Homefront pb-6

by Chuck Logan

  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 the 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, clutch
ing 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, tucked 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…

  Jesus Christ. The kitchen door opened, throwing an oblong splash of yellow light across the floor and far wall.

  Gator scurried back to his hiding nook. Now what?

  He listened as he heard Broker move to the back of the garage, go outside, talk to the kid. Then the soft scrape of his slippered feet went back into the house. The door closed. Something. A tinkle. A bell. Hey, kitty. Why not. A souvenir. Moving swiftly, Gator tiptoed from hiding, did a little dance to cut the cat off, and snatched it up, carefully easing it into the deep side pocket of his hunting parka. Zipped it down, leaving a little opening so it could breathe.

  He froze in place for another minute until he heard the shovel stop scraping. Heard the kid tramp across the back deck, go in through the patio door to the kitchen.

  Finally.

  On the way out he grabbed one of the short ski poles from the stack along the wall. He stepped out onto the deck, flattened himself against the outer wall of the garage. Looked up. Wonderful. Stuck out his tongue, let a snowflake melt on it. The snow started driving down. Hell, in minutes it would obliterate his faint tracks on the deck. Like he was never here. He slipped over the deck rail and, keeping the garage between him and the lights of the kitchen, headed for the tree line. Once he got into the woods, he could work his way back to the trail. Get his skis and gear.

  Wow. What a kick.

  Chapter Ten

  After stowing the skis in the garage, Broker told Kit to shovel off the back deck and think about what happened today at school. Then he took off his ski boots and went into the kitchen. He heard a fast hell’s-bells jingle too late-shit-and tripped, almost losing his balance as the demon kitten ran a crazy zigzag between his stocking feet.

  Cursed under his breath. “Goddamn cat.”

  Griffin had brought the kitten as a housewarming present for Kit after they moved in. By the third day it was in the house, with Nina keeping the TV on, Kit had named the cat Ditech. It was everywhere underfoot, like the mortgage commercials.

  Broker put on the slippers that were by the door, leaned down, swept up the handful of black fur, opened the door to the garage. Carrying the cat, he went to the back door, opened it, and spoke to Kit.

  “When you’re finished, come in though the patio door. Keep this door closed. I’m putting the cat in the garage while I cook dinner.”

  “She’s just a kitten-it’s cold out here,” Kit protested.

  Broker lifted the cat by the scruff of her neck. “It’s an insulated garage, and this black stuff she’s made out of is fur. Just till after we eat. Now, you shovel.” He closed the door, put the kitty down, and went back into the kitchen.

  Broker finished thawing the meat in the microwave, then sliced it in long strips, poured some canola oil into his big stewpot, started the burner, and added the venison. As the meat browned, he sliced onions, mushrooms, and green peppers, added them to the pot, and started unscrewing four jars of Paul Newman pasta sauce. He raised one of the jars and eyed the contents for carbs and sugar. Hmmm. The late Dr. Atkins would probably not approve of the high-fructose corn syrup.

  Kit came in, took off her coat, boots, and gloves, and went upstairs.

  Broker cocked his head when he heard the pipes in the wall of the downstairs bath rattle. Good. Nina was in the shower. He’d wait till she was done before he started the dishwasher. As he was wiping down the island, he looked up and saw Kit standing in the kitchen doorway.

  “Mom’s taking a shower,” she said.

  “Yep.”

  “I’ll pick out some clothes for her to wear.”

  “Hey, that’s good, honey.”

  Up on tiptoe, peering at the pot. “Ah, what’s cooking?”

  “Spaga,” Broker said, using her baby word for his venison spaghetti.

  She grinned, turned, and ran up the stairs.

  Kit in motion: this house they rented from Uncle Harry was small, half the size of their home up in Devil’s Rock. But Mom didn’t want Kit going to school in the woods, so they’d moved into the Stillwater apartment. Then Mom got sick, and they were back in the woods again. Because people here didn’t know her up and couldn’t tell that she was different now. Just for a while, Dad said, until Mom’s arm got better. When her arm was better, the rest of her would be better too.

  Kit was used to her mom being real strong, bossing whole platoons and companies in Italy, so sometimes it scared her, seeing the way she wandered around smoking cigarettes in her pajamas and robe all day. Most of the other kids at school had their moms coming in, picking them up, talking to the teachers. Helping out. With her it was always her dad. And he never came in, just waited out in the truck.

  Kit went into the closet next to the room where Mom slept and dug through some boxes. Up on tiptoe, she searched through some clothes on hangers, picked a few, then came back into her room and plopped them on her bed. Then she opened the door to the bathroom. Mom was standing at the sink, drying herself with a towel. She put the towel aside, opened the cabinet over the sink, and took out a jar of skin cream, removed the top, and dabbed some on her face.

  That was a good sign.

  Fresh from the shower, wreathed in steam, Mom had some color to her face. Mom was smoother now. She used to be too thin, laced tight with dents and veins. Could see the muscles sliding back and forth under her skin when she moved. Now she was filled out all around. Still sort of skinny, but not the way she used to be skinny. Kit understood she was not like other moms; but, of course, Kit hadn’t seen other moms naked in the bathroom.

  Nina Pryce peered into the steamy bathroom mirror. At thirty-six she still looked fit, for a civilian.

  Five-nine. One hundred and forty-five pounds. She’d gained ten pounds on the disabled list. She was getting breasts, a suggestion of fullness
creeping into her hips and rear end.

  Curves, for Christ’s sake.

  The nagging thought: did Broker like her this way; ripening like a pear…?

  Dependent on him.

  A lot of moms were in shape. Gym-rat skinny, Dad called it. But not like Mom used to be. For instance, other moms didn’t have the kinda purple gouge in their left hip and a bigger glob of purple scar on their butt. Where the E-ra-kee shot her during the war in the desert, the war before the one that was on TV now. The one before Kit was born. Didn’t have a big grinning skull-and-crossbones tattoo on their right shoulder.

  Kit entered the bathroom cautiously, feeling her way into her mother’s mood. In a general way she understood that Mom wouldn’t get on her about the fight at school. She knew Mom didn’t have the strength for that right now.

  “It’s okay, Little Bit,” Nina said, turned her warm green eyes on Kit, smiling in real life.

  Kit brightened and smiled back. Mom only called her “Little Bit” when she was feeling pretty good. Auntie Jane had called her Little Bit. And Mom’s smile was only a little bit sad.

  “So what’s this boy like, you got in the fight with?” Nina asked.

  Kit made a face. “He’s a bully. He swears more than all the other kids put together. He knows the F word.”

  “Hmmmm,” Nina mulled.

  Kit tilted her head. “Can I say…hell?”

  “Okaayy…” Nina drew it out, curious.

  “Hell is a swear word. But no one says, ‘The H word.’ Why is that? And what’s the big deal about the F word?”

  Nina fingered a snag in her hair and studied her daughter. “What do you think it means?”

  “Don’t know. But it’s cool, because the older kids say it a lot.”