come in. Slow, so I can see you." Keeping his eyes on the door, he managed to aim the flashlight while maintaining his grip on his weapon.
The knob turned slowly, then the door opened wide, revealing two men. Vernon immediately propped his gun against the wall, jammed his flashlight into his pocket, and hurried to assist. One man, pale, soaked with rain, barely on his feet, had his arm wrapped around his partner. He staggered beneath the added weight and groaned as Vernon transferred most of the other man's weight onto his own shoulders and lead them into the living room. The second man didn't even seem to be aware he was walking. His head hung low between his shoulders, both arms dangling limp at his sides. Vernon helped turn and aim him toward the couch. He dropped boneless and fell back, but the first man caught him and eased him sideways onto the cushions. When he had his partner settled, he turned to Vernon.
"I appreciate your trust." Weariness sat heavy on him. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, breathing deep, but Vernon noticed he kept his hand on his partner's chest. "He's hurt. I need your help."
Instinct kicked in. Huffing at his own inaction, Vernon stood quickly. He grabbed the throw off the back of the couch and shoved it at the man. "First, we need to get you out of those clothes. Pull off his wet things and get this afghan around him. I'll find something else upstairs; I've got plenty. Stay here - I'll be right back."
Shutting the front door, he turned and hurried for the stairs. Behind him, he heard the man's voice, talking low and gentle to his partner. Taking just a moment to trade his pajamas and robe for jeans and a shirt, it took him only a matter of minutes to run through the extra rooms and pull out some dry clothes. Then back down the stairs and into the living room.
The man on the couch lay ensconced in the colorful afghan Effie had knit. He smiled, knowing she'd be pleased it had played a role in aiding someone. A pile of wet clothes lay beside the couch. Vernon handed the man the dry bundle in his arms, then bent to pick up the wet things and bring them into the washroom. He waved the man's apology aside, hurrying to take care of things that needed to be done, so he could move on to more important matters.
"I expect you're both tired to the bone. I've got some leftover soup I can warm up lickity split. Power's out, but the stove's gas, so there's no problem there. I got a generator in the barn we can crank up if we need it." Dumping the soup in a big pan and turning the flame to low, he returned to the men. "I'm Vernon Stanley, by the way. Most folks call me Vern. You can call me what you want."
His oldest son's warm-ups looked comical on the stranger. Vernon frowned to hide his smile and nodded. "Looks like that fits just fine." Crossing his arms, he moved to stand closer. "Want to tell me how you two came to get lost in the woods?"
