Chapter 6

“Are. You. Kidding. Me?” Zeke leaned over his steering wheel, staring through his windshield. His little sub-compact with its four cylinder engine laboriously idled. The difference in oxygen and the change in altitude had been hard on them both.

This was the estate of his great-great-great uncle Luther Ahren Lehman Clayton?

“This is NOT what I expected. At all! Holy cat’s whiskers!” Another of his mother’s strange witticisms fell from his mouth.

The house was constructed from huge, smooth-honed logs, natural wood color and the same brown-gray river stone as the mailbox. Like three houses put together, it had two larger wings flanking the ranch style center structure. Two river-stone fireplace flues, maybe five feet across, jutted up the inside corner of both adjoining structures.

The whole thing was two-stories, possibly three. Above the massive windows on the two obvious levels, there was a small window centered beneath both side’s gable peaks.

A large porch exposed the center structure’s entrance with river stone-lined archways. From the second story, a black wrought-iron balcony overlooked the driveway. Huge windows exposed the interior of every room. The front doors appeared to be hand carved and were painted tomato red.

The roof was metal, tin maybe, and red, like the front doors. Double glass doors opened onto the upstairs balcony. A covered gazebo stood on the far right side, and a crushed granite walk wrapped around to the left. From where he sat, Zeke couldn’t see where the path led.

Slowly, he lifted himself from his seat. He could barely move. His shock meter was beyond repair and a stupid smile gaped in his mouth. He pushed the Suzuki’s door closed and made his way to the front doors. Standing under the upstairs balcony, he filled his lungs with the aroma of the cedar home, the land, the mountain air. Amazing. He took in the magnificent view from the porch. A granite outcrop across the road caused him to pause. Absently, he reached for the door’s pull handle. Locked. He patted his pants pocket for keys.

He shook his head. The envelope with the house key was still in his car. He headed back to the Suzuki and fished the envelope off the dash. He let the key slip out onto his palm, tossed it a few inches into the air and caught it. Then tossed the envelope back in the car and shut the door.

Back on the grandiose porch, he pushed the key into the dead bolt. It slipped in easily. He turned the key to the right and pushed the handle down. I cannot believe this is happening. He let the emotion settle in his gut and shoved the door open.

An excruciating shriek pierced his ears. He flinched. “Oh God, the security system.”

He leaped through the doorway. His eyes searched the right wall and then the left. He slapped his palm on the black panel. The screen illuminated a green ten-key configuration. What was the code? He patted his pants pockets. The envelope. The post-it note was still stuck to the envelope. He ran to his car and yanked open the driver’s door.

No envelope on the passenger’s seat. He scanned the interior. It was balanced between the seat and the stick shift. He grabbed it and ran back to the house.

The panel had gone black again. He pounded the black glass with the base of his fist and then entered 1 C 4 1 0. Enter. He breathed so hard, his lungs hurt. The shrieking stopped, but the phone rang. His eyes darted from surface to surface. “Where’s the phone?”

He ran into the spacious room. No phone. He followed the ringing sound. On the bar dividing the kitchen from the large living room he spotted a phone and leaped to grab it.

“Hello?” He panted.

“Pueblo Security,” a woman said. “We indicate your security alarm has been activated. May I have your password?”

“Jabez’s prayer.”

A cool shiver traversed his spine.

“Is everything all right, then, sir?” the responder asked.

“Yes, I just had trouble ... with the door.” He couldn’t suck enough oxygen to settle his breathing. He leaned against the counter and closed his eyes.

“Okay, then. Have a good evening, sir.”

“Thank you. You too,” he answered out of habit and hung up the phone.

Pushing off the counter, he surveyed the open, spacious room.

“Well,” he said aloud. “I’m in the house.”

His gaze swept all the way around and landed back on the kitchen. “Now what?”

The huge, u-shaped kitchen was at the back of the house. One wing of the granite counter separated it from the living room. An amazing view of the back yard, a garden actually, could be seen through a bay window. In the distance, beyond the garden, were foothills of the Iron Mountains. He had read the name on his highway map.

Stepping back, he looked up. On the second level there was wrought-iron railing. Apparently a loft area overlooked the great room.

The entire great room was open to the roof-ceiling. The support logs were exposed as part of the architectural design of the room. He released a long slow whistle.

In the year he and Angela were together, they had fantasized about owning an enormous house. This was beyond anything they’d ever imagined. They had explored the Parade of Homes in Austin, where he had learned a big living room was a “Great Room.” It always seemed like an exaggerated label, a marketing elaboration, but this time and in this house, it was appropriate.

The furniture in this room was very man-cave like. Brown leather and brown and white cowhide covered the enormous couch and side chairs. The tables were leather inlaid and dark wood. A gigantic chandelier with a series of five rows of deer antlers supported numerous light bulb outlets.

Twin staircases lead the way upstairs to both sides of the great room. Behind the right staircase was a formal dining room. Between the dining room and the kitchen was the bay-windowed breakfast room. Not a breakfast nook, a breakfast room. Beyond the staircases and toward to front of the house were rooms that opened into the great room. To his left, a game room. To his right, a multi-media room.