by Chuck Logan
I give. Time out. The new sensible Nina.
She turned, pulled up her hood, plunged her gloved hands under her jacket, and walked back down the road toward the house. A few minutes later she was rounding a slight rising turn, about two hundred yards to go, thinking about her running course in Stillwater, up Myrtle Hill, out toward Matomedi. This time next week she’d be running up that hill. By then she’d have had her talk with Broker…
A different kind of cold gripped her chest. A twinge of panic anticipating the conversation, telling him what he wanted to hear, after all these years. Admitting to the way she’d compromised her shoulder with the steroids. Jeez, thinking it was one thing. Actually doing it was-She took a deep freezing breath and constructed a box around the panic, tucked it away. Suddenly the box flew open…
Holy shit!
A decade of conditioning and experience flung her off the road, rolling through the snow, scrambling in a fast low crawl to the cover of the trees.
Two of them. At the house?
As her mind protested the image, her reflexes pushed her forward, hugging the tree line; fifty, sixty yards to see better.
She rubbed her hand at the fine white squall, like she was trying to clear a windshield heaped with salt. Nothing out there now but the snow. House going in and out. Thought she saw one of them flattened against the side of the garage, like a lookout; the other testing the garage door. Black ski masks, winter camouflage tunics. She had 20/10 vision in both eyes. Those were pistols in their hands.
Gone now in the storm.
The image in her mind was absurd but compelling. She was staring at a blur of green cabin in northern Minnesota and she was seeing familiar spectral figures; Arkan’s fuckin’ Tigers, the Serb paramilitary she’d stalked in Bosnia and Kosovo…same camo, same masks…
Don’t think. Gain position.
Need a weapon.
She pictured the gun cabinet in the living room behind the wall hanging. And the key to it on the thong around Broker’s neck.
Running now along the ragged edge of the trees, instinctively knowing the blowing snow and the color of her clothes gave her cover. The two figures had vanished from the side of the house; around the back, maybe.
She paused at the edge of the trees. Not dressed for this, getting disoriented by the cold and wind. How far? Maybe eighty yards to the house. She’d locked the doors, had the keys in her pocket.
Do it.
She burst from cover and crossed the open space; her lung-burning sprint turned into a slip-and-slide, batting her hands at the stinging white. Shuddering, she piled into the angle formed where the garage and house met. The snow was a froth at her ankles; dry, fine, in furious motion. No tracks. Where are the tracks? Can’t tell. They were right here? She whipped out the garage door key and opened the door. Slipped inside. Now a second key to get into the kitchen.
She froze when she heard the faint scrape on the back deck, then the rear garage door rattled. Were they testing the door? Or was it the wind?
But did I lock the patio door in the kitchen?
She looked around. Saw the ski poles stacked along the wall. Started to go for one of them. Mid-step, she changed her mind and grabbed the heavy splitting maul in her left hand. Twenty pounds of steel; didn’t trust her right arm.
Very slowly she eased open the kitchen door and edged up to the side of the cabinets that blocked her from the end of the room and the patio door, thankful she had turned out the lights. The room was limbo-lit by the flurry moth light of the snow. Moving in fractions, she peeked around the end of the cabinet, thought she made out this grainy figure, pressed against the patio door’s glass panel, peering into the darkened room. Looked like a German Luger in his hand.
Darted her head back.
A German Luger, c’mon. Are we spiraling out here or what? She blinked icy sweat to clear her eyes. Couldn’t blink away the crazy swerve in her head. It occurred to her she could take one step forward and five steps back.
Warily, she peeked again. Nothing but the churning snow and dim twisting shadows, the trees tossing in the wind.
A line from one of the books: “There are infrequent but documented cases where persons suffering from depression can hallucinate…see things that are not there…”
Suddenly she couldn’t move. Stuck. I’m stuck. Not her body. She slowly bent her knees and lowered her back down the side of the cabinet and squatted on the floor. She removed her cold wet gloves and pressed her icy palms on either side of her face.
…things that are not there…
Then where was she to see the things that are not there? Jesus Christ, I got Alice in Wonderland in my head.
Bullshit. That’s a guy out there with a gun trying to break into the house.
She sat shaking, squeezing her head, arguing with herself. Just…gotta…slam the door on the widening crack of indecision; the whole black fucking pit of where she’d been.
Peeked again from the lower angle. The snow seemed thicker now; sticky, drifting on the deck. Nothing.
I see nothing.
Nothing with a Luger.
The patio door was solid soapsuds. The wind had accelerated to whiteout intensity. And this irrational voice raged in memory, shaking the Georgia pines; apoplectic southern white male, subset TAC sergeant, tested beyond all mortal patience: This ain’t the fuckin’ women’s studies program, Pryce; the only way you finish this course is DO YOUR JOB!’
Right. Thank you.
Nina bounded to her feet, grabbed the maul, and dashed for the living room, tore the hanging off the wall.
Took a half second to orient. Use the strong left arm to lift and swing, steady with the weaker right. In a fierce chopping motion she brought the heavy steel wedge down on the Yale lock on the cabinet doors. The lock spun, bitten, but still held. She raised the maul again, brought it down. Better-it shattered right through the stout door panels. The third hack splintered the hasp completely. She dropped the maul and tore open the ragged door.
Her hand went first to the.45, jamming in the magazine, jacking the slide, setting the safe. She stuck it in her waistband. Grabbed at the rifles. Ammo. Boxes of rounds and magazines scattered on the floor. Broker’s deer gun had an elastic bandolier around the stock with six rounds in it. She slung the rifle over her shoulder, moving now toward the kitchen, paused to tap a magazine for the AR-15 against the doorjamb, aligning the rounds, inserted it in the familiar black rifle, pulled the bolt, shot it home.
Now, let’s try this again, you fuckers.
Sighting down the assault rifle, she quick-stepped, hugging the wall, into the kitchen, urban warfare room-clearing mode. Thumb on the selector switch, finger on the trigger.
The kitchen door creaked opened. Shit, left it unlocked! She spun, felt the cushion of sweat between her finger pad and the trigger compress…
“Nina?” Broker gasped, filling the doorway, face turned to wax, staring into the barrel of the rifle.
She snapped the muzzle off target, held it at the ready, poised, eyes darting to the patio door. “Get in, quick, they’re out there, in back”-a hoarse iron whisper of command.
For another fraction of a second Broker stared at her. Kit stood behind him, eyes wide with incomprehension, not yet fear, holding her bunny and her school pack.
Seeing Kit’s expression, a corner of her vision collapsed, and she started to sink.
When her eyes moved off Broker toward the patio door, he was on her in a blur, knocking the rifle barrel up and away with his right hand, coming on through and shoving her chest hard, stepping in and tearing the pistol from her waistband. Stripping the slung rifle off her shoulder. One swift complete movement. The rifles clattered to the floor, the.45 secure in his right hand, he wrapped her in a bear hug. She heard his voice; high, uncertain, scared: “Kit. Stay in the garage. Shut the door.”
As the kitchen door swung shut, Nina pushed back at him. “Broker, man; I’m not kidding, two guys…she shouldn’t-”
“Cal
m down.” He was almost shouting.
“You calm down! Listen, goddammit!” Her eyes burned at him, but already the controlled fire was starting to sputter.
Broker dropped his arms, stepped back carefully, stuck the.45 into his belt and stooped quickly, snatching up the AR-15. Part of him was still reeling in shock, the other part, the street part, gauged her tense posture-the way she balanced on the balls of her feet, arms floating up. Personal overruled practical. He grabbed her arm and pushed her into the living room. Saw the splintered cabinet. The maul.
“Aw, Jesus, Nina,” he said, releasing her arm.
The way he said it caused more sinking.
As they panted, glaring at each other, his hands were busy, removing the magazine from the black rifle, clearing the action. The tidy lethal.223 round ejected with a brass twinkle and plinked to the floor. He popped the pin behind the trigger assembly, breaking it open, removing the bolt, stuck it in his back pocket. Locked the trigger housing back together, secured the pin. The loose operating handle rattled. His hands were shaking.
Practical again, he realized she was gathering herself, sizing him up. Heard Kit’s fists banging on the kitchen door, her voice muffled, urgent, “Mom, Dad; let me in.”
“There’s two of them,” Nina said patiently. “In winter camo, ski masks, pistols; like Serbs…in the woods…” Saying that, seeing his face react; she knew it was a bad choice of words…
Sounded nuts.
Nina bit her lip. Sounded crazy…how it must look to him. The doubt bounced back fast, ringing her vision with blackness, closing in.
“Serbs in the woods,” he repeated slowly. The words echoed in his mind-Where is it? In the woods. “Aw, Christ,” he said. His face working now, thinking out loud, saying, “Too soon. Got ahead of ourselves…”
The boiling snow outside the living room windows bloomed with headlights. Their eyes snapped on the motion. “Griffin,” Broker said, raising a hand, trying for calm amid the shattered wood, the lock and hasp, the scattered magazines on the floor. “We switched cars. He’s coming to pick up more wood. C’mon.” He reached for her arm again. She danced back in an instinctive fighting stance, and Broker wondered if it was finally coming down to a no-holds bare-knuckle fight between them. Practicality counseled him: No, her training was to kill. Go for the eyes, then the throat. She wouldn’t use that on him. Grappling and restraint was his expertise. And he was encouraged by the quiver of indecision now trembling in her eyes, spreading down her cheeks into her lips. Her eyes getting wider. “C’mon,” he said softly. “We’ll have Harry sit with Kit. Take this down the road, out of the house.”
But he still wasn’t willing to turn his back on her. He waited until she stepped into the kitchen. Then he crossed quickly to the door, opened it. Kit stood framed in the doorway, clutching her bunny.
“What going on?” she said, close to tears.
“We’re just having an argument,” Broker said, with an awful forced calm in his voice.
Kit swallowed and stared at the rifle in his hand, the pistol in his belt. “With guns?”
“Go out and get Uncle Harry,” Broker said. He left the door open. Then, keeping the island between himself and Nina, he picked the deer rifle off the floor, slid open the bolt. Empty. He leaned it against the wall, and his hand was still shaking, because the weapon slipped sideways and crashed to the floor. He ignored it, continued to the patio door, and studied the back deck. Two inches of swirling undisturbed fresh snow. Glanced at the shadowy tree line, indistinct in the horizontal blowing snow. He turned, placed the AR-15 on the table, and slid the wobbling operating handle in place. Put the magazine next to it.
Nina stood hugging herself, one thought recurring over and over, timed to a tick in her cheek: Seeing things that are not there…She watched Broker do his thing; being practical, cautious. Every methodical move he made, checking the deck, disabling the rifle, assuring Kit, sending for Harry, was an instant replay of the last three months.
She was losing light. Sinking. Hallucination was another way of saying “seeing things.”
She watched Harry Griffin enter the kitchen, snow on his shoulders and cap, one hand guiding Kit. Heard Broker say something about a little ‘domestic situation.’ Could he keep an eye on Kit while they took a break to talk.
They were all so carefully normal…
…in the presence of the sick person.
Griffin’s alert eyes scanned all present, the room. Broker had zipped his jacket to hide the pistol, but the rifle was still in plain view on the table. Griffin adjusted immediately, low-key. Said something about Kit could help him load the oak. Be fun in all the snow. Kit’s eyes darting, confused.
Broker lifted Nina’s coat off the hook by the door, stood waiting. Sinking, she crossed the room, grabbed at the pack of cigarettes and lighter on the island. Eyes lowered, she walked past Harry and Kit, took the coat, and followed Broker out the door.
Chapter Forty-six
Shank hunkered in the thick spruce maybe sixty yards from the garage, squinting into the blowing snow. He’d hoped to spot the wife, coming back from running. Couldn’t see shit. Thought he saw some lights for a minute. Then a wall of whiteout erased the shadow of the house. The terrain had disappeared, the road, the woods, just this white plasma blob. Maybe Gator was right, should have broke in, waited in the house. Problem was, what if they came back and saw the forced entry? Scare them off. Better this way, he decided. He had his hood pulled up under the hood of the smock, one gloved hand on the cell phone in his left pocket, the other on the SIG in the right pocket. Not that uncomfortable, still warm from looking over the house, getting focused. In fact, he liked the harsh wind, working an edge off the storm charge in the turbulent air. And appreciated the way it banished the noises he started hearing when Gator left him. Those creepy Wild Kingdom noises sandwiched in the wind.
Fuck a bunch of wolves, just big dogs. Had to laugh, really; he’d killed nine men. Count ’em. Not the time to worry about animals. Still, every time he picked up a weird twist to the wind…
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 he
r 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.