Potter's Field

by Rob Hart

  “Dude. If you really want to make this into a thing, we can. Or we can do this the easy way and you can just tell me.”

  He looks around the room, finds the works next to the mattress. He picks up the glassine, stares at it for a moment, then grabs the spoon. Looks for more.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Fucked up my high, motherfucker,” he says.

  He looks at the envelope again, slides it open, and peeks inside. “Fucking empty.”

  Logic isn’t getting me anywhere on this. Luckily, I speak addict.

  “You know what that means?” I ask. “It means you should get more.”

  He nods, takes out his phone. “Fucking bullshit.” He taps it and presses it to his ear. “Yo man, I need more of that shit. Yeah, that pizza shit. C’mon. C’mon. I know it’s going to snow. C’mon motherfucker. Please. Fine. Fine, whatever.”

  He tosses the phone on the floor and falls back onto the mattress.

  After a few moments, he’s snoring softly, gurgling through the blood.

  That’s nice. There’s a dealer on his way. Now I need to find out where he’s coming from. I could beat the living shit out of him until he tells me where he’s headed after this, or where he gets his supply, but I’d like to avoid that for now. I could follow him, but with the snow coming down and the roads this far south on the island being generally empty, I don’t want to risk it. Too easy to get spotted.

  So what then?

  I could track him. But with what? I need something I can follow from my phone.

  This guy’s phone is sitting on the floor.

  Maybe.

  I call Bombay. Concern in his voice because we don’t usually only text. A call means it’s important. “What’s up, bro?”

  “Hypothetical for you.”

  “Here we go.”

  “Say I wanted to track a phone. Someone else’s phone.”

  “Kind of hard without access to the phone.”

  “I have access.”

  “What kind of phone is it?”

  I glance down. “Samsung.”

  “Can you get me the number?”

  I pick up the phone, moving slow, not wanting this guy to attack me again. He doesn’t stir. Fast asleep. The phone is locked, so I kneel down next to him and press the fingerprint sensor against the tip of his index finger. The home screen slides into place. A little poking around and I find the number, then pick up my phone and read it off to Bombay.

  “Hold on.” Computer keys click in the background. They fall silent and a text message pops up with a link. “Click that. Even if the phone is locked I’ll be able to find it.”

  “And what if the battery dies?”

  “Then we’re out of luck.”

  The batter meter reads 52 percent. Not great. I turn the volume off, turn down the brightness of the screen, anything I can do to get an extra couple of minutes out of it. The guy on the mattress stirs so I back out of the room.

  “You’ll text me when the phone settles on a location?”

  “I will.”

  “Good man.”

  There’s no good place to wait, so I crawl under the porch a little, out of view of the driveway and the sidewalk. I can see through the latticework. It’s cramped and uncomfortable but it’s protected from the wind so it’s not too cold. I watch the snow pile up on the lawn. It’s really coming down now. I pull the collar up on my coat and wonder if this is a waste of time when a car pulls up and slams into the driveway, jumping up a little on the curb and coming to rest partway on the lawn.

  The car turns off. Footsteps crunch in the freshly fallen snow and then echo on the floorboards. Doorbell rings. Same as me, whoever it is gets frustrated and walks around to the back of the house. All I can see is a pair of legs but as soon as they’ve rounded the corner I duck out of my hiding spot and circle around the back of the SUV, careful to cut wide across the neighboring property, and then onto the sidewalk, so there’s not a clear path of footprints from the porch to the car.

  I drop to a knee by the rear bumper and root around for a spot to stash the phone. Find a depression that seems like it’ll hold. Check the battery. 41 percent. Goddammit, this thing will not last long. I get the phone into place, do the best I can to make sure it’s secure, and hope the fucked-up roads don’t send it flying. Then make it back to the sidewalk, stick my hands in my pocket, and head for my car.

  “Hey!”

  I turn. Not all the way.

  It’s the guy from the house I visited with Samson. The guy with the fake tan and the casual racism. He’s standing by the SUV, eyeing me like I’m trespassing. I’ve got the newsboy cap on and he’s far enough away that maybe he doesn’t recognize me. I don’t give him more than a profile of my face. Still, I plant my feet, preparing for this to get real bad real fast. The guy inside, I smacked him around pretty good. I don’t know how much of it he actually remembers, but I definitely left behind a few physical reminders.

  “Hey man, you good?” he asks.

  Takes me a minute to realize what he’s doing: I’m near the shooting galley, he wants to know if I’m a potential customer. He’s a go-getter.

  “I’m good,” I tell him, dropping the register of my voice.

  He stands there for a moment, staring at me, snow falling on his shoulders. I don’t move. Turn toward him too much, he sees more of my face, game over. But if I turn and walk away he might become suspicious. So I hold his gaze in my peripheral vision until he shrugs, climbs into the car, turns it on. Hip-hop blasts from the inside, muffled by the closed windows, and he reverses onto the street, spinning tires, and blasts past me. I watch as the car recedes, hitting a big pothole and taking the turn at the end of the street a little hard. I walk to the end of the block and verify the cell didn’t fall out.

  That’s a good start.

  I’ve downed two cups of coffee in a Dunkin Donuts when my phone buzzes. A text from Bombay containing a blue link. I click it and Google Maps app opens, with a pulsing blue dot.

  Signal dropped out there.

  I pull up directions from my location, and it’s not too far. I toss the nearly-finished coffee into the trash, think about it for a second, and get a couple of donuts to go. They’ll keep in the cold, and anyway, I feel like I’ve got a little surveillance ahead of me before I report back to Reese.

  I shove a vanilla frosted with sprinkles into my mouth as I drive, going slow because the plows haven’t been down here yet, a little afraid of what I’m going to find.

  It’s been a while. A little too long. Spencer and Ginny could both be dead at this point.

  It opens a void in my stomach. Makes me think of that day in the locker room with Ginny. Stopping that roid-rage fuck from snapping her neck. So much of my life changed that day. I don’t blame her for the things I did or the person I became. I made my own choices. But I wonder how different things would have been without her influence. She gave me my first bump of coke. She gave me cash money to hurt people—people who did bad things so they had it coming, but still. She saw the potential I had to inflict pain, to rage, and she encouraged it.

  And now I’m headed to save her.

  Because what else could I do?

  It was a big moment for Ginny. We never discussed it. Never referred to it again. But I think that was the moment she decided she’d had enough. She would live the life she wanted to live and she wouldn’t be made to feel like a victim. She surrounded herself by strong people, but she learned how to fight, too.

  She’s stronger than she looks.

  Which is what I’m hoping.

  I’d love to get to the end of this and not find her body. Even if sometimes I wonder whether she invited that kind of thing with the life she chose. Because I’m not stupid. I know she wants Spencer back. But there’s more to it than that. There has to be.

  Makes me wonder exactly what it is I’m saving.

  Well, fuck it. Task at hand. The rest I can sort out later.

  The roads get b
leaker. Fewer homes. More woods. Civilization dropping off. I know I’m getting close to the dot. I can’t see the road underneath me but it feels rougher. My tires are catching better. Gravel?

  I reach an empty stretch of road with woods on either side. This is the spot. There is literally nothing in either direction. I sigh, then ball up my fist and jam it against the steering wheel. Once, twice. Maybe the phone fell out, or died. I climb out of the car. Maybe there are some tire tracks I can follow.

  There’s only one other set besides mine, and they veer off the road, into the woods. Follow them and, a couple of yards up from the road, find a metal fence, rusted a deep brown so it’s easy to miss among the trees. There’s a small sign affixed to it that says: “Private Property.”

  There are furrows in the snow. The fence has been pulled out and pushed back. The tire tracks continue beyond it, over narrow, steep terrain.

  I look around. The woods look passable, the trees close enough together to keep me somewhat obscured. As much as I think it’s a dumb idea, it’s better to have a good lay of the land. I back up the car, turn around, find a place to stash it that it’s not visible from the road, get out, and begin the trek.

  I figure I’ve walked at least a mile before I find the house.

  It’s huge. You probably couldn’t call it a mansion, but you might not be wrong if you did. Victorian, wood frame, asymmetrical, like it was built by a crazy person. The different sections painted different colors, once brilliant but faded by the sun. Some of the awnings are yellow, others purple, one wall deep forest green, the front is all bare brown shingles.

  The dealer’s SUV is parked out front. No other activity from the house that I can see.

  I find a tree stump and sit, bunch up the jacket around me. Fifteen minutes and I’ll go. I want to look. See if I see anything that might end up being helpful.

  The house is in a clearing, surrounded by trees. It’s completely silent. I pull up Google Maps. There’s no cell signal but I can still view the map I pulled up earlier. No houses anywhere around here. I’m not an expert on heroin processing and distribution, but it I was going to do it, I might want to do it here.

  Nothing happens in the fifteen minutes that I wait. No movement from the windows. No one comes out. It’s getting late. The snow is coming down hard. I’m going to have a hard time driving in this. Should probably get going before I end up stuck.

  I stand up and brush off my coat when there’s movement on the other side of the house.

  Two figures march through the snow, moving carefully. I recognize them straight off.

  Paris and Athena.

  Athena is carrying a shotgun.

  So it’s like that.

  Still not showing any signal but I dial 911 anyway, hit send. Put the phone to my ear. Nothing. Paris and Athena are posting up by the front of the house and there is no way I can backtrack out of here and find a signal in enough time before this explodes.

  With Brick dead I don’t see how this is anything other than revenge. Paris is probably strapped too. And I figure the two of them intend to bust in there and fire until there’s nothing left moving.

  On the off chance Spencer and Ginny are alive and inside, I have to get in.

  Oh well.

  Party time.

  I circle around toward the back of the house, sticking deep in the woods, moving slow so I don’t attract attention. Paris and Athena have both got their heads down. Planning their assault, I guess. Hopefully they don’t split up. If they both go in the front I can go in the back. The house is big enough I might be able to avoid them.

  I reach the far edge of the house. Any further and I won’t see them anymore. I duck down and wait. After a moment Paris and Athena climb onto the porch. Good. I keep moving, out of their view, then pick up my pace and move toward the back of the house. There’s a shed at the far edge of the property along the woods. I ease my way up to it, peek inside. Nobody there. I circle around to the door and find it locked.

  It’d be nice to have a weapon. I take out my lockpick kit, not really happy to be so exposed—someone could look out the window of the house and see me—but it’s worth the risk. I concentrate on the sounds behind me. Wait for the crunch of a boot of the retort of a shotgun. All I hear is a slight whistle. Wind between the snowflakes.

  I manage to work through the lock within a few seconds and duck inside, pulling the door closed behind me. Lots of lawn maintenance equipment, bags of fertilizer, a gas grill. I look around, trying to find something I can use. There’s a shovel hanging on the wall. Too big. Next to that, a machete and a pickax. Both a little grisly for my taste.

  Garden trowel? Fuck.

  I’m about to give up and grab the machete when I see something in the corner that catches my eye.

  A cricket bat.

  I pick it up. Has a nice heft. It’s British, which makes it feel classy. There’s a ball of heavy twine and a box cutter on a workbench in the corner. I shove them in my coat.

  Back outside and it’s still silent, the snow coming down harder. It piles up around the house, building on the roof, making it hard to see. I run toward the back of the house, and just as I’m about to reach the covered deck, the back door opens.

  I move low and throw myself forward into the snow. Hit the ground, realize how fucking stupid that was. Whoever it was can look over the bannister, see me sprawled out like I’m making a snow angel, and shoot me in the head.

  I wait for a face to peer over.

  There’s a clicking sound, then a scratch. And another.

  A slight crackle.

  Zippo.

  Smoker.

  I get into a crouch, press up against the porch, out of sight.

  Look out across the field and see my footsteps leading to the house. I’m wondering how obvious they are when the cigarette flings into my field of vision, landing cherry-down in the snow, sizzling as it extinguishes.

  From above me someone mutters, “What the fuck…”

  A head pokes over. My dealer friend. He recognizes me. For real this time. Before he can react I jab him hard in the forehead with the flat end of the bat. Enough to daze him. I jump up, grab his coat, and pull him over the railing.

  It seems like a good idea.

  Except he falls on me and the two of us tumble into the snow. Both of us scramble, trying to get to our feet, tripping over each other. I catch a stray elbow in the side of the head, nearly go down, but manage to take a knee. He’s trying to stand. I throw my fist into his stomach, and then hit him with an uppercut. My leverage isn’t great, but it’s enough to make him falter.

  I get to standing but before I can do anything else he tackles me. I push my chin to my chest so I don’t hit my head on the ground and he climbs on top of me. I try to buck but he’s got all his weight on my hips. I hammer my fist onto his thigh. He grunts but doesn’t move. Reaches his fists back. I put my hands up to protect my face as he wails on me.

  I’m twisting, turning, trying to get away, my stomach crushed so hard I want to puke, and he’s slamming me with his fists, a few of them sneaking through my block.

  There’s a sound from the house, like someone smacking a ruler on a desk.

  Game on.

  Lucky for me he does something very, very stupid. He pauses. Turns. Not sure what he’s hearing. I know exactly what it is. Soon as he lets up I pop my fist into his throat. His hands go up and I swing into his stomach. Then as he reels back, I drive my fist into his crotch. He rolls off me, lands with a thud, gasping for air. I climb on him, push a knee into his back, try to ignore the pain and the dizziness. Get to work tying up his hands, then work on his feet. He struggles and squirms but can’t yell out.

  More gunfire from inside the house.

  The guy is wearing a knit cap. I pull it off his head and cram it in his mouth. Blood trickles from a small wound on his forehead.

  “You keeping people here?” I ask.

  He grunts at me through the hat so I hold up my fist.


  He nods furiously.

  “Where?”

  He mumbles at me so I pull the hat out of his mouth. He spits in my face so I jab him in the chin. He turns his head away from me, sucks on his lips.

  “You have to know you’re not in the position to fuck around,” I tell him.

  “Upstairs.”

  “You lying to me?”

  “Maybe.”

  I shake my head. Get up. Rear back with the cricket bat, like his head is a ball and I aim to knock it out of the park. He gets the idea.

  “Upstairs. Both of them.”

  Both of them.

  I pick up the hat and shove it back into place.

  “You keep your mouth shut, you may live through this,” I tell him. He yells something at me through the hat, jerking his limbs, trying to get free. I leave him in the snow.

  I climb onto the porch, look through the window on the back door. Darkened, ornate kitchen. No one inside. I open the door and ease in, hear yelling and commotion from the front of the house. Another volley of gunshots. I can’t make out what it is but it sounds like a standoff, two sides trying to exert authority.

  Silence.

  A shotgun blast rattles the windows.

  Two sharp gunshots return in kind. They both explode through the wall in a torrent of dust and slam into the fridge. I get closer to the floor.

  More yelling.

  I look around the kitchen, then the hallway. There’s a staircase at the front, facing the front door. There’s also an arm. The arm appears attached to a body, which I suspect is sprawled out in the living room. Can’t see anyone else.

  This is not good. Seems I can’t get upstairs without going to the front of the house. Which is where all the people with the guns are. Maybe I could go outside and climb in a window? There was a trellis and a low-hanging section of roof. That’s a good way to break my neck.

  I look around some more. It’s a big old, old house. It makes me think of a house I saw on TV, with a servant’s staircase—a smaller staircase leading upstairs from the kitchen. There are a few odd doors in here. I move along the wall, stay low, crack them open. More gunshots cover the sound of my movements. At least they’re not moving the fight into the kitchen.