Chuck Logan - Homefront

A Visa statement…his eyes stopped, reversed.

Drawn on a bank in Hong Kong? What the hell-$10,000 cash advance. Credit limit a hundred thou? He looked up at the sheet of paper on the fax that had printed out a log of calls. Devil’s Rock, Minnesota. Stillwater. St. Paul.

Fort Bragg, North Carolina?

Huh?

He rifled through the envelopes, and a return address jumped out:

Washington County Sheriff ’s Office.

Whoa, what’s this? He opened the envelope and took out the top of a pay voucher. A handwritten note bearing the letterhead of John Eisenhower, Sheriff, was clipped to the form.

Broker,

Here’s the balance of the Special Projects money. Sorry as usual it took so long. I could only swing a few hundred to help defray the cost of your truck getting wrecked on the Saint thing. I heard your insurance didn’t cover it. I’d look into suing that nutcase Cantrell. He finally resigned the county.

Hope all is well with Nina and Kit.

Best, John

Gator looked around, bouncing, giddy-damn Cassie, well no shit! They don’t fit. Gonna put something extra in your stocking….

Some kind of cop.

He listened carefully and decided he could chance only a few more minutes. But this was too good to pass up. It only took a few seconds to figure out the fax’s copying function. Okay. He smoothed out the Visa statement and the pay voucher and aligned them into the feeder. Hit copy. The machine grumbled, and seconds seemed like an eternity until-Yes! — they printed out. Then he took the note, copied that. He rolled the sheets of paper carefully and inserted them into the wide webbed inner pocket of his jacket.

You should really get the hell out of here.

But now he was staring at the stack of boxes. On impulse he reached into the top one, snatched a manila folder at random, and stuffed it under his jacket.

Enjoying himself immensely, clutching the bunny comically with both hands to his chest, he cakewalked through the kitchen, having some fun but making sure he wasn’t leaving any trace. He didn’t worry too much. The floor was dotted with pools of melting snow that the guy and the kid must have left going in and out.

Going past the sink he paused, tucked the bunny in his jacket, and selected a brown glazed bowl from the countertop. Somebody just had some tomato soup. He slipped out the door, down the porch, and crossed to the truck. Knelt, listened. Quickly he fingered the ice pick from his pack, felt the deep tread on the left rear tire. New. Blizzak. Good snow tire.

He thrust the pick deep into a crevice of tread, heard a whoosh of rubbery air escaping. Up quick, skirting around the garage, where he stopped and set down the bowl next to the doghouse. Carefully, he slung off his pack, opened it, withdrew the Ziploc, and dumped the meat and antifreeze into the bowl. Tucked the bag back in the pack.

Dog or not, if this guy had half a brain, he’d get the message.

Then he caught Christmas-tree colors in the pines, moving red and green. A second later he heard their breathless chatter, coming in fast.

Shit! They didn’t ski the whole loop.

Gator ducked along the side of the garage, keeping it between him and the trail, slipped around the front, hurried in through the front door. Christ, if the wife was up and looking out the living room window, she could see…

The voices, louder now.

Looked around fast. Found a cranny in the corner behind a table stacked with boxes, backed into it, and squatted in the dark as the back door opened.

Oh, shit, oh shit! They were right there. Seeing the steam from their breath rising in the half-light over the top of the boxes, he pulled the mask up over his mouth. Clatter of skis, c’mon. C’mon. Go inside.

Then the guy, Broker, told the kid to shovel the back deck. Not good. Then he went through the door that attached to the kitchen, leaving the goddamn kid out back scraping at the snow on the back porch. Gator didn’t want to chance heading out the front-too open, and his stuff was back in the woods.

Sonofabitch. He got up to a crouch, listening hard. Had a chance heading out the front. Gotta go now. He left his cover, starting to head for…

Jesus Christ. The kitchen door opened, throwing an oblong splash of yellow light across the floor and far wall.

Gator scurried back to his hiding nook. Now what?

He listened as he heard Broker move to the back of the garage, go outside, talk to the kid. Then the soft scrape of his slippered feet went back into the house. The door closed. Something. A tinkle. A bell. Hey, kitty. Why not. A souvenir. Moving swiftly, Gator tiptoed from hiding, did a little dance to cut the cat off, and snatched it up, carefully easing it into the deep side pocket of his hunting parka. Zipped it down, leaving a little opening so it could breathe.

He froze in place for another minute until he heard the shovel stop scraping. Heard the kid tramp across the back deck, go in through the patio door to the kitchen.

Finally.

On the way out he grabbed one of the short ski poles from the stack along the wall. He stepped out onto the deck, flattened himself against the outer wall of the garage. Looked up. Wonderful. Stuck out his tongue, let a snowflake melt on it. The snow started driving down. Hell, in minutes it would obliterate his faint tracks on the deck. Like he was never here. He slipped over the deck rail and, keeping the garage between him and the lights of the kitchen, headed for the tree line. Once he got into the woods, he could work his way back to the trail. Get his skis and gear.

Wow. What a kick.

After stowing the skis in the garage, Broker told Kit to shovel off the back deck and think about what happened today at school. Then he took off his ski boots and went into the kitchen. He heard a fast hell’s-bells jingle too late-shit-and tripped, almost losing his balance as the demon kitten ran a crazy zigzag between his stocking feet.

Cursed under his breath. “Goddamn cat.”

Griffin had brought the kitten as a housewarming present for Kit after they moved in. By the third day it was in the house, with Nina keeping the TV on, Kit had named the cat Ditech. It was everywhere underfoot, like the mortgage commercials.

Broker put on the slippers that were by the door, leaned down, swept up the handful of black fur, opened the door to the garage. Carrying the cat, he went to the back door, opened it, and spoke to Kit.

“When you’re finished, come in though the patio door. Keep this door closed. I’m putting the cat in the garage while I cook dinner.”

“She’s just a kitten-it’s cold out here,” Kit protested.

Broker lifted the cat by the scruff of her neck. “It’s an insulated garage, and this black stuff she’s made out of is fur. Just till after we eat. Now, you shovel.” He closed the door, put the kitty down, and went back into the kitchen.

Broker finished thawing the meat in the microwave, then sliced it in long strips, poured some canola oil into his big stewpot, started the burner, and added the venison. As the meat browned, he sliced onions, mushrooms, and green peppers, added them to the pot, and started unscrewing four jars of Paul Newman pasta sauce. He raised one of the jars and eyed the contents for carbs and sugar. Hmmm. The late Dr. Atkins would probably not approve of the high-fructose corn syrup.

Kit came in, took off her coat, boots, and gloves, and went upstairs.

Broker cocked his head when he heard the pipes in the wall of the downstairs bath rattle. Good. Nina was in the shower. He’d wait till she was done before he started the dishwasher. As he was wiping down the island, he looked up and saw Kit standing in the kitchen doorway.