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  Then, faint headlights in the white gloom. Somebody coming up the driveway. Okay, let’s get this show on the road. Okay, folks, what’s going on here? Windows still dark in the house. Looked like. When he could see the fuckin’ house. The minutes stretched like chilly ivory dominoes, clicking end to end. Then, finally, he saw the headlights again. Closer. The green Toyota had returned, was pulling around the back of the house, backing up to the side of the garage. Like it was before. Uh-huh, that’s Broker, getting out of the truck. Impossible to make out his features in the blow, but the same brown coat and black hat. Hank’s heart skipped a beat, seeing the smaller figure get out of the passenger side. Must be the kid, in a blur of green coat and hat, something, a scarf maybe, tied around the face. This’ll be a first. He forgot, was it a boy or a girl? Fuck it. Green target. He hadn’t seen the woman but assumed, given this weather, she was inside.

  He watched them start loading pieces of wood into the truck bed. Now he was waiting on Sheryl to get back in position. More white dominoes. Then, finally, the cell buzzed in his pocket. He whipped it out, removed his glove, and punched answer.

  “I’m back,” Sheryl said. “But I can’t see shit.”

  “Showtime. They’re home. Start your drive.”

  He ended the call, replaced the phone in his pocket, then stuffed the glove in with it. When he looked up, he saw Broker and the kid climbing the steps to the back deck, going in the sliding patio door.

  Okay. See better in the house. He was up, removing his other glove for a surer grip on the SIG. He unzipped the front of the camo smock, not liking the way it bound his chest and arms. Swung his arms—more freedom of movement. Shank pulled the ski mask down around his neck and stepped from the cover of the pines. No more detours, go straight in. Get it over with.

  Kit stood at the end of the kitchen, by the basement door, unwinding her scarf. Griffin dusted snow from his hat, removed it. Seeing the frozen fix of her eyes, he went to her and gently brushed snow from her freckled cheeks. “Hey, honey, it’ll be all right.”

  She looked up at him with an awful anger in her eyes. “You all say that. You all lie,” she said in a measured voice.

  He reached to hug her, and she stepped back, arms raised, warding him off.

  Let her be, he thought. Then he turned, started for the cabinet next to the stove, glanced out the patio door. “Funny, huh. We take a break and the snow lets up. Should be some hot chocolate in here—”

  Something. A snap of red in the corner of his eye.

  Whipping around, he saw that it wasn’t all right.

  The figure of a man emerged from the trees, white camo flapping around something red underneath. One second he was obscure in the blowing snow. Then the wind stopped and the snow disappeared, and Griffin clearly saw the black pistol in his hand. The man started jogging toward the house.

  Griffin didn’t waste time with how or why. He dropped instantly into threat and response, judging time and distance. He was in the middle of the room, between Kit and the table with the familiar rifle and magazine on it. Guy was fifty yards out…

  First get Kit free. Out of the line of fire. The basement.

  “Kit, come here, fast!” he shouted. Galvanized by his tone, Kit hurried to him, her face shaking. “Take this.” He whipped the cell phone from his pocket, opened it. “Now listen to me. Go in the basement. If there’s shooting, unhook the window, crawl out and get into the woods. Punch in 911. A nine and two ones. Press this button, here. Send. Tell them a man with a gun is coming into the house. Go!” he shouted, spinning, lunging for the AR-15 on the table.

  Shank came up the steps two at a time, swinging up the pistol, saw a flurry of movement in the lighted kitchen. Shit. Musta seen him. Broker picking something up off a table…Then Shank’s boot slipped on the top step, and he skidded, righting himself, and his heart caught in his throat.

  Broker was slapping a magazine into a serious military-type rifle, pulling the thingy in back, taking aim.

  Nothing happened.

  Close enough to see the look of surprise in Broker’s eyes, jerking at the operating rod.

  Shank fired twice through the glass, saw Broker go down through a splatter of shattered glass, flung open the siding door, and fired a wild shot at the wide-eyed kid who ducked down a doorway at the other end of the room.

  Stepping over…wait…paused a second, looking down at the waxy face of the man laying on the floor. Hit him solid, twice in the chest. Then…Where’s the fucking eyebrows? Not Broker. What the fuck? Blinked. Focused. Swinging the SIG, ready for the wife when she appeared. No sounds in the house. Immediately he sprinted for the basement doorway. Get the kid first, come back. Shank scrambled down the cramped stairwell, yelling, “All right, you little shit…”

  Not sure why he’d lived, not knowing why he was dying, Harry Griffin opened his eyes and watched his killer step over him and dash down the stairs after Kit. Wouldn’t you know, the same old familiar things; the brimstone scent of cordite, the copper taste of blood. He lay on his right side, right arm trapped beneath him. Couldn’t move it. His left hand was detached. Couldn’t feel it, sprawled there on the floor, tremoring, having its own local death. A foot away from his palsied left hand, along the baseboard, level with his eyes, he saw the .257 Roberts laying on the floor, muzzle pointed in the direction of the basement stairwell, bolt pulled open.

  Heard a snarl from the basement, stuff crashing, thrown around.

  Hardest thing he ever did, resurrecting that left hand, willing it to reach over and tug the rifle along the floor. Way too weak to lift it. He fingered a bullet from the sidekick bandolier on the stock; trembling, he inserted it in the chamber.

  Heard the guy yell, raging, “Why, you little shit!”

  Tasting blood, Griffin smiled. She got out. Good girl. Run. He slid the bolt forward, locking in the round. Second hardest thing he ever did, feathery, his left hand went off on a journey, searching for the trigger, nudging the muzzle along the floor, centered on the stairway. Found the trigger as the heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs. Something going through his mind shutting off the lights on the way out…everything I ever did getting me ready for this moment…

  Lied, Kit…not all right…but maybe…

  Craning his neck, Griffin managed to catch a glimpse of the guy’s face and shoulders, clearing the top step; pale blue angry eyes, skin too white. Harry Griffin squeezed the trigger and rode the exhilarating crash of the bullet out of this life.

  Shank stamped up the stairs, and the kitchen exploded in his face. He spun back, clawing at the handrail. The power of the needle pile driver that hit him promised a lot of pain to come. Hit him low in the left hip, it felt like…He touched the wound. There was a lot of blood. Not the hip. High inside the thigh.

  He gathered himself, pulling on the rail, and staggered up into the kitchen. Saw the deer rifle on the floor next to the dead guy. Fucker had his eyes wide open, head contorted toward the stairs. Sonofabitch looked…happy. Shoulda shot him again…made sure…

  The kid.

  The kid had seen his face.

  He lurched out the door into the garage, then into the driveway. Saw the open basement window, the scrambled snow where she’d crawled out. Different. Looking around, he realized the snow had stopped. Had stopped before he even got into the house. Just this huge white silence and the kid’s tracks leading through it. Looking across the yard, he saw her standing at the edge of the woods, looking back at the house. A lump of shadow against the white trees. Maybe eighty yards. Too far, but he took a shot anyway. She disappeared into the trees.

  Now I’m really pissed.

  He dug through his parka pockets. Found his bandanna, tied it around his screaming thigh, knotted it, and limped along the trail of small boot prints, leaking blood.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  “We’ll use the Jeep, Griffin needs the truck,” Broker said, guiding Nina. His thoughts mirrored the flurries driving at his eyes. His mind seemed erased, full of
white noise. Never been to this numb hopeless place before.

  They got in the Jeep, and as he turned it around, they glimpsed Griffin and Kit appearing and disappearing, climbing into the Tundra. Broker drove to the end of the driveway and stopped. At a loss for which way to turn.

  He turned left, made it maybe four hundred yards down the road, pulled over, stopped, and put the shift in neutral. They sat, eyes fixed straight ahead, and listened to the heater fan grind cold air.

  Nina stared at the webbed maze of the dream catcher hanging from the rearview mirror. Then down the headlight beams pushing into the snow. The electricity struggled out maybe twenty yards and fizzled. White or black. What’s the difference. She had lost the light.

  She snuck at a look at him, slouched back, chest caved, snow shadows fluttering over his face, the muscles rippling in his cheeks. He grimaced, rose up, reached behind, removed the bolt for the AR-15 from his back pocket, and placed it on the dashboard like a compact steel indictment.

  Still didn’t look at each other. No words left. And no moves either. Cratered.

  Someone had to make a start. “I got scared,” she said.

  He turned, looked at her, and brought up his right hand, palm up, fingers curled, like he’d packed it all—their whole history, all his hoarded resentments—down into an ice ball he could grip in his hand. The hand shook. “You got scared? What about Kit? What about—” He was yelling now. More out of control than she’d ever seen him.

  “You?” she yelled back, grabbing his shaking fist and yanking it hard. “Listen. I got scared, goddammit!”

  Their hands parted, and they both took a breath. “Jesus, Nina, you stuck an AR in my face, in Kit’s,” he blurted, his voice still shaking, but lower, reeling in.

  “I thought I saw—” She stopped, began again. “The reason I got scared is because I knew I had to tell you something, and when I did, I’d have to face it myself. Really face it.”

  They both looked up as a set of low beams materialized out of the gloom and a car slowly slipped past, this gray silent shadow.

  She fluttered her hand, an explosion of nerves, and reached for her cigarettes. Clicked her lighter. “Christ,” she said, blowing a stream of smoke, making a bitter laughing sound, “look at me, just talk about it and I start to panic…” Nina shook her head. “Must have tripped something. Call it what you want, post-traumatic whatever…scary how real it seems.” She jerked her head back toward the house. Then tossed her hair, worrying her fingers through the sweaty ponytail. Turning back, she saw she had his full attention now. So she just said it. “Broker, this whole ugly thing we’ve been through. It’s not about Janey and Holly. Oh, it’s about loss, all right. A selfish, small loss. It’s about me, goddammit.” Her voice started to shake. “It’s about losing me.”

  “Okay, okay; take it easy,” he said, his eyes deeply engaged in the sudden fury of emotion on her face. As Nina steadied herself, puffing on the cigarette, the windshield cleared, the world returned. The wind collapsed, the snow vanished. A pristine winter road stretched before them; spruce, balsam, and cedar decked in white. The low clouds unwound, almost electric with saffron light.

  “See,” Nina said. “When I call them at Bragg, I have to tell them it’s over. They know. Just waiting for me to accept it.”

  “Over? What’s over?” He drew himself up, like the jury was in and the verdict was about to be read.

  Nina bit down on the cigarette between her teeth and slammed her left fist into her right shoulder. Then she thumped the fist on the black logo type across the front of her sweat-suit jacket. “The fucking Army. That’s what’s over. I’m coming home, Broker. There, you happy now?”

  “Jesus, Nina, hey—”

  “It’s my shoulder, I got the shoulder of a fifty-year-old woman. It’s wrecked. Irreversible tissue damage. I been faking it with steroids and narcotics for years.”

  Broker blinked, trying to take it in. Then he turned his head, squinted at her, like…

  They both jerked their heads alert, “You hear that?” Nina wondered, looking around.

  “Yeah,” Broker said, gritting his teeth, sitting up. “Sometimes you can get this thunder snow—”

  “There it is again,” Nina said.

  Broker waved his hand at the smoke filling the interior of the Jeep. “Crank down the window.” As she did, he opened the one on his side. They listened, straining…the silence almost creaked, like this wishbone…

  The snap carried through the icy air, pointed and resonant. Their eyes locked. Instantly, Broker jammed the gearshift, popped the clutch, and spun the Jeep in a giddy fishtailing turn, mashed on the gas.

  “Small-caliber, about four hundred yards. Pistol; back by the house,” Nina’s voice rose, she flipped the cigarette. “Give it to me!” she shouted.

  Broker never took his eyes off the road as he yanked up his coat and handed over the Colt. She was the handgun expert in the family.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Kit Broker stood shaking at the edge of the woods, looking back across a field of new snow that glistened like a million sequins. She could see her boot prints stamped in that clean snow like a line of huge black ants.

  She saw the bad man who shot Uncle Harry stagger into the driveway, inspect the basement window where’d she’d escaped the house. Then he started across the yard, following her tracks, and saw her. He yelled something and raised his hand. His hand twinkled, and then she heard a sharp crack. Branches snapped farther down in the trees.

  Shooting at her.

  People kept getting shot in her young world. Auntie Jane. Uncle Harry. She knew she should move. Get out of here. But she kept looking down the road, her eyes pleading for headlights, for her mom and dad. Go in the woods, and she’d lose the road. The cell phone Uncle Harry gave her made a lump in her jacket pocket.

  The man was coming. With his gun.

  Still she couldn’t move. She was rooted in the snow, so far inside the shaking, she couldn’t find a way out. She didn’t understand what was happening to her. What do I do?…I don’t know. Just some words Mom and Dad said: What goes up comes down; don’t quit, don’t cry…

  Words.

  He was almost halfway across the yard now, this lumbering shadow, coming to hurt her. Worse. Uncle Harry…And then, finally, she did know something. Balling her gloved hands into fists, she yelled at her pursuer: “I am not a little shit!” Galvanized by the sound of her voice, she turned and plunged into the forest, pumping her arms and knees, running zigzag through the trees and bushes.

  Heard him behind her, crashing in the brush. Something else. Like a horn?

  She fell headlong, plunging her arms into the snow, felt sharp things in the dirt tear at the palms of her hand; pushed herself up on her stinging hands. Lost her hat, branches ripped her face. Tasted blood. Got her feet under her.

  A doe bolted in front of her, so close she could see the bulging white of the terrified animal’s eyes. Just running like crazy.

  Run faster. Have to run faster because…

  Because he was running faster than her, because he was running beside her, this shadow flitting through the trees, against the clean sparkles. Then crossing in back of her, back and forth. But quiet, not crashing. Silent.

  And then he was on the other side too. He was everywhere. She sobbed for breath and ran harder, but he stayed with her, and then she saw a long low shape that was too short to be a man. More than one. Running on either side, pacing her. Hard to tell. Looked like dogs. One of them bounded ahead of her and stopped, watching her with shining eyes. Then it raised its pointy head and howled.

  Kit stopped running and stood absolutely still.

  Not a dog.

  Dumb little shit. Where did she think she was going? Blind man could follow these tracks. Shank pushed on, gaining ground, driven by a raging necessity to lay his hands on that kid. But by the time he made it to the trees, he knew something was seriously wrong. His left pant leg was stiff with frozen blood, crackl
ing at every step. More disturbing was the deadening cold in his hands and legs. When he gripped the SIG, the pressure stopped in his palm, didn’t make it to his fingers. Swung his eyes at the hostile trees. Not that cold out.

  Was it?

  He didn’t know a whole lot about anatomy. Just knew he was bleeding way too much for a flesh wound. Fucker. Musta got the vein…

  The cold was inside, not outside coming in…

  All his warm stuff was dribbling out.

  He blinked, and it felt like his eyelids were sealed, glued. Vaguely he realized he had stopped sweating. His breath no longer fogged the air. No heave to his chest. He lurched, reaching for the trunk of a pine tree. Pressed his cheek into the rough reddish bark. Rest a second. Squinting. Limbo light through the branches—clouds spun with amber in the tree breaks, like cotton candy. His eyes focused, and he noticed that the kid’s tracks were crisscrossed with other smaller tracks. Lots of them. His left leg buckled, and he bumbled down, hugging the tree trunk until he collapsed heavily in the snow. Rolled over on his back.

  A blur of movement against the snow, low, to the right. He swung the pistol and fired twice. When he tried for a third shot, he realized his numb hand was empty. He’d lost the SIG.

  Amazed, as his kidneys released, he became fascinated with a tiny wisp of steam rising from his crotch. Warm there. His stiff right hand fumbled for the warm. Couldn’t feel it. When he raised his hand, his fingers looked like they were covered with sticky oil. When he brought the oil to his lips, it tasted like blood. The hand fell to the snow and he couldn’t raise it.

  When the eerie summoning howl bounced off the trees, Shank barely heard it, just part of the rushing background noise draining from his mind.

  He didn’t see them gather at first, sniffing the blood trail, circling patiently in the creepy shadows. By the time he did see them sitting patiently in a semicircle around him, that’s all he could do. See.