Her laugh was nervous. “If you knew how utterly unsafe I felt with you, it would surprise you. What I meant was that it just all fitted in — oh, why did I try to explain it? I’m no good at that stuff anyway. Can’t you drive with one hand, Donald?”
“Yes.”
She took my right hand off the steering wheel, slipped it around her shoulders, and cuddled over. I drove slowly through the deserted streets of the little city, a city of ghosts, of memories, with houses that needed paint, with shade trees catching the moonlight on polished green leaves and shimmering it back into the night, while the dark blotches of shadow below seemed to be pools of Indian ink which had been splotched on the ground with some big brush.
Henry Ashbury was waiting for us at the auto camp. He’d chartered a plane and then hired a car to take him the rest of the way.
“Beat your schedule, Dad, didn’t you?” Alta asked.
He nodded and looked us over with thoughtful eyes. He shook hands with me, kissed Alta, and then turned to look at me again. He didn’t say anything.
“Well, don’t be so serious about it,” Alta said. “I hope you’ve got some whisky in that bag of yours because this town is closed up tight. There are some saucepans in here, and I could make a nice little toddy as a nightcap.”
We all went into the double cabin where Alta had registered for herself and her father. We sat down, and Alta made some hot whisky drinks, poured them in cups, and came in and joined us.
“What have you found out?” Ashbury asked me.
“Not very much,” I said, “but enough.”