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was there, weathered and brown with a fine wood grain that bore little if any varnish. It seemed too light to be holding anything of significant weight. Could it be empty? If it was, why would his father want him to get it?
    Nathan pushed the tent flap to the side, set the trunk on the ground, and looked back at the house of mirrors, his vision still coming in flashing frames. What in the world just happened in there?
    A hand patted him on the back. Nathan turned slowly toward Clara, trying to blink away the strobe lights. She pulled on his elbow. “Let’s get going. I ran into Hammer Girl again. She took off to call security.”
    He picked up the trunk and hustled behind her, trying to watch where he was going while checking out the trunk at the same time. It seemed so weird, no latches or lock, not even hinges or a lid. Never mind the impossible way he found the trunk; how was he going to get it open?
    Clara turned onto a narrow street and eased the car between fields of corn. Although the tall, browning stalks barely allowed a view over their tops, a solitary house was visible in a clearing in the distance. “That’s the place,” she said.
    Nathan gazed at the landscape, a thousand acres of rolling cornfields surrounding a beautiful old mansion framed by a dozen or more majestic shade trees. “What town are we in?”
    “No town, really. We’re between Iowa City and Des Moines, closer to Newton, Iowa, than anywhere else. This is the home of Tony Clark, a man your father and I knew years ago, but neither of us has had contact with him recently. Mictar will notlikely track you here. We’re pretty far out in the country. I even lost cell service a few miles back.”
    He pressed the window switch and lowered the glass enough to stick his head out. The air still carried the morning’s chill. “I hope this guy doesn’t mind me showing up out of the blue.”
    “He knows you’re coming. I called just before we left Chicago.”
    “Anyone else live here?”
    “His wife, a lawyer, I think, and a daughter named Kelly. I believe she’s sixteen years old.” Clara pulled into the long concrete driveway and stopped under the boughs of a mammoth cottonwood tree. An open garage revealed a pair of matching motorcycles but no car. “Tony said he’s honored that you’re coming. In fact, because your father’s will so stipulates, he’ll be your legal guardian, your new father, so to speak.”
    Nathan grimaced. “Don’t say that.” He closed his eyes again and shook his head. “Just … don’t say that.”
    “Okay okay. Take your time.” She opened the door and stepped out onto the driveway. “Just let me know when you’re ready to go in.”
    Nathan grabbed the mirror and threw open the door. He walked to the front of the Jeep, leaned against the hood, and glared at the house. Except for the satellite dish on the roof, the massive residence was a perfect setting for a movie about a rich land owner back in the days before combine harvesters. Maybe Mr. Clark was a crotchety farming hermit who amassed a corn empire and sat on it, fat and happy while his migrant workers hauled in the harvest and sold it at market, bringing him bags of cash for his amusement. Still, with its brick front and splendid marble columns, the house seemed friendly enough, almost inviting, in spite of the old miser who probably lived inside.
    The cool autumn breeze swirled a menagerie of red and yellow leaves around his ankles, some of them funneling down from the cottonwood tree. Its deeply fissured bark and thick,serpentine limbs reached down at him like the long, gnarled arms of a giant.
    He grabbed a triangular leaf out of the air and rubbed a finger along its coarsely toothed edge. The color of life had drained away, leaving only a pale yellow hue that reflected the sadness of its dying state. As dozens of other yellow leaves brushed by him, he released the one in his hand into the wind, letting it join the parade of death.
    “I guess