daniel boone had always been a civilized person and assumed that the world was run by civilized persons like himself, who could arrange the world in any way they wished, once they had agreed on the best arrangement.
after finding that this view was inadequate, he retired to the wilderness.
*
night had fallen, though daniel boone was largely indifferent to the passages of night and day.
he heard a knock on the door.
who can that be? he wondered. all my friends are dead or have deserted me, and i gave no one the address of this house in the wilderness , which, after long and tedious negotiation i finally managed to purchase with the greater part of my hard earned life savings.
it can only be some passing hobo or barbarian. i will ignore the knock, and they will go away.
suddenly he remembered reading an article in the sunday times about “the last hobo” and another in the daily gazette about “the last barbarian”. both had been written with confident assurance.
be that as it may, he thought, i will not open the door, even if the knock is repeated.
it might be a serial killer, he thought.
but he remembered reading on more than one occasion that serial killers largely confined their attentions to persons of both sexes who sold the use of their bodies to other individuals for the other individuals’ erotic satisfaction.
he waited for another knock.
and waited.
and waited.
finally convinced that the knock would not be repeated he resumed reading his book, the first violin, by jessie fothergill, which he had purchased for fifty cents at the local library just before he moved out of the city, because it was in the best condition of the books offered at that price.
the knock resumed, just a little bit louder.
it might be a homicide detective, he thought, on the trail of a serial or some other kind of killer, which seems reasonable given the lonely and desolate nature of the location.
with a sigh, he marked his place in the book with a receipt from the store on the lonely highway from which he bought his weekly supplies, put the book on the little table beside his comfortable old chair - the only piece of furniture he had retained from his old apartment in the city - and got ip and opened the door.
a young woman dressed in a suit and hat like a homicide detective stood in the doorway.
how may i help you? daniel asked in his most businesslike manner.
good evening. my name is karl marx, and i am a detective with the homicide department of the district police.
she showed him a badge in a wallet.
how am i supposed to know if it is genuine? daniel thought. as he always did when he saw badges produced on television shows, but he only said -
yes, i thought you might be. would you like to come in? it is a bit chilly out here.
i am dressed for the weather.
but i am not. would you like to come in? daniel repeated, standing aside. he looked out past her into the darkness. he saw a dark sedan parked, but no sign of any other person.
the detective entered, and looked around the sparsely furnished room.
are you alone? she asked.
i could ask you the same thing, carter thought, but answered -
yes, i am. quite alone, with not even a cat or a dog.
a dog might be a good idea.
i have considered it. what can i do for you? have a seat, please.
daniel waved at the only other chair in the room, besides the comfortable chair he had brought with him from the city.
thank you.
part 2
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