The Universal Passenger. Book 2. The Straw City

I immediately remembered my bar fight (one of many) and felt uneasy. Trying to "drown" in loud crowds to avoid being alone with my thoughts in silence had always been my default.

"Do you know where that Vance lives? The one the illusionists mentioned?" It suddenly came to me.

"Yeah. Why?"

"Frank mentioned his wife left him for some Vance. We should pay them a visit. Maybe…" I reasoned.

"No way. Absolutely not. Nuh-uh," the kid jumped up, ruining the neat leaf pile.

"What's got you so worked up?" I asked, surprised. "Maybe she could help us find Frank and Glenn."

"Maybe you're right and the woman knows something," Oz shifted uncomfortably, choosing his words. "But Vance won't let you anywhere near her. He's explosive. And jealous."

"I'm not going there to propose marriage," I smirked.

"And Vance owns guns," Oscar reminded me. "Multiple ones. His ranch is huge too. Step foot on his property, and no one can protect you."

"You're actually scared," I observed, watching Oscar. "I'm not asking you to come. Just show me where it is."

"Your funeral," Oz muttered, staring at the lake for a long moment. "But remember – if you can't find common ground with Vance, I can't guarantee you'll walk away in one piece."

* * *

"Maybe we should've bought a bulletproof vest?" Oscar fretted nervously as we approached the ranch gates.

My foot sank into the damp earth with a careless step. A muddy puddle seeped through the clumps of clay and sand, mixing with the soil before splashing across the toe of my boot.

I lifted my foot with a grimace, producing a wet, sucking sound from the mire. A few dirty droplets flew off—one landing on the wooden sign nailed firmly to the ranch's handmade gates.

"Private Property. No Trespassing," the sign declared. Below it, someone had carved with a knife: "No, seriously—fuck off!"

"We can still turn back," the kid whispered, adjusting the saucepan he'd strapped to his head as a makeshift helmet before we left—a choice that had amused me the entire walk here.

"Oz, go home," I sighed. "I'll come back once I get what I need."

"I won't be able to sit still until you do. We go together."

"And if you're right about this farmer being unhinged?" I asked skeptically. "What if you get hurt?"

"If you get hurt, I’ll catch hell for it too. Grandpa didn’t give a return date, and I’m bored out of my mind alone."

Oscar adjusted his saucepan and hopped over the sturdy log fence.

"Why are we sneaking in like thieves?" I muttered, following him. "This is exactly how we get shot faster."

"Our goal is to reach the porch as quietly as possible," Oscar explained, veering off the well-worn tire tracks leading to the house. "With luck, he won’t be home, and his wife will let us in."

"Christ, this place is wrapped in horror stories," I muttered, shaking my head. "Does no one visit?"

"Did you read the sign?" the kid grumbled. "What 'guests'?"

"Got it. So, what about the grounds? Think there are landmines buried here?" I tried to lighten the mood, but Oscar didn't appreciate the joke and started carefully examining every bump in the ground.

"Can I help you gentlemen with something?"

We both startled and turned to see a woman holding a woven vegetable basket, her amber-brown eyes drilling into us. Oscar instinctively raised his saucepan like a weapon.

"I doubt you came here for salt," the woman remarked, nodding at the kitchenware. "You don't strike me as culinary types."

"Apologies for our manners, ma'am," I recovered first. "We're looking for the wife of a man named Vance."

"Well, you've found her," she said, shifting the basket.

She was tall with refined features and a slender frame. She appeared about forty-five, but the wisdom in her slightly wrinkled eyes suggested she might be older. Her well-manicured hands held the basket with an elegance that seemed out of place on a farm – not a speck of dirt under her nails, while even we'd gotten filthy crossing half the property.

Her golden hair was neatly bobbed and styled. She wore an elegant green sundress with black rubber boots similar to Oscar's – though decidedly more fashionable.

She followed my gaze and smiled again: "You could use some boots too, young man, if you value those shoes. It's easy to get stuck in this mud."

"Already learning that the hard way," I sighed, shaking another clump of dirt from my sole.

"Come inside. We'll talk in more civilized surroundings."

The woman marched toward the house, and we wordlessly trailed after her. Oscar continued looking in all directions, as if waiting to be "taken out" by a sniper.

* * *

The interior of the farmhouse was exceptionally cozy. Floor-to-ceiling stained glass windows made the already spacious living room appear even more expansive, flooding it with light. We could clearly see the path we'd taken just minutes earlier.

"We were never going to approach unnoticed," I thought.

"These are portes-fenêtres. From French, it means 'door-windows'," the woman said as she set the table with appetizing homemade cheeses and pickles, pouring us cherry compote that disappeared into our stomachs instantly. She discreetly refilled our glasses from a crystal pitcher.

"I love the feeling of freedom and the option to leave, even through a window," she remarked, carefully returning the pitcher to the table. "So, you were looking for me. To what purpose?"

"How should we address you?" I asked, settling into a rattan chair beside Oscar.

The hostess took her place on a two-seater rattan sofa with cream cushions. She placed one behind her lower back and laid the other across her lap, covering it protectively with her hand.

Her manner was so refined that her very presence made one recall all rules of etiquette. Even Oscar dabbed his mouth with a napkin after each sip, as if afraid of accidentally staining the furniture. His "armor" had been kindly washed and placed on the drying rack by our hostess.

"Justina," the woman inclined her head in greeting, and we followed suit. "I know Oscar – his grandfather is wonderful. I've also heard about your arrival, young man. Your name is Constantin, if I'm not mistaken?"

"That's what they call me," I replied.

"Now you may proceed to business," Justina gestured permission for questions. "I dislike dancing around bonfires."

"Where is your husband?" the boy asked cautiously.

"He's at the far end of the ranch, near the horse stables. Marila – our fast girl – recently gave birth to the most adorable foal. Now Vance spends entire days there."

"It seemed to me the woman said this with melancholy, but I wasn't sure. One doesn't get jealous of pets, that's what I always thought, but then I remembered how hard it is for women to accept that for men they're not the first priority, but represent only a certain percentage of time that men are willing to devote to them. And here it's just a matter of luck. The particularly unlucky ones get pennies in the form of thirty percent and assurances that this should be enough. Hence, ultimately, so many women who keep their hundred percent to themselves, betting on loneliness."

"We won't take much of your time, Justina," I said hurriedly, banishing these vexing thoughts. "Tell me, are you familiar with a man named Frank?"

The woman barely stirred, but my gaze didn't miss how quickly she squeezed the cushion and let go.

"Wouldn't this be about my ex-husband, by any chance?"

"That's how he introduced himself," I nodded in agreement.

"And what has that sly one done this time?"

"The thing is, he and Glenn staged an entire performance for us, posing as mechanics. And stole our motorcycle which we left with them, expecting the men to fix it."

Justina raised an eyebrow and a shadow of a smirk slid across her face:

"Not surprising to me. That's Frankie all over."

"Forgive me," I hastened to continue. "I understand this must be unpleasant for you to hear about your ex-husband and son."

"Son?" Justina frowned, but quickly realized. "Oh of course, you must mean Glenn. He's not my son at all. He's my brother."

I looked at Oscar, who couldn't tear himself away from the compote and, by all appearances, had missed half the conversation.

"I don't quite understand, ma'am," I forced out.

My head began to ache.

"Glenn is my blood brother," Justina repeated distinctly. "I actually have many brothers and sisters, but Glenn is the youngest and most difficult of them all. He constantly lies and believes the stories he makes up on the spot."

"And Frank?"

"Frankie really is my husband – an insufferable, cunning fox. When I left him, Glenn kept in touch and they created their own circus, bonding over our disagreements. They travel from town to town fooling people. But honestly, I didn't expect them to have the nerve to come back and pull their cheap scams in their hometown."

"Is there any chance they might return soon?" I asked the pressing question.

"Who can tell with those two? They're fickle with their plans," the woman sighed.

"I'll never see that bike again," I replied and stood up. "Still, thank you for your help, Justina."

I took the empty glass from Oscar, set it on the table, and pulled the boy along:

"Let's go, Oz."

"Justina, what are these uninvited guests doing in our house?"

Cold steel pressed between my shoulder blades, and I instinctively held my breath, realizing it was a rifle.

Apparently, standing behind me was none other than Vance himself, and right now he had me in his sights.

Chapter 6

Vance did not look like an unbalanced aggressor. Perhaps it was his bushy dark eyebrows, with gray hairs every other one, that diminished their thickness. Perhaps it was the brown freckles that abundantly covered his face, tanned from working in the sun. Or maybe the reason was his frail physique with a large belly and short legs, creating that very deceptive impression that this kindest soul of a man, who had just been fussing with a foal, couldn’t possibly be so full of rage at the world.

And yet, the gun in his hands—which completely clashed with the overall image of a balding middle-aged man in a cowboy hat with a pedigreed beauty of a wife (which, by the way, also caused utter bewilderment)—had been pointed at my back just a couple of minutes ago. Even the presence of a child didn’t seem to faze the man in the slightest.

"Darling, please, be more lenient with our guests. Show some hospitality."

Justina gave her husband a soothing, almost maternal smile and tapped the couch seat beside her, gesturing for him to sit down. But Vance paced back and forth across the room, impatiently casting scrutinizing glances at us as we settled back into our armchairs.

I felt like I was in a pen with a wild beast, one that was surveying its territory, deciding whom to start its meal with.

"I, Justina, am in no hurry to send our guests away. On the contrary, I’m asking them to stay, as I have not yet had the pleasure of getting to know them."

Vance had a small lower jaw, set far back, and at times, there was a lisping quality to his voice that was hard to mask. Though Vance tried, enunciating each word slowly. It was entirely possible that this very thing drove him into a frenzy—the necessity of constant self-control.

"Well? Speak up, what do you want?" Vance finally stopped pacing restlessly along the stained-glass windows and took his place behind his wife, slinging the rifle over his shoulder.

"I wonder, does he even sleep with it?" crossed my mind.

"Sorry for the trouble," Oscar was the first to break the tense silence. "My friend and I got into a scrape. A most unpleasant incident happened to us. As you know, around these parts, you can't always trust people."

"Oh, do tell me," the man snorted and took a closer look. "Oscar, didn’t recognize you at first. How’s your grandfather doing? I adore that old man. So fiery, so headstrong. I remember going hunting with him. Ahh…" Vance looked down dreamily, "those were great times. Your grandpa—a born marksman."

"He’s doing fine," the kid answered curtly.

"Well, and you—cat got your tongue?" the man turned to me.

"The thing is," Oscar continued, not giving me a chance to open my mouth, "Constantin is new around here. Doesn’t know the local customs well, and that’s why we keep landing in trouble."

"Oh really? And here I thought we land in trouble because I keep listening to you, kid," I silently argued with the brat.

"So what’s this trouble, then? Gonna tell me already?" Vance grumbled.

"Don't get worked up, darling," Justina said to her husband. "Let the boys catch their breath after your… dramatic entrance."

"Weakness isn’t in fashion these days," Vance sighed. "Fine, breathe easy—I wasn’t gonna shoot. Unless, of course, you came here to rob us."

"How could we?!" the kid exclaimed, grabbing a glass of cherry compote from the table. "Not only were we lucky enough to be invited into your home, but we also got to taste your homemade treats. And might I say, Justina is simply a marvelous hostess. This compote—nothing short of a masterpiece."