Chuck Logan - Homefront

His thinking place.

He sat on the floor next to the commode and snapped the pencil in half. Then, slowly, he peeled away the wood pulp with his thumbnail and eased out two lengths of graphite. Wrapped the ends in toilet paper.

He fingered a Camel from his chest pocket, then carefully inserted the pencil lead pieces into the wall outlet and crossed them. When they sparked and the paper ignited, he bent, placing the cigarette to the flame, puffing, until he had a light. Then he sat back and savored the cigarette. Smoke had never tasted so good. Or old reheated coffee. He could almost hear the night murmurs of the joint.

By the time he finished the cigarette, the kitty had edged out from under the desk and dipped her whiskers in the milk.

See. Like a sign.

Gator refilled the cat’s bowl, brought the milk carton back into the house, and put it in the refrigerator. Then he took a hot shower, changed into fresh clothes, and heated a fast Hungry Man dinner in the microwave. After he bolted the food, he paced.

Calm down, wait for Sheryl to call.

He glanced out the window, across the yard at the lights in his shop, the spotlight illuminating the tractor in the front. Lot of hard work went into putting that operation together-even if it was a front for something more ambitious.

You gotta keep your eye on the overall plan. Go off half cocked, and you’re just like those institutionalized fools on a revolving door. Wait for Sheryl to call. The way it worked, that meant another drive to the phone booth; this time the one in town, outside Perry’s grocery.

They communicated strictly by pay phones. She’d call at six. He had some time, so he made a cup of instant coffee and slit the cellophane on a fresh pack of Camels. When the coffee was ready, he sat down at the kitchen table and worked on a difficult corner of the puzzle.

He was good at waiting.

Three end-to-end Camels later, he pulled on his coat, went out, got back in his truck, and drove back toward town. At 5:55 P.M. he was standing in the booth at Perry’s IGA on Main Street. He always called her from the Amoco; she always called back at this phone at the grocery store.

The phone rang. Gator snatched it off the hook.

“You called,” Sheryl said.

“I got something big for you,” Gator said.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“No, I mean I found something big-time serious. It could affect everything. But I need help figuring it out.”

“So, tell me.”

“Uh-uh, too complicated. You gotta see it. Can you be here tonight?”

“Aw, bullshit,” Sheryl said.

Gator heard the stretch in her voice. Reluctant. After the strain they’d been through two weeks ago. “C’mon, Sherylll-”

“Okay, but tonight’s out. I was at work all day. I’ll leave in the morning.” She sounded final.

“See you then,” he said and hung up. Back in the truck, driving, thinking; there were words for this expansive feeling. Found money. Luck. Fucking destiny. Whatever.

Nothing to do now but wait for her.

So go home, kick back. Which is what he did. He debated whether to bring the cat into the house. Nah, let her get used to the shop. So he went into the house, tossed a bag of popcorn into the microwave, and set the timer. As the corn started to crack, he went into the living room, thumbed the TV remote, and slipped a Sopranos DVD into the machine. While the teaser to the show ran on the screen, he retrieved his popcorn, dumped it in a bowl, and opened a cold can of Mountain Dew. He came back into the room, sat down in the recliner. Put up his feet.

First, the edgy theme music. Tony lighting his big cigar, working down the toll road out of New York City, heading for Jersey. The second season, still had the World Trade Center towers in the New York skyline.

Pleased with himself, he addressed the image on the televison. “Thing is, Tony, you were born with a silver coke spoon in your mouth ’cause your dad was a made guy. Me, I’m a self-made man.”

Gator settled back and grinned.

It could work. If the right pieces fell in place. Yes it could. Special Agent Broker. Uh-huh. Man, I got a feeling you’re gonna make a big difference in my life.

When the phone rang, he dived for it, thinking it was Sheryl, breaking the rules, changing her mind, coming up tonight.

“Gator, it’s Cassie…”

Oh shit.

“You said you were going to bring me something.”

Nina, holding it together, coached Kit through supper. When Broker came back into the house, she was ushering Kit from the kitchen, heading for the stairs, getting ready for bed. For once, Broker was almost thankful for clinical depression; Nina struggled with the most fundamental tasks, like sleep. Getting dressed. Exhausted, focused inward, she missed nuance, mood.

Once she would have spotted the change in the way he moved and nailed him the moment he came through the door. What’s up, Broker? You’re all jagged.

Kit’s fast eyes picked up on his edge but channeled it into an extension of her current personal drama. “Ditech?” she asked.

“I’m still looking, honey,” Broker said.

“We had a talk,” Nina said, her voice thready, as if unraveling with the effort. Then she signaled Kit with a raise of her eyebrows.

Kit balked, pursing her lips, then recited, “If Teddy Klumpe bothers me again, I should use my words and get help from a teacher. No hitting.”

“And?” Nina prompted.

“-and tomorrow after school I have to vacuum all the rugs in the house.”

“Good,” Broker said. “We’ll go over it again in the morning. Now, it’s time for bed.”

Kit huffed, folded her arms across her chest, and marched off toward the stairs. He turned to Nina, lowered his voice. “Maybe you should bunk with her tonight, until I find the kitty.”

“There’s wolves in the woods,” Kit called out. “They’ll eat her.”

“The wolves don’t come down this far,” Broker said, and immediately regretted it.

“That’s a lie, Dad; you showed me the tracks.”

“I’ll go out with a bowl of food and shake it. I’ll find her. And the elusive rabbit.”

“I heard that,” Kit sang out, a room away. “She ain’t an eloosof rabbit. She’s a toy. She’s not real, Dad.”

“Sorry,” Broker said. The kid had eyes like a hawk, ears like a bat. “Mom’s gonna sleep with you.”

Kit did not respond. Dejected, she trudged up the stairs. Nina shrugged, turned, and followed Kit.

First Broker scouted every room on the ground floor, looking for a sign that someone had been in the house. The new Dell computer was undisturbed on the small porch off the kitchen. Living room TV and DVD player still in place. Griffin’s old stereo system was still stacked on a wall shelf.

It was a revealing walk-through. He had not, until this crisis, really appreciated how stark their living space was. Three stacks of boxes lined a living room wall where they’d been placed in January, when they moved in. The living room was strewn with the weights Nina used to rehab her shoulder. Triage dictated Broker’s housekeeping efforts. Kit was not a TV kid, so, except for Nina’s weights, not much went on in the living room. Broker concentrated on the kitchen, the only room in the house that needed to function every day.

His personal pile of boxes filled a corner by the desk. Books mostly, mementos, a few old piles of dusty paperwork stuffed among novels he hadn’t read in years. A yearbook from Grand Marais High, circa 1970, poked from the top box. Boxes that had followed him, from closet to closet, for decades. Except now they were in plain view.

He raised the desk blotter. Bill statements verifying the automatic withdrawals on the Hong Kong Visa. A few letters. Nothing seemed disturbed. Then he spotted the letter from John E. at Washington County, the note and remainder of a pay voucher. Shook his head. Once he’d never have kept anything around that hinted at his past in law enforcement. He reached out his left hand and raised the letter, let it drop, feeling the lingering ache as he extended his fingers. The ragged scar was still slick red where he’d taken a.38 slug through the fleshy pad of his left palm. Last July, disarming a crazy woman in Stillwater. On the Saint Vigilante Thing.