St Kilda Consulting 01 - Always Time to Die

the wind was a gentle sigh sliding down the rugged mountains, but her experience with the Rocky Mountains told her that during storms the wind would be wild, powerful. Except for some ruined outbuildings that were relics of past farming days, Dan’s little house faced the wind and mountains alone.
    Then Carly realized the house wasn’t really alone. The cottonwood that spread thick bare branches over the house and a lot of nearby pasture was company of sorts. The sort she liked. Though the tree couldn’t talk, it had seen centuries of history pass with the seasons. It was deeply rooted in the past, growing in the present, and its strong arms reached toward the future spring.
    Ignoring the snow and slush under her boots, she walked toward the tree, put her bare hands on its rough, deeply seamed bark, and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, Dan was standing close to her, hair dark against the sky, watching her with eyes the color of the future spring.
    She laughed self-consciously. “Did I mention that I like trees?”
    “All of them? Or just the special ones, like this one?”
    “You feel it, too?”
    “It’s why I rented the house, leaky roof, bad plumbing, and all. I felt something here. Calm, maybe. I don’t know. I just know that being around the old cottonwood tree made me feel…better.”
    She tried to think of another man she knew who would have sensed the different life of the tree so clearly, much less admitted it aloud. With a sigh she let her anger at him slide away.
    “Not mad anymore?” he asked.
    She jumped. “You read me way too well.”
    He smiled, lifted the heavy purse from her shoulder, and headed for the front door. “C’mon. My chili isn’t as good as Mom’s, but it will separate your stomach from your backbone.”
    “I’m going to ask questions,” Carly warned.
    “That’s how I know you’re breathing.”
    “Are you going to answer them?”
    “I don’t know.” He put the key in the lock, slid the heavy deadbolt aside, and pulled on the old wrought-iron handle.
    “You spend a lot of your time not knowing,” she said.
    “It’s one of my specialties.”
    He put his hand between her shoulder blades and nudged her into the living area. The furnishings were minimal and obviously worn. There was a small, rump-sprung sofa whose threadbare upholstery was mostly covered by a Navajo blanket that looked as old as the little adobe house. Nearby there was a homemade side chair built of twisted wood and covered by another old blanket. Metal floor lamps whose finish was either corroded or worn away completely stood out like weary flagpoles.
    Her eyes took in the tiny corner fireplace, a card table, and two plastic lawn chairs. Nearly bald cowhides had been thrown on the warped wooden floor. More old, worn-shiny blankets hung on the walls. The colors weren’t faded so much as they were from a time before intense commercial dyes, when weavers made their own subtle colors from local plants. There was enough clutter to make everything cozy.
    The windows were wired for security.
    So was the front door.
    Dan watched Carly’s face as she looked around the modest room. He waited for her to ask questions.
    “For a man who’s not interested in the past, you sure surround yourself with it,” she said.
    “The condos in town are too noisy. Besides, this was furnished.”
    The look she gave him said that she wasn’t buying what he was selling.
    He put her purse on the sofa. “Give me a minute before I show you the rest of it.”
    Curious, she watched while he opened a door at the back of the room, opposite the tiny kitchen. The room beyond was nothing like the front room. Newspapers, magazines, journals, and what looked like computer printouts or abstracts were stacked on every surface, including the floor. There was a wall of electronic equipment that could have come off a spaceship. The bed was new, neatly made except for stacks of papers on the blankets, and oversize. It covered two-thirds of the room.
    Dan went through his bedroom quickly, grabbing printouts here and there, stacking them, and putting them in a dresser drawer. He shut down computers, turned off some other machines she couldn’t identify, picked up one of them, and sat on his heels close to a long metal box the size of a footlocker. It was the silvery color of spun aluminum or titanium and had a digital lock with two keypads, one numbered and one with a fingerprint reader as well as numbers.
    Even though