by Garton, Ray
Turning to the door, she listened for a moment. The storm still raged outside, worse than ever, a nonstop rumble accompanied by loud rattles and clashes. She heard nothing happening inside the house, though—no shouting, no shooting. She took another deep breath, then opened the door and stepped out.
It remained quiet in the house as she made her way down the hall. It seemed even the television had been silenced. She entered the living room without making a sound, hoping she wouldn’t be noticed.
Marcus had come back into the house and was frantically cleaning the guns, drugs, and paraphernalia off the coffee table, moving fast as he swept everything into a plastic garbage bag. He wore a dripping raincoat.
Jada was finally awake and sitting up on the love seat, rubbing her eyes with both hands and looking groggy. She lowered her hands and lifted her head and her puffy eyes went directly to Latrice, widening a little.
Giff was at the front door, looking out the peephole. The left sleeve of his sweatshirt had been removed and his arm had been bandaged. A younger man with short, black hair and mocha skin stood beside him, leaning close and talking quietly. Beside him stood a young woman in a long, dark coat. Her auburn hair was short and spiky and Latrice could see part of a tattoo on the right side of her neck. She looked apprehensive as she ran a hand through her hair. Standing several feet away, fidgeting and smoking nervously, was Tojo.
The tattooed woman turned slightly, spotted Latrice, and turned fully toward her. Her skin was pale and she had piercings in her face. She took off her coat to reveal a blue sweatshirt and green sweatpants.
“Who’re you?” she said.
Giff pulled away from the peephole and turned around. “Oh, that’s Latrice, she’s a . . . guest.” Striding toward Latrice, he frowned and said, “There’s a sheriff’s deputy outside and it looks like he’s coming in, but I don’t know why. And it looks like he’s got some guy and a little boy with him. You know anything about this?”
Latrice assumed it would be unwise to admit that she was the one who’d called the police. Now she wished she hadn’t. She should have just gotten the hell out of there while she could, gotten back into her car and driven into the storm. She slowly turned her head back and forth in response to Giff’s question.
The headache had gotten worse and was making her ears ring, and her shoulders, arms, and legs ached. She had a sinking feeling she was getting sick. At the worst possible time.
“Well, far as I know, he’s got nothing on us,” Giff said. He turned around to find that the man and woman were now standing right behind him. “You think he followed Hank? Maybe that’s it. He was chasin’ Hank. Y’think?”
The man nodded. “It’s possible.”
“Giff, I think you should sit down,” the young woman said. “You’re sweatin’ like a pig. Shaking, too.”
“I’m gonna be okay, Mia,” Giff said. “The bullet went straight through, it’s just a flesh wound.”
“But you look like shit.”
“Leave him alone, Mia,” the man said.
“Well, look at him, Miguel, he looks like he’s gonna pass out, or something!” She lifted her hand to Giff’s face and placed her palm over his forehead, then his cheek. “Jesus, you’ve got a fever.” She shook her hand a few times, saying, “And you’re soaking wet.”
“I’m not feeling so good, you wanna know the truth, but I think maybe I’m just getting a flu bug, or something. I’ll be fine, don’t worry. Shit, this is bad, ’cause the cop’s gonna want to see Hank. Goddammit, we don’t have time to clean up that mess in the kitchen and hide the bodies.”
“Bodies?” Mia said. “The fuck’s goin’ on here, you didn’t say nothin’ about no bodies in the kitchen.”
“He’s gonna see Jimmy out in the front yard, anyway,” Miguel said. “He’ll know something’s up.”
“What the hell are we talking about?” the woman said. “He’s going to see that!” She pointed at the bloody bandage on Giff’s arm. “You gonna tell him you cut yourself shaving?”
“Fuck.” Giff turned to her. “Oh, uh, Latrice, this is Miguel and Mia. They live in one of the trailers out front. Guys, this is Latrice.” He turned to Mia and said, “Go to my room. Dresser drawer, second from the top, grab me a sweatshirt. Hurry.”
Mia ran from the room.
They all jumped at the loud pounding on the door.
“Sheriff’s department!” a voice shouted just outside the door.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Giff hissed.
“You okay, Giff?” Miguel said. “You do look pretty bad. You got sweat dripping down your face.”
He wiped a hand down his glistening face. “Yeah, I’m not feelin’ so good.”
“What’s wrong?” he said.
Giff shook his head. “I don’t have time to worry about it now.”
Mia returned with a sweatshirt. She helped Giff remove the sweatshirt he was wearing, with its missing sleeve, and then helped him put on the one she’d brought. It was clean and had both sleeves and concealed Giff’s bandage well.
“What do you want to do?” Miguel said.
More pounding on the door.
“Sheriff’s department, open up!”
Giff clenched his teeth and growled through them, “Son of a bitch.” His forehead cut with deep frown lines, he frantically looked around the room, as if the solution might be right in front of him. “Okay, okay. Mia, go to the bedroom and get the kids. Bring ’em out here and put ’em in front of the TV. Turn on cartoons, or something. Do it now.”
Mia looked uncertain. She’d had a slightly sickened look on her face ever since she’d learned there were dead people in the kitchen.
“I don’t know, Giff,” she said, talking fast, “if you got bodies in the kitchen, are you sure you want me to bring the kids—”
“Do it!” Miguel snapped.
She hurried out of the room.
Giff said, “Tojo, go sit on the couch and read your fuckin’ book.”
Tojo quickly did as he was told.
He turned to Marcus, who stood nearby in his wet raincoat with the garbage bag full of contraband on the floor by his feet. “Marcus, you know where to put that. But take off that raincoat first.”
There was more pounding on the door as Mia hurried two young boys into the living room and sat them on the couch, then turned on the TV. Once there were animated spaceships on the screen, Mia sat down on the couch with the boys.
“Latrice,” Giff said. “Sit down and watch TV.”
She crossed the room and sat down in the recliner. The package she’d delivered, which she’d last seen on the floor beside the recliner, was nowhere in sight. It felt good to sit. She was aching all over and she was beginning to feel cold. Feverish. Sick. She wished she were at home on her couch, legs tucked up, her elbow propped on a couple of pillows, safe and warm and well, the kids playing in the front yard, their laughter drifting in through the screen door while Latrice laughed with Mama at Ellen DeGeneres.
Giff whispered, “Everybody just try to follow my lead. Whatever the hell that is.” He turned with a sigh, his face wet with perspiration, eyes heavy-lidded with sudden weariness, and went to the front door. He leaned against it as he opened it so it wouldn’t be slammed in by the powerful wind. The sounds of the storm rushed into the house.
Latrice heard voices but couldn’t understand their words. The door was closed a moment later and the house became a little quieter. She leaned forward slightly in the chair and turned toward the entrance, trying not to be too obvious.
“Hey, Giff!” a cheerful, booming voice said. “It’s been a while. How you doing?”
Giff backed slowly into the living room with his left hand on his hip and the other scratching the top of his head.
“Hey, deputy . . . is it von Pohle?” he said.
“Right the first time!”
“Yeah, it has been a while.” There was a smile on his face, but his voice was chilly and nervous.
The deputy came
into the living room with a kind of strut, like a rooster. His big leather belt crackled softly under the pressure of his belly as he walked. A few steps behind him were a man and a young boy, both of whom looked very uncomfortable, even apologetic. All three of them were quite wet from the rain. The deputy wore a menacing grin as he watched Giff closely with cold eyes. He took off his plastic-wrapped cap and dropped it into a chair.
“Far as I know,” Giff said, “I haven’t got any warrants. Neither does anybody else here.”
“That’s not why I’m here. No. Somebody called.”
“Called you? From here?” He chuckled. “No, I don’t think so.” He turned to the others in the living room and said, “Anybody been doin’ any butt-dialing?” He laughed.
“No, it wasn’t butt-dialing,” the deputy said. “Somebody called about a shooting and some crazy old man? And you know, I couldn’t help noticing you got an SUV out there that’s slammed into the corner of your house and what looks like a dead man on the ground, shot right in the head. Did that have anything to do with the old man?”
“I don’t know what that was. That happened about, uh”—he turned to the others—“when did that car crash into the house? Half hour ago? Forty-five minutes?”
“Something like that,” Miguel said. “Scared the hell out of me. I thought one of the trees had fallen.”
“Sounded like a bomb,” Marcus added as he came into the room and sat down on the broad armrest at the end of the couch.
“Then you don’t know anything about the dead body, Giff?” von Pohle said.
“Body?”
“In your front yard.”
“You were serious? There’s a body?”
The deputy’s grin got a little bigger as he firmly shook his head and wagged a rigid forefinger back and forth in the air, saying, “Ah-ah-ah, I never joke about dead bodies. Not on duty, anyway. You’re also gonna tell me you don’t know anything about the bullet holes in your front door, I suppose.”
“Bullet holes?” Giff said.
As he laughed, von Pohle turned to the man and boy who had come in with him and gave them a look that said Can you believe this shit? Then his head snapped around and his smile turned into an O for a moment. “Oh, I’m sorry, these are a couple friends I’m giving a ride to, is all. This is Andy and his son, Donny. They’re not with me in any kind of official way, not at all, I’m just giving ’em a lift. But I figured since we’re, y’know, in the middle of a fuckin’ hurricane, they should come inside with me. I knew you wouldn’t mind. If you’d like, they can go wait in some other part of the house. Maybe they could sit in the kitchen? You know, I think we could all use some coffee.” He turned to the man, who looked deeply worried, and said, “You want some coffee, Andy?”
“Sure,” Andy said. “Coffee would be good.” He bent toward the boy and said, “Do you want anything to drink, Donny? Some water, maybe?”
Donny nodded, then said, “I’m real hungry, too.”
Andy put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and gave it a comforting squeeze.
Latrice watched the boy. A handsome young fellow with the same lustrous black hair as his father, big nervous eyes.
Donny made her think of Robert and Tamara. Especially Robert and his poor arm and leg. She had to get home to them.
“Do you have some coffee?” von Pohle asked Giff.
“I’ll go make some right now,” Giff said.
Latrice said, “There’s already coffee made out there. Should still be hot.”
The deputy hadn’t noticed her before and now, as he turned to her, his face lit up. “Well, look at you!” he said. “Perfect! Why don’t you get the coffee for us!” He seemed quite happy about it.
“I’ll get it,” Giff said, smiling as he headed for the doorway.
“No, really,” von Pohle said, “I think I’d kind of enjoy being served coffee by your friend, here.” He turned to Latrice again.
Latrice realized she was clenching her teeth and relaxed her jaw. This cop was pissing her off. She saw what he was doing. He thought he was being funny. She was surprised he hadn’t already called her Mammy or Beulah. But she felt too sick to say or do anything about it.
“I’m not feeling so good,” she said. “You should let Giff get the coffee.”
“Coming up,” Giff said as he left the room.
The deputy took a few steps toward her. “You’re sick. What’s the matter?”
She shrugged. “I’m feeling fluish. You might want to stay away. I may be contagious.”
“Oh, the flu bug doesn’t like me. I never get it. Don’t even get the shots. I’m tough as nails. Are you, Latrice?”
She hoped she didn’t look as shocked as she felt.
Before she could reply, he said, “Dispatch said a Latrice had called. Was it you?”
Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.
Say something say something say something! she thought.
Finally, she simply nodded.
“What’s the story? What’s going on here? Something about a crazy old man and shooting?”
Once again, she could not find her voice. Even when she tried to speak, nothing came out. And once again, she nodded.
“That SUV out there have anything to do with it? The one that crashed into the house?”
Another nod.
“Why won’t you talk? Are you afraid?” He came closer and bent forward, leaning his hands on his thighs. “Are you in some kind of trouble here? Are these people hurting you? Do you—Jesus, you’re sweating.”
She already didn’t like him, and she already felt angry, but when he leaned toward her like that, as if he were bending down to talk to a child, speaking so condescendingly, Latrice felt something hot rise up in her chest. She was suddenly so angry that she wanted nothing more than to drag her fingernails through his face from top to bottom, side to side.
There was a loud crash in the kitchen, followed by the shattering of glass. The sounds startled nearly everyone in the room.
“Hey, Marcus!” Giff called from the kitchen. “Could you come give me a hand?”
Marcus shot up off the couch and hurried out of the room.
The deputy stood up straight and frowned as he turned and watched Marcus go. Then he stared for a moment at the doorway leading into the hallway and, across the hall, into the kitchen.
There was another crash, this time something metallic hitting the floor, like a baking tray, or something. Hushed but urgent voices came from the kitchen, sibilant and hissed.
“The hell’s goin’ on in there, anyway?” von Pohle shouted.
“Everything’s fine!” Giff called. “Just clumsy. Coffee coming up.”
The deputy stared at the doorway, clearly suspicious. Then he started across the room, heading directly for it.
No one moved or made a sound, but the air in the room seemed to tense.
If the deputy went into the kitchen and found those two dead bodies lying in that bloody mess, the shit would hit the fan and fly in all directions. Latrice wondered how fast she could get out of that chair and run out of the house to her car. Her muscles ached and she felt weak, but she could not stick around for what was coming. She had to get home to her babies.
Latrice’s head hurt so bad, she squinted as she watched von Pohle continue across the room, obviously on his way to the kitchen.
Miguel closed his eyes for a moment.
Latrice watched von Pohle pass through that doorway. She was tempted to dash out of the chair immediately, but she wanted to make sure he wasn’t coming right back.
A moment later, von Pohle’s laugh bellowed out of the kitchen. “Well, what the fuck have we got here?” he said happily.
Latrice’s aching muscles tensed painfully as she pushed herself out of the chair. She resisted the urge to run as she crossed the room. She was afraid that if she ran, somebody might try to stop her. But the second the front door was in sight, she broke into a run and grabbed her coat as she passed the coat tree. When she open
ed the door, it was almost blown out of her grip. She slipped around its edge and through the opening, then pulled it closed.
Every muscle in her body cried out in pain as she put her coat on while hurrying down the steps. The wind was like a giant fist that just kept punching again and again, threatening to knock Latrice on her ass. Rain pelted her face and stung her eyes, but she put the steps behind her and reached into her coat pocket for her keys as she made her way between a couple of cars to the spot where she’d parked and—
—she wanted to scream.
The deputy’s patrol car was parked directly behind her Highlander. She could not get out.
3
One day, Sheriff Mitchell Kaufman would retire and finally devote some time to trying to get his cop stories published, maybe in a collection, stories he’d been writing and rewriting and polishing for years, and he might even start work on a novel. He’d never shown his stories to anyone, not even his wife, but he thought they would be ready when he retired. He knew that this story—the story of what was happening to him at that moment—was going to be a standout. It would be the story people remembered. He didn’t even know what the hell was going on yet, and already he could tell it would be memorable.
After driving into the guardhouse, Kaufman sat stunned at the wheel, staring out the windshield. He wasn’t hurt, just momentarily flabbergasted.
There’d been a lot of chatter on the radio, and normally he would be tuned to every word that came over that damned thing, but he hadn’t heard any of it as words or language, only as garbled background noise. He was too focused on his situation. But he needed that radio and he had to shake the fog out of his head and use it. The radio, the radio, he focused his attention on the radio.
Dispatch was calling him.
The homeless shelter was on fire in Old Town.
A looter had been shot by a civilian, who was now in custody.
Dispatch called him again.
He needed that mike.
Kaufman gave his head a good, hard shake back and forth a few times and rubbed his eyes.
The person who had been on his roof when Kaufman crashed into the corner of the guardhouse had tumbled through the air, slammed into the guardhouse wall, and dropped to the ground like a rock.