Chuck Logan - Homefront

As he slowed for the crossroads and turned west on Z, he was curious, strictly from a professional point of view, what Shank would use on Broker. Would he take the wife and the daughter, too? Wondered if the guy would be willing to compare notes with an amateur. Always wondered what he was like. A young guy? Older? And how much did he get paid for a job like this?

Then the saw the flicker of light in the windows of the Tindall place. He switched off his headlights 300 yards from the house, then cut the motor and rolled up to the driveway. Yep. Somebody in there with a flashlight. He reached under the seat, withdrew the Ruger.22 pistol, his own flashlight, and a two-foot length of one-inch pipe wrapped in electrical tape.

So who we got? Go see.

He eased open the truck door, left it ajar, and stuck the pistol in the back of his waistband under his coat. Then he hefted the pipe and padded up the drive. A rusted-out ’89 Chevy Nova was parked in front of the house. Car he’d seen in town. Some kid driving. Miracle he got the piece of shit up the drive in the snow.

Silent on the snow, he eased up to the porch, starting to remove the pistol from under his coat. He could make out a single figure moving in the strobe of the light beam. Uh-huh. This was no beer party. One guy, looked like he was searching for something on the baseboards of the musty living room. Flimsy plastic bags, some containers, tubing, and what looked like a hot plate appeared in a flash of beam near the guy’s feet.

Gator slid the pistol back under his coat and gripped the pipe. The beat-up Nova was a clue; this was strictly Beavis and Butthead hour. He went through the open door fast, switching on his light, holding it up at arm’s length in his left hand, angled down like cops do.

“Hi there,” Gator said. Closing the distance fast. The person froze in his light. Neither getting ready to fight or run. Stone froze. Like he thought: a kid, maybe eighteen, nineteen. A kid as rusted out at the car he drove. Gator immediately saw there was no threat in him. Definitely starting to get the look: circles under his bugged-out eyes, pinched face, unkempt hair, dirty jeans and jacket. Dumb shit, wearing tennis shoes in the snow. Gator even noticed his filthy fingernails. “Drop the light, get your hands up,” Gator yelled, grinning in the dark as he tried his best to sound like every pumped-up, control-crazy cop he’d ever met.

The kid’s flashlight clattered to the floor, illuminating a corner of peeling wallpaper, backlighting him. “Who’s there?” he blurted. His voice sounded like he looked-skinny and desperate.

“I’ll ask the questions. Now slowly lift your coat and turn around.” Gator put the light in his eyes.

The kid did as he was told. “I didn’t do anything…,” he whined.

“Shut up,” Gator ordered. “Empty your pockets. Real slow. Drop everything on the floor.”

Car keys, a wallet, some crumpled bills, change. A pipe for smoking meth wrapped in a red bandanna. Gator noted that the pipe and the scarf were the only items that came out of the pockets that appeared tidy and well cared for. Reluctantly the kid let a folding buck knife fall.

“Kick the knife toward me.” The knife skittered across the floor. “Now turn around, approach the wall, and get on your knees.”

“You gotta identify yourself,” the kid said uncertainly as he turned around. “Can’t just-”

Gator took a step forward and swung the pipe, slamming it in a short, powerful arc into the back of the kid’s right thigh just above the inner knee.

“Ow, shit.” He crumpled to his knees.

“Belly up against the wall, motherfucker!”

“Okay, okay, goddamn-” The kid scooted on his knees and hugged the wallpaper, digging his fingers into it. He was gasping, no, sobbing.

What a pussy. “Now, put your arms straight back, palms up. Do it!”

“Am I under arrest?” He extended his arms, hands shaking.

Gator tested an old chair, decided it would hold his weight, and sat down. “Name?”

“If you’re a cop, you gotta identify yourself, don’t you?”

“I don’t see any cops. You see any cops?” Gator said amiably. “Just you and me. Nobody else for miles.”

“Oh, shit. It’s you.” The kid’s voice began to shake. He cast a furtive look over his shoulder, trying to make out the dark shape behind the bright multiple halogen bulbs.

“Turn around. Keep your hands straight back. Now, what’s your name?”

After a long moment the kid said, “Terry Nelson.”

“Any relation to Cal Nelson?”

“My dad.”

“Cal was a year ahead of me in school. He still work for the power company?”

“Yeah.”

“He know you’re into this shit?” Gator aimed a kick at a can of paint thinner, sent it crashing across the floor into the wall.

“Aw shit; it is you,” Terry said hopelessly.

“I asked you a question.”

“My dad and me ain’t talked much lately.” From trembling lips, Terry’s voice sounded lost, confused. Like a child’s.

Gator let him build up his shakes for almost a minute, then he said, “Okay, kid, since I knew your old man I’m gonna give you a break. So turn around and sit down.” He’d been through this routine with local kids four or five times in the last year. He really enjoyed this part; first he’d jack ’em up, then let them down a notch on the hook. He extended the pack of Camel Reds. “You want a cigarette?” Uncle Gator.

Terry took a cigarette from the pack with shaking fingers, leaned forward, and accepted a light. He puffed and huddled, drawing up his knees, wrapping his arms around them.

“You got a problem, Terry,” Gator said.

“I wasn’t gonna sell it. I just needed a little for-”

“I mean the hot plate, dummy. You’re not thinking too clearly, are you? What the hell were you planning to plug it in to? Power’s been off here for years. Shit, your dad probably shut down the line.”

Terry puffed nervously, his face twitching in the circle of halogen light. “Last time I was here, I thought…” His voice ended in a tic of nerves that distorted his face.

“When’s the last time you got high?” Gator asked.

Terry’s shrug collapsed into a shuddering spasm. “Don’t know. Couple days. Over in Thief River.”

“Tell me about the last time you were here. You weren’t alone, were you? And you didn’t use a hot plate.”

“I don’t feel so good,” Terry muttered.

“We’ll get to that. Now who were you here with?”

“You gonna let me go?”

“Depends. One way you can walk outa here. Another way, we call Keith Nygard.”

At the mention of the sheriff, Terry attempted to concentrate. When he furrowed his brow, it looked like he was herding a scurry of tiny mice under the skin of his cheeks and mouth, struggling to get them corralled in his twitchy eyes. “We had a camp stove, I guess.”

“Who’s we?”

“Aw shit, man.”

Gator held up his cell phone. “Works real good, now they built the towers for the summer folks. Got Keith’s number right here in my phone book. All I gotta do is poke my finger. Gimme some names, Terry.”

“They’re my friends,” Terry sniveled.

“Pissant little tweaker like you got no friends. All you got is that pipe. Now take your time and think. While you’re thinking ponder about Keith’s jail. Not much to it. I hear it’s kinda grim.” Pause. “I’m waiting.”

“Danny Halstad and Frank Reed,” Terry said glumly.

“They local?”

“Danny’s a senior. Frank graduated last year.”

“Guess you guys didn’t get the word, huh? This Danny-he bringing shit into the school?”

“No way. Everybody knows about the people you-” Terry panted, dry swallowing, then gulped, “who burned up.”