The Last Hunter - Collected Edition Read Online Free PDF Page A

annoyance is growing. “What—happened?”
    “I threw the remote.”
    “I can see that.”
    “I thought there was a burglar.”
    The look in his eyes says several things to me. He thinks I’m nuts. He thinks I’m not ready to go to Antarctica. He thinks I’m lying. Of course, I am lying, but only partially.
    “The shade slapped behind me. Look.” I open the first window I’d closed and draw the shade. A moment later, the shade is pushed in by the wind and then sucked back out. The slap is loud, and I see my father blink in surprise. “See?”
    My father looks from the drawn shade to the broken window. He still doesn’t look happy, but he’s calming down. “Next time you think someone’s in the house, you come get me.”
    I nod.
    “And you can pay for the window out of your allowance.”
    I’ve already spent the money from my allowance on books, so I’ll be paying for the window with my birthday money. I think about the wad of hundred dollar bills in the safe, but decide it’s in my best interest to keep that knowledge to myself.
    “C’mon,” he says. “Let’s clean you up.”
    He turns and walks into the living room.
    Clean me up ? I look down and find blood on my hand. The cut isn’t bad, but I didn’t even feel it happen. My thoughts return to the stone and the way it made me feel—what it made me do. And for a moment, I’m not sure I want to go back to Antarctica after all. But then the craving to revisit my home returns and I know nothing will keep me away.

 
     
    3
     
    The weeks pass in a blur of anticipation. Life is a routine of eating, sleeping and studying, though I doubt I retain anything aside from the object of my fascination. I reread all my books on Antarctica, paying special attention to those written by Dr. Clark. I review a history of the continent and mark the beginnings and ends of all major expeditions in colored lines on my new, larger, map.
    But I leave the map behind, which is fine with me because inside of twenty-four hours I will have set foot on the continent of my birth.
    My leg shakes as I sit alone in the back seat of my father’s pea soup colored sedan. I’m surrounded by luggage. If the car were to crash, I’m sure I wouldn’t budge. But only ten minutes from home, the close confines are making me feel claustrophobic. I stuff as much of the luggage as I can behind my parents’ seats. The view out the window is unimpressive—mostly trees lining the highway—but I feel better.
    When my father switches on the right turn signal, I forget all about my discomfort in the back seat. I stretch my neck up, looking out the front windshield. Exit five. Portsmouth, New Hampshire. I wonder if one of them has to pee, but I see no restaurants or gas stations. And we’ve only been on the road for thirty minutes. This should have been a straight shot to Logan airport in Boston.
    “Where are we going?” I ask.
    My dad turns back. He’s smiling. “Just a quick detour.”
    I look at my watch. There’s still plenty of time. But my curiosity is piqued. “To where?”
     “You’ll see,” says mom, but she’s got a jovial tone in her voice. Once again, they know something I don’t and find it humorous. My stomach churns for a moment, but I distract myself with thoughts of home. I want to enjoy every moment of this trip. Instead of watching the road, I poke at the fabric hanging down from the car’s ceiling. Just as I’m starting to wonder what kind of weak glue the manufacturer used, the car stops.
    I look up. A large wrought iron gate is opening up before us. That’s when I notice we’re at the top of a very tall hill. The car pulls forward. The driveway is long and lined by grass that’s still green, despite the frigid late fall weather. The house is a brick colonial, clearly old—perhaps early 1700s—but impeccably maintained.
    “Who lives here?” I whisper under my breath. The question was rhetorical and directed at myself, but my father hears. He puts the