Loren D. Estleman - Amos Walker 18 - Nicotine Kiss

by Loren D. Estleman

  I hoisted myself up on the step plate, rubbed a hole in the frost with the heel of my hand, and peered inside. The key was in the ignition with a nickel-plated CXT tag dangling from it. I worked the door handle and pulled. It snicked open. I pushed it gently until it clicked shut. That was carelessness, or arrogance. It made you want to drive it around the corner and park it, just to teach a rich motorist a lesson. I stepped back down and turned my attention to the bungalow.

  I laughed a short laugh, a cone of smoke in the sharp air. The scale was all wrong. It was HO, and the truck was O. Hyperbole aside, the porch roof was lower than the roof of the cab. To exit the truck and enter the house was instant claustrophobia.

  As phobias went, that didn’t make my top five. With the truck for cover, I got out my Acme Little Giant housebreaker’s kit, knelt, and inspected the lock on the front door. It was a standard cylinder on a spring latch, not a deadbolt, but the frame curled around the edge of the door, making the celluloid strip in the kit useless. I went through the inventory, snapping the light on each pick a tenth of a second, then selected one bent into a question mark at the end to move the tumblers and another shaped like a flathead screwdriver, but much thinner, to hold back the shield while I probed. Then I laid the penlight and kit on the doorstep and worked by touch and starlight.

  I’m no Jimmy Valentine. With a pick in my hand I’m barely Jiminy Cricket. When it comes to breaking and entering, I’m more comfortable with a pry bar or an elbow to a pane of glass. It didn’t help that I had to work with one ear cocked for the creak of a hinge in the direction of the caboose, footsteps in the snow, not knowing how far the little clinks and tinkles carried in the icy stillness. After fifteen minutes I had to put down my tools and blow on fingers with no more feeling in them than wooden dowels. When they started tingling I went back to work.

  They were growing numb again when something gave with a tiny sliding sigh, ending in a click I felt in my testicles. I turned the knob as gently as possible and pushed, just enough to make sure there was no resistance. I didn’t know what might be on the other side, waiting, listening, breathing in shallow gusts.

  I put away the picks, keeping out the penlight, snapped shut the case, and returned it to its pocket. I took the glove off my left hand, put the light in it and the glove in the same pocket, rose to my feet, and drew the revolver with my right. I stood there for a moment waiting for my feet to feel like feet again and not flagstones. I’d as soon have fired three shots in the air as stamp them on the boards of that hollow porch. I swung the door open, stepped around it quickly, bumped it shut with my elbow, and sidestepped wide along the windowless wall to the right. Shooters in dark rooms always aim at the door first.

  I stood hunched over, more out of alertness than self-preservation, listening to the language of the house. Each is a living organism, with its own vocabulary of squeaks, snaps, and moans of contentment and pain. Wind, the weight of snow on the roof, and timbers contracting in the cold kept my ears busy for a full minute. Something thumped, like a cloth-wrapped cudgel striking a human skull, and I nearly jumped out of my thermals. I twisted right and left on the balls of my feet, swinging the gun. Then the building shuddered and a forced-air furnace whooshed and rattled, exhaling warmth at my feet. The fan needed new bearings. Apart from that, there was nothing wrong with the heating in Cabin Twelve. And I was pretty sure the fan was the only other thing moving in the place.

  Directing the penlight at the floor, I slid the switch to On and poked the thin beam here and there, never higher than the baseboards. The little house seemed to be all one room without partitions, kitchen, parlor, and bedroom sharing the same open space, with only a pair of louvered doors separating it from what was probably a bathroom. It had no furniture except an old-fashioned white enamel stove and refrigerator on the kitchen end. The compressor made no noise; the refrigerator would be unplugged to lower the electric bill. The warm air came from baseboard registers, placing the furnace in a crawl space under the house. It shut off after thirty seconds. The thermostat seemed to be set well below sixty, just enough to keep the pipes from freezing and dampness from the walls.

  When the blower stopped, something flapped one last time and drifted to a stop like a falling leaf. My beam was on it, a white triangle that glittered a little, as if it were shot through with silver threads. It was the corner of a protective cover shielding something large and bulky from dust and the elements. I slid the little circle of light along its base. It took up the center of the floor, extending from kitchen to what would have been the bedroom if it had had a bed. It was shaped like a bed, but larger than king size. It would just fit in the back of the big truck parked outside.

  I wanted to see more. The penlight could show me only a piece at a time. I groped for a light switch and found it, but couldn’t risk using it. I turned off the flash and waited for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. In a little while I could make out the object’s size and shape—rectangular, as guessed—but it wasn’t enough. I made my way into the kitchen and felt above the sink until I encountered cloth. I pushed aside a pair of coarse curtains on a rod and let the accumulated light of stars and snow into the house. The window wasn’t in line with the caboose. Even if Miss Maebelle was looking out, she wouldn’t have seen the movement.

  With my pupils opened all the way I owned the place. I could almost have read a newspaper, if my eyes were ten years younger and I had one.

  The cover was white plastic, reinforced with fiberglass to keep it from tearing in the wind. That connected with what I’d guessed about how the cargo had been brought there. It would have been tied down during transport, but it was loose now. I bent, took hold of the corner flap, and peeled it up and back, like turning down a bed. The block of paper underneath stood high enough to use as a workbench. It was actually four stacks of table-size sheets, the stacks pressed so tightly together they might have been sliced in place, like a cake. I separated a corner of one sheet and stroked it between index finger and the ball of my thumb, just to be thorough. I’d known what it would feel like.

  I realized I was still holding the revolver, and put it away to turn back the cover the rest of the way; the stack was uneven at the other end. A waist-high table stood there, supporting a paper cutter two feet square with a chopping blade the size of a machete, and next to that a rounded rectangle made mostly of black PCV plastic that looked like a model spaceship. I was just computer savvy enough to recognize a laser printer when I saw one, but this one looked like the prototype of something that wouldn’t be on the market for another year or two; something that hadn’t been invented yet. There were no buttons on what looked like the control panel, just a row of tiny portholes. I figured you could operate the machine just by passing your hand in front of them. State of the art times ten.

  I took a calculated risk. I got rid of the glove on my left hand, which was making the palm sweat, positioned myself with my back to the windows facing the caboose, and lifted the plastic-and-fiberglass cover, pinning one corner to my chest with my chin to free one hand—holding it up like a harem keeper protecting the modesty of a concubine stepping from the tub. I hesitated, snaring my breath, and passed the hand along the portholes.

  They lit up, illuminating only themselves. The few moving parts inside—rollers, conveyers, whatever—made no more noise than falling snow. I wasn’t sure at first if I heard anything, or if the thing worked. Then a long sheet of printed paper slid out of a nearly invisible slot under the control panel, licked out like an enormous tongue. The lip of a plastic tray slanting down ten degrees from the edge of the printer stopped it from sliding to the floor. As soon as it was clear the lights went out and the machine went silent, trailing off in a dying whir.

  Pale as they were, the lights had spoiled my night vision. It was at least a minute before I could pick up the sheet by the edges, to avoid smearing the ink, and study it on both sides. I was holding four hundred dollars in old-style twenty-dollar bills, all squared off like a sheet of stamps
, back and front, altogether about ten inches wide and a little over legal length. Ironic term. Three minutes with the cutter and they would be ready to spend.

  Just then I heard the tenor thunder of a snowmobile starting up near the caboose. I hadn’t been as discreet as I’d hoped.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The snowmobile engine barked and chortled, warming up. It was a feral sound; in imperial Russia it would have been a pack of wolves clearing their throats for a good howl, followed by an old-fashioned feeding frenzy.

  I folded the sheet of bills into a square, then a rectangle, and stuck it in my pocket. It felt like the world’s biggest banknote. I pulled the cover back over the stack of treasury stock and the cutter and printer and looked for a back door. I didn’t know for sure if it was Miss Maebelle aboard the snowmobile, but even a fat motorist with a shotgun trumps a lame pedestrian with a short-barreled revolver.

  There was no back door. As I’d thought, the louvered doors belonged to a narrow bathroom, with a shaggy throw rug on the floor and a ventilator fan installed in a tiny window. The windows in the rest of the house were also out of the question. After thrashing through the snow on a leg and a half, I hadn’t the strength to hoist myself over any sills in under five minutes. One foot dragged. I had a cocker spaniel attached to the ankle. The snowmobile settled into a steady angry whine and sounded closer than before.

  Just then the furnace thumped on. I remembered the crawl space under the house.

  I made a quick turn around the long open room, poking the penlight toward the floor and looking for a seam. I saw none. I didn’t think whoever had delivered the merchandise that stood in the center would knowingly block access to the furnace, risking an extended breakdown and destructive mildew, but you can’t always find good criminal help. I definitely had no time to try to shove it all aside by main might, even if I’d had the might.

  A powerful beam raked the front windows. I hunched from instinct. The snowmobile was turning in the direction of the house.

  I went back into the bathroom and kicked aside the throw rug. There it was, a rectangle two feet wide and three feet long, cut directly out of the floorboards and set back in, the classic trapdoor.

  I put away the light, pulled the trap out all of a piece by its recessed handle, and lowered myself through the black opening; one leg hung like a Christmas ham. The space was only four feet deep. The tricky part was arranging the throw rug into a sort of sandwich with the trap and drawing it back into place as I sank to my knees on the cold bare earth below. I had no way of knowing how it looked from above. Whatever time it bought was to the good.

  A glimmer of yellow came through slots in the sheet metal of a squat square furnace propped up on bricks. The attached ductwork reduced the headspace another eight inches. There was no other sign the unit was firing. The snowmobile’s engine was so close now it drowned out the fan.

  The light faded as I was looking at it. The blower had shut off. I fumbled out my penlight and snapped it on. The beam penetrated only a few feet through the dank gloom, which smelled of potatoes. It was failing. It’s always a good idea, before embarking on an act of burglary, to replace the batteries. You should also have a good detonation man, hired muscle, and Julia Roberts, for romantic interest. I’d have traded all three for fresh batteries.

  I was looking for the way out. Modern building codes require a second exit, in case fire breaks out or the ceiling falls in, trapping someone underneath the house. I hoped the place was up to code.

  I felt along the nearest wall and found only cinderblock. I started crawling on hands and knees, training the light along the unbroken surface to the corner of the house, then made a perpendicular turn. The earth was loose and slightly pulverized, prevented from freezing by ambient heat from the furnace and ducts, but still it was cold, and littered with sharp rocks that stabbed at my palms and tore a hole in one knee of my trousers. The combustive noise from outside filled the space and scraped at my eardrums. Then it stopped, and the silence was more painful yet.

  The ground was an excellent conductor of sound. A set of springs released, sounding like a screen door opening. A woman of Miss Maebelle’s substance was hard on springs. Snow creaked beneath the tread of heavy feet. Then something pounded the porch boards. A sudden, sharp report made me cringe: the door flying open and striking the wall on the other side.

  “Who’s here?”

  Miss Maebelle’s voice didn’t sound nearly as friendly coming from eight feet above my head. The sibilant was blurry, but I didn’t take any comfort from that. Beer and shotguns go together like cigarettes and gasoline. I knew she had the shotgun with her as surely as I knew I’d put myself in a hole with no promise of a way out.

  A switch snapped. Thin blades of light sliced the darkness through the spaces between the floorboards.

  “Who’s here?” she said again. The second time they ask that question, they always know the answer.

  I put away the penlight, drew the Smith & Wesson, and resumed crawling, tilting the barrel upward to keep dirt out of the muzzle. All the way at the other end of the house, a small section of wall looked different from the rest. It might have been a trick of shadow, but it was someplace to go. I tried to keep my breath from sobbing in my throat. I was close to played out.

  Feet thudded the floor, releasing thin streams of dirt and sawdust onto my head and back and down under my collar. A merry tinkling accompanied each thunderous step: loose galosh buckles, a sound remembered from childhood. It’s funny what comes back to you when you have five minutes to live.

  Something swished. She’d torn the cover from the Treasury stock and laser printer. I didn’t know if she could tell if it had been operated recently. I didn’t think it had been on long enough to warm up noticeably, but she might discover there was a sheet missing from inside.

  For a long time she stood without moving, the boards straining a little beneath her weight concentrated in one spot.

  Suddenly she broke into a stride. It was like someone skipping a bowling ball across three lanes. Hinges squeaked: She’d thrown open the twin doors to the bathroom.

  Then nothing. I could almost hear her blue-marble eyes swiveling from side to side and up and down. Down last, to my blind job of covering the trap with the rug. I had no confidence in that.

  I crawled faster, raking the knee of my bad leg across another sharp stone; pain from old wound and new connected with a blue spark that burned a long time and never went all the way out. I was pretty sure she couldn’t fit through the opening, but—

  The house exploded.

  I jumped and looked back over my shoulder as what was left of the trapdoor fell into the crawl space, towing a rectangle of bright light from a ceiling fixture and a cloud of dust and splinters and curling blue smoke. She’d blown a hole through it as big as my head with both barrels of the shotgun.

  My ears rang from the blast. Beneath the ringing, something went tunk twice, like two corks being drawn from bottles, and two small objects slapped the floor and rolled a little distance like ball bearings. She replaced the spent shells, plunk, plunk, slammed shut the breech, and strode back across the long open room.

  Wham! More dirt and smoke, and a ragged disk of light opened in the floor in the corner diagonally opposite mine. Dirt jumped up from the bottom, forming a shallow crater. The antique piece had to be ten-gauge, a mammoth caliber that went out with robbing stagecoaches. I don’t know where she found the ammunition.

  She cleared the barrels, reloaded, and struck off the length of the house, a rolling gait. The place swayed like an offshore oil derrick. Halfway down she stopped.

  Panicking, I rose into a jackknife crouch and made for the anomalous patch of wall and possibly freedom. My head struck ductwork, but the reverberating boom was lost in another explosion from above. I covered my mouth to avoid breathing pure earth. The low ceiling was beginning to look like a whack-a-mole game, from the point of view of the mole. I was in a bit of a tight.

  Tunk, tunk
. Plunk, plunk. Slam. The minor chords were almost as bad as the major.

  I braced myself on one hand, my head still echoing from contact with the duct, and took aim at the spot where she’d stopped, but I held off. At that angle I couldn’t be sure if the bullet would penetrate the floor, and the report would place her target. I put the gun back in its pocket and made like a bug.

  I reached the wall and spread my palm against a network of coarse wood. The diamond pattern, visible in the light gushing down now from above, belonged to a three-foot section of lattice set into a space between blocks. I felt cold air from the other side. My fingers curled around the slats. Quarter-inch pine.

  Floorboards creaked. Through the hole nearest me I saw a pair of spread galoshes with thick ankles clad in blue jersey growing out of the tops. A pair of shining tubes bound side by side poked through the hole, angling in my general direction. Smoke drifted out of the muzzles.