Chuck Logan - Homefront

He placed the pick in the narrow side pocket of his backpack. He thought for a moment. Probably have to do some creeping. He went to the shelf on the mud porch and selected a pair of old oversize felt boot liners. Then he selected his small bear-paw snow shoes. After he loaded the footwear in his pack, he nestled the meatball baggie in among the boot liners.

Okay.

Next he changed from his work clothes, pulled on long underwear and lightweight Gore-Tex winter camo. He yanked a ski mask over his head and down around his neck like a muff, so he could pull it up if he needed to hide his face. He put a bottle of water, an energy bar, and his smokes in a small backpack. After he laced on his ski boots, he checked the thermometer on the porch.

Twenty-two degrees. Blue Kleister.

Carefully, liking the routine, he waxed his Peltonen racers.

He put his cell phone in his chest pocket, then loaded his skis and gear in the back of his battered red ’92 Chevy truck and headed out. He slowed five minutes from the farm to check the intersection of County Z. The crossroad was all fresh undisturbed snow, no tire tracks. He continued on County 12 south through the deserted jack pine barrens, going slow, inspecting the deserted houses scattered along the road for signs of recent activity. Half an hour later, he arrived at the trail head at the north end of the lake.

Most mornings when there was good snow, he skied the north 20K. He unloaded his skis and stepped into his bindings, shouldered his pack, and poled through the woods to the trail. When he got there, he saw that the tractor from the lodge had been through, just like the clerk said. Fresh-groomed trails. He pushed off and fell into the powerful rhythm, heading south.

Twice he skied off the trail, letting other skiers pass. This time of year they’d be local people, and he didn’t want to be spotted out here. Allowing for the detours, it took just fifteen leisurely minutes to come to the yellow No Hunting sign that posted the back end of Griffin’s land. Could see the green cabin peeking through the trees, the lake beyond it. He saw they’d been skiing, probably last night just after it snowed. They had worked a connecting trail. He scouted in closer down the connecting trail and settled on a slight rise that overlooked the backyard. He got out of his skis, hid them in some thick spruce, strapped on the paws, and went to the knoll, where he made a place to sit against a tree. Then he tested the wind, which was gusting from the northeast, and figured he could get away with a smoke. So he lit a Camel and settled in to watch the house. First off, he spotted a snow-covered doghouse in back of the garage. Uh-huh. Okay. Keep an eye out for the dog. Then he saw a pile of kindling next to a chopping block. Oak, from the bark and grain. Must be three cords stacked up in the long shed along the garage. Then he remembered that Griffin trucked in oak, used it to heat sand and water to mix his mortar. On that winter job at the lodge.

Then he noticed two sets of skis and poles set out against the garage. One set shorter, for a kid. He finished his smoke and stuffed the butt deep out of sight into a crevice of pine bark, wiggled his toes in his boots, drank some water, ate half an energy bar. A dedicated bow hunter, he was stoic about the cold. He figured he had about half an hour of cooldown before the sweat he’d worked up on the trail started to freeze.

Another half hour passed. Still no sign of a dog. Then he heard voices and saw a man and a kid come out the back door in skiing duds. Where’s Mom? Now that he’d come this far, he was getting curious; just who were they? What was it like inside that house? How come nobody had seen the woman? What did Cassie mean? He didn’t fit.

Now they were putting on their skis.

Okay. He was up fast, made his way back to his own skis. So which way are they going to go? Assume they’re good citizens and will follow the arrows posted on the trail. Go the direction he’d come in. He lashed the bear paws to his pack, got back into his skis, and worked hard, backtracking up the trail. When he’d poled up the approach to the first big downhill, he paused and peered back through the trees. He’d been right. Eagle Scouts, following the rules. Coming this way. The kid wore green and was on the skating path, the guy was in red and stayed in the Nordic tracks.

He pulled up his ski mask and adjusted it. Okay. Time it so you meet them at max speed when you rocket back down the hill. Get a feel for this guy.

Ten minutes into the trail Broker caught a blur of movement up ahead through the trees, shooting over the top of the first big hill. A skier coming down the tracks in a downhill tuck, poles back, hands braced on his bent knees. Some daredevil cowboy. Really pushing it.

“Watch yourself, Kit. That guy up there. He’s coming pretty fast,” Broker called out. Kit slowed her stride, reacting to the alarm in Broker’s voice. She swung her head, her eyes flashing, uncertain.

“Don’t look at me, Look at him !” Broker yelled at her.

She glowered at the anger in his voice, wasting seconds she needed to react. And all he could do was watch. He was helpless because the guy was coming so fast, and he was hard to see in gray-and-white hunting camo and a black face mask. Onrushing like a puzzle piece catapulted out of the winter pattern of the forest. Jesus. Too fast.

“Kit, goddammit! Get off the trail!” Broker shouted.

“You don’t have to yell,” she shouted back.

Time and distance. Broker did the quick gut math and realized he could not reach her, thirty yards ahead of him, before the oncoming skier…

“GET OFF THE TRAIL!” he shouted again, waving his poles.

The guy came out of his tuck nearing the bottom of the hill and executed a snappy sidestep, and now he was ripping down the skating path, straight at Kit.

Kit was stepping to the right as fast as she could, but the guy was on top of her.

“Watch it, asshole!” Broker shouted as he struggled on the skis to gain the distance. Wasn’t going to happen. He did his best to step out into the skating path, instinctively gripping one of his poles with both hands like a pugil stick and menacing it forward in an attempt to warn the guy away.

The guy came straight ahead, streaked past with a swish and clatter as one of his poles banged on Kit’s poles. Not even seeing them, it seemed, his hooded eyes fixed ahead on the trail. Kit was flung in his wake and fell sideways into the parallel tracks ahead of Broker. In seconds he was bending over her. She sat up, removed her glove, and put her fingers to her cheek.

A thin red stripe started next to her nose and went across her cheek almost to her ear. Gingerly she touched it, and her finger came away with a tiny dot of blood.

“He must have raked you with his pole as he went by,” Broker said, helping her to her feet and inspecting her face. “Just a scratch.”

With an exaggerated indignant expression and in a very dramatic voice, Kit protested, “You didn’t have to yell at me.”

“Hey, he almost squashed you flat.”

“Did not. He missed.”

Broker stared, perplexed at the touchy coiled springs of mood sprouting out of her. “I’m sorry for yelling, but I was scared for you,” he said.

She thought about it and said, “I was scared, too. Just a little.” She furrowing her brow and stated, “He was going the wrong way, Dad,”

“I know, honey. Some people are like that. And they just don’t see kids. You all right?”

“No problem,” she said deadpan, delivering the line with a nonchalance she’d overheard hanging out with Nina’s Army crowd in Italy. Seeing him a make a face at her language, she grinned. Perhaps encouraged by the encounter with the speed demon, she said, “Let’s go. Race you down the first hill.”