by Chuck Logan
Most mornings when there was good snow, he skied the north 20K. He unloaded his skis and stepped into his bindings, shouldered his pack, and poled through the woods to the trail. When he got there, he saw that the tractor from the lodge had been through, just like the clerk said. Fresh-groomed trails. He pushed off and fell into the powerful rhythm, heading south.
Twice he skied off the trail, letting other skiers pass. This time of year they’d be local people, and he didn’t want to be spotted out here. Allowing for the detours, it took just fifteen leisurely minutes to come to the yellow No Hunting sign that posted the back end of Griffin’s land. Could see the green cabin peeking through the trees, the lake beyond it. He saw they’d been skiing, probably last night just after it snowed. They had worked a connecting trail. He scouted in closer down the connecting trail and settled on a slight rise that overlooked the backyard. He got out of his skis, hid them in some thick spruce, strapped on the paws, and went to the knoll, where he made a place to sit against a tree. Then he tested the wind, which was gusting from the northeast, and figured he could get away with a smoke. So he lit a Camel and settled in to watch the house. First off, he spotted a snow-covered doghouse in back of the garage. Uh-huh. Okay. Keep an eye out for the dog. Then he saw a pile of kindling next to a chopping block. Oak, from the bark and grain. Must be three cords stacked up in the long shed along the garage. Then he remembered that Griffin trucked in oak, used it to heat sand and water to mix his mortar. On that winter job at the lodge.
Then he noticed two sets of skis and poles set out against the garage. One set shorter, for a kid. He finished his smoke and stuffed the butt deep out of sight into a crevice of pine bark, wiggled his toes in his boots, drank some water, ate half an energy bar. A dedicated bow hunter, he was stoic about the cold. He figured he had about half an hour of cooldown before the sweat he’d worked up on the trail started to freeze.
Another half hour passed. Still no sign of a dog. Then he heard voices and saw a man and a kid come out the back door in skiing duds. Where’s Mom? Now that he’d come this far, he was getting curious; just who were they? What was it like inside that house? How come nobody had seen the woman? What did Cassie mean? He didn’t fit.
Now they were putting on their skis.
Okay. He was up fast, made his way back to his own skis. So which way are they going to go? Assume they’re good citizens and will follow the arrows posted on the trail. Go the direction he’d come in. He lashed the bear paws to his pack, got back into his skis, and worked hard, backtracking up the trail. When he’d poled up the approach to the first big downhill, he paused and peered back through the trees. He’d been right. Eagle Scouts, following the rules. Coming this way. The kid wore green and was on the skating path, the guy was in red and stayed in the Nordic tracks.
He pulled up his ski mask and adjusted it. Okay. Time it so you meet them at max speed when you rocket back down the hill. Get a feel for this guy.
Chapter Eight
Ten minutes into the trail Broker caught a blur of movement up ahead through the trees, shooting over the top of the first big hill. A skier coming down the tracks in a downhill tuck, poles back, hands braced on his bent knees. Some daredevil cowboy. Really pushing it.
“Watch yourself, Kit. That guy up there. He’s coming pretty fast,” Broker called out. Kit slowed her stride, reacting to the alarm in Broker’s voice. She swung her head, her eyes flashing, uncertain.
“Don’t look at me, Look at him!” Broker yelled at her.
She glowered at the anger in his voice, wasting seconds she needed to react. And all he could do was watch. He was helpless because the guy was coming so fast, and he was hard to see in gray-and-white hunting camo and a black face mask. Onrushing like a puzzle piece catapulted out of the winter pattern of the forest. Jesus. Too fast.
“Kit, goddammit! Get off the trail!” Broker shouted.
“You don’t have to yell,” she shouted back.
Time and distance. Broker did the quick gut math and realized he could not reach her, thirty yards ahead of him, before the oncoming skier…
“GET OFF THE TRAIL!” he shouted again, waving his poles.
The guy came out of his tuck nearing the bottom of the hill and executed a snappy sidestep, and now he was ripping down the skating path, straight at Kit.
Kit was stepping to the right as fast as she could, but the guy was on top of her.
“Watch it, asshole!” Broker shouted as he struggled on the skis to gain the distance. Wasn’t going to happen. He did his best to step out into the skating path, instinctively gripping one of his poles with both hands like a pugil stick and menacing it forward in an attempt to warn the guy away.
The guy came straight ahead, streaked past with a swish and clatter as one of his poles banged on Kit’s poles. Not even seeing them, it seemed, his hooded eyes fixed ahead on the trail. Kit was flung in his wake and fell sideways into the parallel tracks ahead of Broker. In seconds he was bending over her. She sat up, removed her glove, and put her fingers to her cheek.
A thin red stripe started next to her nose and went across her cheek almost to her ear. Gingerly she touched it, and her finger came away with a tiny dot of blood.
“He must have raked you with his pole as he went by,” Broker said, helping her to her feet and inspecting her face. “Just a scratch.”
With an exaggerated indignant expression and in a very dramatic voice, Kit protested, “You didn’t have to yell at me.”
“Hey, he almost squashed you flat.”
“Did not. He missed.”
Broker stared, perplexed at the touchy coiled springs of mood sprouting out of her. “I’m sorry for yelling, but I was scared for you,” he said.
She thought about it and said, “I was scared, too. Just a little.” She furrowing her brow and stated, “He was going the wrong way, Dad,”
“I know, honey. Some people are like that. And they just don’t see kids. You all right?”
“No problem,” she said deadpan, delivering the line with a nonchalance she’d overheard hanging out with Nina’s Army crowd in Italy. Seeing him a make a face at her language, she grinned. Perhaps encouraged by the encounter with the speed demon, she said, “Let’s go. Race you down the first hill.”
Broker looked off through the silent trees in the direction of the asshole skier. The guy had vanished. The small crisis passed. “You’re on,” he said.
Kit took the lead, and he made a production of staying just behind her, goading her faster, as they herringboned up the incline. He watched her breath surge in tight white bursts next to her green cap as she half ran the hill. Broker was reminded of something he’d learned long ago; how the Vietnamese wrote their prayers on slips of paper and burned them. Because the ghosts of their ancestors could only read smoke.
They reached the top, and a minute later the trail forked; beginners to the left, advanced to the right. Without hesitation Kit dug in her poles and plunged toward the steep downhill they’d nicknamed Suicide One. Broker double-poled to catch up, tucked into the slope, and heard Kit’s exhilarated squeal echo in the trees. Her breath streamed over her shoulder, and in that exuberant white cloud Broker, giddy with the rush downhill, read a happy answer to a long prayer.
The journey that had brought them here was terrible, but finally the long separation had ended and they were together, living under one roof. Then Kit came down too fast on the steep bend at the bottom of the run and misjudged shifting into her step turn. Her left ski wobbled out of control, and she lurched in front of Broker, who was on her too fast. He tried an impossible hockey stop. No way. They tumbled together into a snowbank in a tangle of poles, skis, and laughter.
Chapter Nine
Gator put a few hundred yards of twisting trail between him and the man and the kid and then slowed, stopped, and leaned on his poles. He panted, catching his breath after the near collision at the bottom of the hill. That was fun, but now he was more than a little intrigued. Not so much th
e way the guy called him an asshole like that. He could let that pass under the circumstances. He’d gone by too fast and nearly creamed the kid. But he managed to get a good look at the guy. And there was something about the way his hard eyes peeped out from his gaunt face and thick Ernie Kovacs eyebrows. Suspicious, judgmental, a little too in charge. Cop’s eyes, his gut told him.
Like Cassie said, something that didn’t fit.
So maybe go in a little deeper, see what these folks are about. He figured he had about an hour, maybe more, if they skied the whole loop.
He skied back and turned in at the connecting trail, stepped into the parallel tracks, and skied up to the trees at the edge of the yard. He watched the house for five minutes. No shadows moved in the windows. His eyes went back and forth between the house and the new Toyota truck parked in front of the garage.
Go in, see if you can get a look at the wife.
But stay practical. Think. The house invaders he’d met in the joint always said, first, you look for the dog. Gator looked again. No piles of crap in the yard, no evidence of tracks. Just the green Toyota Tundra in the drive. He stowed his skis and pack out of sight and pulled the roomy felt liners over his ski boots.
He walked in crooked on the tracks already in the yard up to the garage, peeked in the side window. No other car. Maybe the wife was out on errands? He crossed to the back deck, went up the steps, and knocked on the sliding patio door. Waited a minute. No one came. He tried the door. It slid open.
Okay, dude. This is what’s called a threshold for a guy with a parole officer. And home invasions had never been his thing. So take some precautions. He knocked again and called out. “Anybody home?” If the wife appeared, he’d ask to use the phone. Say his cell phone battery went dead. Say he fell on the ski trail, hurt his knee, needed to arrange a ride.
No sound, no wife. Gator went in silently on his felt booties and—shit!—froze when he heard a tinkling bell. A black kitten appeared in the doorway at the end of the kitchen. Gator vibrated alert, straining his ears. All he heard was the bell move off into the next room. Then go silent.
He stopped, perplexed. He could see killing a dog if there was a reason. But a kitty? He’d have to think about that. He smiled. Starting to enjoy the thrill, he went deeper into the house. Past the kitchen there was a small room that held bookcases and a desk with a fax machine and stacks of envelopes, a checkbook, stamps. Paying the bills, it looked like. He studied a stack of cardboard boxes piled next to the desk. The top one held an old high school yearbook, some books, and a few frayed manila folders. Some kind of paperwork. Like they weren’t really unpacked. Not really settled in.
He continued into the living room. Christ, more piles of boxes against the wall. Renters, Cassie said, so all this stuff was Griffin’s. Futon couch and chairs. A quilt hanging on one wall was interesting; a pattern of black, red, and white stitching that Gator found appealing.
But he wasn’t a thief. And, besides, they’d miss it right off. He continued through the living room and paused at the foot of the stairs to the second floor.
“Hello,” he called again, looking up the stairs. “Your back door was open, and I wondered if I could use your phone…”
No response. Dead quiet here.
Come this far, might as well go up and have a look. Probably no one home. God, I love this shit. Stepping carefully, he climbed the stairs. A tiny hall, two doors. The door to the right was open. Where the kid slept. Yellow comforter on a twin-size bed, a gallery of stuffed animals arranged above the fold. Not much on the walls for a kid’s room. More cardboard boxes spilling toys and clothes.
Gator turned to the other bedroom on the left. The door was ajar.
And there she was, asleep at one in the afternoon, flung face down. A redhead. Hard to tell what she looked like, with her face flattened out on the tangled sheets, surrounded by a frizz of hair that needed a wash. Her ass made a tidy swell in her purple pajama bottoms, but the effect was spoiled by the dark bath of sweat that pasted her gray T-shirt to her shoulder blades. He tiptoed into the room and stared down at her. He made a face when he heard her labored breathing and saw the sheets under her head soaked with sweat. Beads of it like a wet headband, starting at the roots of her hair. His eyes moved away, and he noticed a stack of books on the bedside table.
Darkness Visible by William Styron. A Memoir of Madness. And a fat red volume: DSM-IV. He squinted, his lips moving as he read the subtext on the thick spine: Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. Fourth Edition.
Hmmmm. Real fun folks Cassie had run into here.
Oh-oh! The woman shifted on the bed. Gator froze as he watched her twist at the waist, one arm flung above her head, turning, the other arm coming across and flopping on the edge of the bed, the limp fingers almost grazing the pant leg of his camos.
He started. Jesus!
Not her face, which he could see now and which was not half bad as far as he could see, eyes still clamped shut in troubled sleep. Shit, no, it was the faded type printed across the front of shirt, like a sweat-soaked pennant stretched between the mounds of her tits:
EAST METRO DRUG TASK FORCE.
Sonofabitch! What have we got here?
Gator reeled as his mind tacked out, going from zero to sixty in a second flat. Had to concentrate to keep his balance. He backed quietly from the room, rocked by a weird hilarity that alternated with a pure spooky sensation. In the hall his eyes traveled over the kid’s bed, and he had an inspiration. Riding the impulse, he entered the room and plucked a worn blue-and-white-striped bunny from among the toys tucked into the fold of the bed. Then he hurried down the stairs, wanting to get out fast…but couldn’t resist shuffling through the paperwork on the desk next to the kitchen door.
A Visa statement…his eyes stopped, reversed.
Drawn on a bank in Hong Kong? What the hell—$10,000 cash advance. Credit limit a hundred thou? He looked up at the sheet of paper on the fax that had printed out a log of calls. Devil’s Rock, Minnesota. Stillwater. St. Paul.
Fort Bragg, North Carolina?
Huh?
He rifled through the envelopes, and a return address jumped out:
Washington County Sheriff ’s Office.
Whoa, what’s this? He opened the envelope and took out the top of a pay voucher. A handwritten note bearing the letterhead of John Eisenhower, Sheriff, was clipped to the form.
Broker,
Here’s the balance of the Special Projects money. Sorry as usual it took so long. I could only swing a few hundred to help defray the cost of your truck getting wrecked on the Saint thing. I heard your insurance didn’t cover it. I’d look into suing that nutcase Cantrell. He finally resigned the county.
Hope all is well with Nina and Kit.
Best, John
Gator looked around, bouncing, giddy—damn Cassie, well no shit! They don’t fit. Gonna put something extra in your stocking….
Some kind of cop.
He listened carefully and decided he could chance only a few more minutes. But this was too good to pass up. It only took a few seconds to figure out the fax’s copying function. Okay. He smoothed out the Visa statement and the pay voucher and aligned them into the feeder. Hit copy. The machine grumbled, and seconds seemed like an eternity until—Yes!—they printed out. Then he took the note, copied that. He rolled the sheets of paper carefully and inserted them into the wide webbed inner pocket of his jacket.
You should really get the hell out of here.
But now he was staring at the stack of boxes. On impulse he reached into the top one, snatched a manila folder at random, and stuffed it under his jacket.
Enjoying himself immensely, clutching the bunny comically with both hands to his chest, he cakewalked through the kitchen, having some fun but making sure he wasn’t leaving any trace. He didn’t worry too much. The floor was dotted with pools of melting snow that the guy and the kid must have left going in and out.
Going past the sink he paused, tuc
ked the bunny in his jacket, and selected a brown glazed bowl from the countertop. Somebody just had some tomato soup. He slipped out the door, down the porch, and crossed to the truck. Knelt, listened. Quickly he fingered the ice pick from his pack, felt the deep tread on the left rear tire. New. Blizzak. Good snow tire.
He thrust the pick deep into a crevice of tread, heard a whoosh of rubbery air escaping. Up quick, skirting around the garage, where he stopped and set down the bowl next to the doghouse. Carefully, he slung off his pack, opened it, withdrew the Ziploc, and dumped the meat and antifreeze into the bowl. Tucked the bag back in the pack.
Dog or not, if this guy had half a brain, he’d get the message.
Then he caught Christmas-tree colors in the pines, moving red and green. A second later he heard their breathless chatter, coming in fast.
Shit! They didn’t ski the whole loop.
Gator ducked along the side of the garage, keeping it between him and the trail, slipped around the front, hurried in through the front door. Christ, if the wife was up and looking out the living room window, she could see…
The voices, louder now.
Looked around fast. Found a cranny in the corner behind a table stacked with boxes, backed into it, and squatted in the dark as the back door opened.
Oh, shit, oh shit! They were right there. Seeing the steam from their breath rising in the half-light over the top of the boxes, he pulled the mask up over his mouth. Clatter of skis, c’mon. C’mon. Go inside.
Then the guy, Broker, told the kid to shovel the back deck. Not good. Then he went through the door that attached to the kitchen, leaving the goddamn kid out back scraping at the snow on the back porch. Gator didn’t want to chance heading out the front—too open, and his stuff was back in the woods.
Sonofabitch. He got up to a crouch, listening hard. Had a chance heading out the front. Gotta go now. He left his cover, starting to head for…
