“Hope not,” Juju replied grimly. “Ain’t gonna touch it and find out.”
So Lee had to, because you couldn’t ask another man to do what you wouldn’t, and if there was something in there it had to be dealt with.
The belly gave, resilient, and a gush of something foul oozed between the corpse’s loose-trembling legs. Nothing twitched under his palm, no little critter inside wanting to get out. He let out a soft sipping breath of relief, and Duncan turned aside to retch.
Getting the old woman off the cold concrete was a job, but the worst was working the old man in front of the big ol’ window free of frozen, blood-drenched carpet. Some of him was probably left there, and Lee had no idea what Ginny would think of that, so he made up his mind to keep her out of the living room on their way out.
Carrying the bodies down the stairs into the basement was another job, but once they were down there…well, it was almost a relief to find a spot in the house that was dusty, furniture standing shrouded and an ancient cellar-hatch stuffed full of insulation under plastic sheeting. The two lanterns gave flickering golden light, and there were other odds and ends down here—an antique bicycle draped with cobwebs, bits of spare lumber, shelves that could have held jars of preserves if Ginny’s mama had a mind to make them.
“Here.” Mark Kasprak handed Ginny a fresh bottle of water. They had cases stacked in the back of the truck, and he and Steph had hauled a few in.
It hurt to see Ginny attempting to wash frozen or blood-stiffened corpse hair. Phyllis, her pretty face set, rubbed at dead scalps with her manicured fingers, and didn’t say a word about the smell, just softly clucked every once in a while like she was at a beauty salon. Steph held a big blue glass basin from the kitchen to catch the flow, dumping it near the hatch where concrete had crumbled enough to show soft, sterile, frozen earth below.
Ginny’s lips moved—some kind of prayer, though she had to stop often, tilting her head back and staring at the cobwebbed ceiling and blinking as heavy tears slid down her temples, vanishing into her braided hair. The words were strange, but Juju said she was Jewish, and like every other folk they had their own ways of dealin’ with their dead.
Near the end, Ginny tacked unevenly up the stairs, and Lee followed. The snow had started again, and getting to shelter was gonna be work, but there was no hurryin’ something like this, ever.
She didn’t even glance into the living room, which was a mercy. Instead, she climbed to the second story, and halted at the door of the master bedroom. Her chin dropped, her flashlight bobbing, and she curled in on herself like she’d been sucker-punched.
“Ginny.” He grabbed her shoulders, but she shook him away—not violently, just as a sleepwalker might free herself from clinging curtains.
Two twin beds, each with royal-blue covers. The bedroom was bigger than a few places Lee had lived in, and there were vases that had held fresh flowers up here, too. A painting of fruit on a table on one wall, more sepia pictures in nice frames, and even though the house was full of cold outside air, there was a faint, indefinable fragrance still clinging to wood, heavy carpet, lace thingies like doilies but finer than his Nonna crocheted.
She knew what she wanted, evidently. There was an old handmade wooden hutch taller than Lee against one wall, and she opened the left-hand door. Suit jackets hung inside, and she looked through, her bloody fingers gentle. “Not here,” she muttered. “Oh, God.”
She opened the second drawer down and found what she was looking for—a scrap of white and blue cloth, tassels on its short ends. Next came the cherrywood dresser, its top holding two lamps with fancy glass dangles that looked older than the house, a small jewelry hutch, and a few silver plates and dishes with bright baubles glittering under flashlight flicker. One of those drawers gave up a pair of blue scraps as well, but without tassels.
“Scissors.” She turned away, leaving the drawer open, and her eyes were huge and dark. “In the kitchen, I think.”
“What you got there, Ginny?” Softly, trying not to startle her.
“Prayer shawl,” she said, distractedly. “You h-have to c-cut a corner…Lee…”
“What is it, darlin?” Tell me what you need. He hoped the rest of them were finishing wrapping the bodies up. The sooner they were out of here, the better.
Those big, wounded eyes rested on him. “I…I can’t remember.”
“What can’t you remember?” Christ Jesus, he would do just about anything to get that look off her face, but there was nothing to do.
“Some of the Kaddish.” She clutched the cloths to her chest, blinking rapidly. Tears trembled on the verge of spilling, both eyes full.
Lee’s entire chest ached. He’d’a thought it a heart attack if he didn’t know better. “What’s that now?”
“It’s…my bat mitzvah, we had to study prayers for a year, and I…I’m not sure I remember it right.” She sucked in a small, hurt breath, and Lee longed to drag her out of there. Put her in the truck, start it up, and keep driving. All night, if he had to, critters and weather be damned. “The Kaddish.”
“Oh.” He didn’t know any Jewish prayers, but this sounded important. “Wellnow, is there a book, or somethin?”
“I…maybe. Dad wasn’t…he…” She almost crumpled again, shoulders curving inward, her arms tightening around the shawls.
Lee took a step toward her. Another, nice and slow. “Is it like Catholic, where you hafta know the words? Latin, or that?”
“N-no.” Her mouth worked for a moment, and she swallowed hard. “I don’t…I don’t think so, but…”
“Imma tell you, then.” Easy did it here, easy and calm. “We’ll do our best, and God’ll understand.”
“You think so?” A single tear tracked itself down her left cheek, and there was almost nothing he could do about it.
The worst part of anything was bein’ helpless. “I know so,” he lied. Give a woman what she needs, Poppa Q always said, and Lee would, if he could just figure out what that might be. “I know so, darlin. Y’all need some scissors?”
“You have to cut the corner,” she whispered. “So it’s not sacred.”
“Aight.” Keep her moving. Once she settled, the enormity of grief would descend on her like a hawk on a rabbit. “Kitchen, right?”
“Unless Mom’s sewing room…no, okay, kitchen. Okay.”
She didn’t move, so he stepped forward again, turning to put an arm around her shoulders. Pushing her gently for the door. The longer they stayed here, the harder it was gonna get. “We’ll find a pair, or I got a pocketknife. Then you can say whatever words you remember.”
“We weren’t orthodox,” she whispered. She didn’t quite resist his gentle pressure; she was just slowing down under the weight.
“It don’t matter, darlin.” God, get her out of here. Away from this. She couldn’t just walk away from her people without seein’ to them decent, though, and he’d promised.
She nodded, put her head down, and started for the door. Halted, and swayed. “Lee?”
“Hm?” His arm fell back to his side.
“Thank you.” So soft, he could barely hear it.
Anytime. He wanted to say that, but it sounded awful even inside his head. So he just made a half-coughing noise, ducking his own head. His boots left big black prints on the carpet.
Nothing stayed clean. Especially now.
Come midnight it was snowing hard again, and it was the first time Lee Quartine had ever been in a country club. Apparently Ginny’s parents had been members of this Saratoga Ash Club, and she suggested it would be defensible and likely deserted, too.
She was right on both counts, but Lee wasn’t feeling pleased. Overhead, a wide awning painted to look like canvas stripes kept the swiftly falling white away, and the big oak doors were propped wide. Duncan was on watch, playing his flashlight over curtains of swirling flak, and Traveller’s excited cries came from deeper inside, where Mark was throwing a ball for the hound in a cavernous foyer.
“
Washin em. Whoever heard of that?” Juju straightened, rubbing at his lower back. “Waste o’ water.” It was after-combat grousing, adrenaline comin’ down and makin’ a man cranky, but Lee winced internally just the same.
Phyllis, reaching for a fresh case of water, darted him a venomous glance. “There’s plenty just lying around, waiting to be picked up.” Her hands were reddened, nail polish chipped—she’d been at a gallon of dry sanitizer while she drove the RV, if the chemical tang of rubbing-alcohol was any indication.
Lee shook his head, hefting a plastic tub of ammo. “We’re all tired.” His eyes were full of sand, and his own back ached. He wanted to be soothing Ginny, but they needed dinner, a watch schedule, and sleep, in that order. “Tomorrow we’ll get more supplies.”
“Take a look outside, Loot.” Juju spread his arms, a familiar gesture of futility and dull, banked anger. The pompom on his knit hat was crushed by his hood, and his mood was likewise. “It’s fu—ah, it’s messed up, and now we ain’t even got a place to go.”
“Atlanta,” Lee said, grimly. Might as well. “Good a place as any.”
Juju lost the battle with himself and swore. He also almost tossed his flashlight for good measure. It was normal, a product of nerves, and Lee felt like swearing and throwing something himself.
Phyllis, however, had different standards. “You done?” she snapped, and her dark velvety eyes were afire. “Jesus, they were her parents.”
“I know, I know.” The lean dark man sighed, rubbing at his forehead. His hands were raw too, from weather and work. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m worn out.”
She studied him for a long moment, and Lee suppressed a sigh. If the two of them were gonna go at each other, he might as well just go inside, get cleaned up, and settle for the night. To hell with dinner, he wanted to close his eyes and escape this for a little while.
Except that wasn’t an option, now was it.
But Phyllis evidently decided to err on the side of forgiveness. “Me too.” She gave a grudging sigh and blew a stray curl out of her face. “Look, you two can go on in. I can handle this, and Duncan can keep an eye out.”
Which was exactly the way to get Juju to settle, really. “No ma’am. I’m just tetchy.” He had his manners back on now, and hard, too. “Don’t pay me no nevermind.”
“Will do.” But she smiled, a twinkle in her dark eyes, and was off, carrying a load of sleeping bags. Her hips swished pertly under that red coat, and Lee was glad she wasn’t makin’ eyes at him.
That was more trouble than they needed. Duncan nodded as she passed him, but his gaze didn’t follow her. Instead, he peered into falling snow, his flashlight one tiny bar of light swooping restlessly. You wouldn’t see one of the critters until they erupted from the curtain. Hopefully, all the damn things were hibernating.
“That girl’s trouble,” Juju said, darkly, and took his place at the end of the truck, looking for the next load to ferry inside. “Not that you’d notice, now would you.”
“I notice.” Lee rested the ammo tub on the tailgate, eyeing the snow. ”Just don’t care.”
“Must be nice.” Juju glanced over his shoulder at Duncan, a speculative look.
“Don’t look like that Harris fellow got his hand in yet.” Lee had to suppress a grin. “You might got a chance.”
“No thank you, sir. Women’re trouble.” Juju couldn’t find another word.
To be fair, there didn’t seem another that applied. “That they are.”
“Atlanta, huh?” Which was what the man really wanted to know. “You sure?”
Lee was only surprised it took him this long to ask. “Got yourself somethin else in mind?”
Juju made another sharp, stretching movement. He decided to carry in the lanterns next, and gathered the box they rested in during the day, going up on tiptoe to do it. “Would it do any good if’n I did?”
“Truth be told, Juju, I ain’t got no better ideas except movin west if Atlanta goes bust.” Lee choked off a sigh at the end fo the sentence. “So if you got one, I’m all ears.”
“Figured we’d be goin that way soon enough, even if it is south.” Juju propped a hip on the tailgate and regarded him. Drops of snowmelt clung to his flattened cap, and his dark eyes were red-rimmed. “Thought you’d talk her into it before we got this far.”
Yeah, well, that woulda been best. “Tried.”
“What you figger happened?” Another component of post-battle stress; the replay, piecing things together. Juju snatched at his knitted cap, shook it, then rolled it up and stuffed it in his pocket. His hair began to spring back into position, glad to be free.
Lee had been thinking on that, a little. “They opened the door.” Neighbor, maybe, or a stranger—probably bitten but before the convulsions. Or the old man didn’t look before opening up.
Gated means safe, right? That was where Ginny got her optimism from, he reckoned. Maybe it was just bein’ born rich.
“She ain’t gonna be all right for a while.” Juju kept the lantern box on the tailgate and pulled the last tub of ammo from its resting place too, hefted the former free and turned to carry it inside.
“None of us will,” Lee answered, and they went about the business of closing up for the night silently after that.
There was nothing else to say.
A Humdinger
“That’s right.” Duncan squinted at the snow and the back of Juju’s four-by, its brake lights watery rubies piercing a grey day. “You’re doin fine.”
The teenage girl with her fine, whip-braided hair grinned. “It’s easy.” Still, her hands were white-knuckled on the RV’s giant wheel. The damn thing wallowed, chains on every tire biting wider than tracks made by Juju’s 4x4. At least last night’s snow was dry and powdery, but it was tortuous going.
Especially with a backseat driver breathing on you. “Because you’re goin too slow.” The boy Kasprak didn’t like her behind the wheel, that much was plain. Little dog, all puffed up and barking. Maybe he
“Let her drive, son.” Duncan settled in the passenger seat. “Nice and easy on the gas, Miss Meacham.”
“You can call me Steph, sir.” She bit at her lip and the RV swayed. The girl had her learning permit, but piloting one of these big old buses was a helluva job. Still, she didn’t take no for an answer, just sucked it up and stuck her chin out. Reminded Duncan of a girl from high school—Mary Malone, not pretty but striking with high cheekbones and a crop of redgold hair, not one of the big populars but middle-grade. She’d been a good friend to young him, but he’d gone and fucked it up like he always did.
Still, she’d been nice. Married a guy from over the state line, or at least that’s what he’d overheard when he came home halfway through his stint to bury Mama. Cheerful, snub-nosed Mary, smart as a whip and kind, too. Worked at the animal shelter all through school.
She was probably growling and trying to bite the throat out of someone right now, though, if she wasn’t dead on the floor like Ginny Mills’s parents. And thinking about Mary Malone at the animal shelter made him think about all those dogs and cats inside when their owners stopped breathing, or started growling and chewing.
That did his nerves no damn good at all.
Last night—in a goddamn country club, of all places—he’d tossed and turned restlessly in his sleeping bag knowing there was a fully stocked bar so close. When it was his turn to go on watch, he stood in the foyer, watching the truck, 4x4, and the front of the RV tucked under the awning to keep the snow off, and sweated at that very same thought.
“Don’t hit the brake now,” he said, as they breasted a shallow hill. The clouds promised more precipitation, but not just yet, and the weather station showed the barometric pressure was holding steady. “Just let it slow down on its own.”
“Yessir.” The girl’s knuckles began to pinken up. Don’t you drive that bus right over me, Juju had said affectionately, and seeing the man smile was its own reward.
That was the only thing that made Dun
can feel good about not drinking, but it was a humdinger, as his mama would have said.
At least Mama was safely dead before all this bullshit started. She’d gone near the end of his first and last deployment, cancer eating everything in her until the cupboards were bare. That was when the drinkin’ started wholesale, though he’d never liked being sober before. Getting home and seeing the cheapass headstone hadn’t done him any good.
“Was you in the service?” Mark Kasprak was now leaning over the back of the passenger seat, breathing on Duncan’s hair. Boy could just not wait for his turn to drive.
What he wanted to do was snap gitchorass in a seat and stop yammerin’, kid. Instead, Duncan made a gruff noise, somewhere between assent and negation. Let the kid think what he would, and Duncan had made up his mind to keep his temper since it was obvious Thurgood liked both the sprouts.
“Which branch?” the damn kid wanted to know. “Mr Lee thinks you was Army. Mr Juju thinks—”
Steph sighed, a small, aggravated sound. Her eyes were pretty, and her face was kittenish. She’d look like a girl all her life, even when the inevitable wrinkles visited. “He don’t want to talk about it, Mark. Sit down and put your seatbelt on.”
Well, Mark Kasprak didn’t want to be told what to do. “We ain’t goin fast enough to crash.”
“Just in case.” Duncan could have stood to hear what Juju thought of anything. Instead, he was stuck on babysitting duty, and this boy was irritatin’ when a man had nothing but coffee and Cream of Wheat in his belly. “Hard to practice drivin when you’re worried about your passengers.”
“Steph don’t need to worry about me,” Kasprak rapped back.
Lord, it was like looking at a version of his younger self. All that prickliness—but had he ever been so transparent, when he looked at someone he liked? The kid’s face all but shouted puppy love whenever he got within ten feet of Steph.
“But she does.” It was uncomfortable to think he’d ever been that young. Duncan restrained the urge to bark. “Make it easy on her, chief, and sit down for a bit.”
Atlanta Bound Page 10