Ravens Roost

Hank had told me he’d found a cabin up at Afton, where he could easily drop down to either the Piedmont or the valley for his work. And Hank was a hunter and I knew this put him closer a group of guys who hunted up in that area. I’d asked him where he’d gotten the money from, but that had made him angry and all I got out of that was a good fucking. He really did have the cabin though, which, at first I’d doubted, and sometimes he’d take me there and do me on the floor or the table—never on the bed, though, which I found both curious and exciting.

Hank finished the work on the walls by Thanksgiving, but then he stayed around Castleton, doing odd jobs and helping to get the winery facilities finished off—and he told me that Belcastle had asked him to work part time there helping with the wine tasting after they opened.

Belcastle hadn’t made any such suggestion to me.

All of this had gone right over my head, so December 21st came as a real eye-opener to me. I’d finished the painting from Ravens Roost that I’d been working on when I first met Dab, and, as he promised, he’d offered me top dollar for it. I hadn’t said I’d sell it to him, though. I was holding back, because I’d decided to give it to him for Christmas in appreciation for his patronage on the winery murals. I’d meant to bring it with me on the day all of the workers were being released for Christmas, but I’d forgotten it.

When I got home, I fixed myself something to eat, but the painting was bugging me, so I wrapped it up, taped a Christmas card to it, and went out again in a light snowfall to cross the mountain and drive down to Castleton.

I drove straight to the manor house, which was decorated with miles of light strands, all in white, and a profusion of red velvet bows. The windows on the first floor were ablaze with lights, and all of the drapes were drawn open. I saw them in the living room, through the French doors out onto the portico, before I had a chance to ring the doorbell.