Chuck Logan - Homefront

“What about outsiders, say from Beltrami or Red Lake, coming in to these old houses on Z, cooking?”

Terry violently shook his head.

“Stand up,” Gator ordered. Terry scrambled to his feet, bent over, rubbing the back of his leg where Gator had laid the pipe. Gator put the light in his face. “Push up your lips so I can see your teeth and gums.”

“Huh?”

“Do it.”

Apprehensively, Terry manipulated his lips, revealing a grimace of teeth.

“Don’t look too bad, you ain’t that far gone. You could rehab your ass. You ever think of that?”

“Ah, sure. All the time.” Terry bobbed his head in a comic attempt to placate the dark forceful presence behind the flashlight.

Lying little shit. “Good. But first let’s get something straight.” Gator sidestepped, stooped, and snatched up the can of paint thinner he’d kicked. He put the flashlight under his arm, twisted the cap, then splashed some of the liquid on Terry’s chest. “I’m gonna keep this can and put your name on it. I catch you stinking up my woods cooking meth, you’re gonna drink this whole half gallon.”

The stark reek of mineral spirits underscored Gator’s words as he capped the container and lowered it to the floor.

“I won’t come back, honest to God,” Terry stammered as a glimmer of hope quivered in his dilated pupils.

“Right. Look, Terry. I’m going to give you some advice. If I was you, I’d get in that Nova and drive straight to Bemidji. You know that big Target store north of town?”

“Yeah. In the mall. I been there.”

“To the Sudafed aisle, smerfing for precursor, huh?”

“Drive to the Target store,” Terry said solemnly, like he could see it shimmering in the darkness.

“You go in and walk to the back where they keep the electronics. Where they got the big color TVs. Find one of those new flat screen plasma jobs. Easy to carry. If they got it chained down, go to hardware and pocket some bolt cutters…”

Gator lowered the flashlight so the beam tiled up, revealing the shadowed planes of his face, making it into a stern disembodied mask.

“…check the price tag. You want one that costs over $500. That’ll put you in felony theft. You grab that set and run for it through the back doors, into the warehouse.”

“Shit, I’ll never make it.”

“That’s the whole point. It’s a classic cry for help. Hell, they’ll do a drug screen and stick you in county for six months. Beltrami’s a Holiday Inn compared to Nygard’s dungeon. They got programs, counseling. Get a dentist to check out your teeth. Could turn your life around.”

Then Gator grabbed Terry’s arm and shoved him toward the floor. Terry panicked at the touch, the downward movement. “Please…”

“Pick up your shit,” Gator said, not hiding the disgust at this kid’s callowness. “Go on.”

Terry scrambled on the floor, grabbing at items. His hand hovered near the pipe. Gator’s mashed the heel of his work boot down, crushing it. “How much money you got?” he asked.

Terry stood up and held out the crumpled bills. Four singles, some change. Gator palmed his wallet, selected a twenty, and handed it to Terry.

“What’s this?”

“Gas money. Get some McDonald’s. A malt.”

“Ah, thanks,” Terry mumbled, staring at the bill.

Gator took Terry by the arm and walked him to the swaybacked porch. “One last thing.”

“Sure, anything,” Terry said, antsy, seeing his car just thirty feet away.

“Say, ‘Who was that masked man,’” Gator said,

“What?” Terry’s voice cracked wide open with fear, sensing some freaky trick coming just as he was about to get free.

“C’mon. It’s just words. Say it.”

Terry swallowed, took a breath, and said, apprehensively, “Who was that masked man.”

Gator smiled. “Good. Now get the fuck out of here.” He shoved him hard and sent him sprawling off the porch into the snow. “Run, you little shit. Run for your life,” he taunted as he put the light on him.

Terry scuttled on all fours, gamboling through the snow. Got to his feet, surged for the car, hurled open the door, and jumped behind the wheel.

Gator watched the kid fishtail the Nova, hell-bent with a twenty in his hot hand, heading for the nearest dealer who’d sell him a chunk of ice. But probably not in Glacier County. The kid would get high and embellish the story. Tell ’em to keep clear of those spooky woods where nobody lived but crazy cousin-killer Gator Bodine. And the wolves.

And that’s just how Gator wanted it.

He went back in the house, shone the light at the cook ingredients strewn on the floor. Leave it. Give Keith the names. Plan it so they’re sitting in his office, talking, when Broker goes down.

That’d work.

Griffin studied the squat gray building just fifty yards away, checked the road, then, seeing no headlights, left cover and jogged leisurely toward the shop. He had no preconceived plan; it all depended on what he found. Freeform. The thing would dictate its own course.

He went right to the front door, twisted the knob, and went in; knelt, unlaced his boots, stepped out of them, and did a fast walk-through in his socks. The square cement-block building was divided roughly into three rooms. In front, the office took up a partitioned corner and contained a desk and shelves with this open alcove at one end with a bunk and an exposed toilet.

The office door opened into a machine shop area with a steel lathe, milling machine, metal saw, grinders, and a drill press.

The second room was the garage. A disassembled rust orange tractor was raised up on blocks and bottle jacks. A tall tool caddy on casters was positioned next to the tractor; lots of drawers, with a workbench on top. Looking around, he saw a wire-feed Mig welder, welding tanks, an air compressor, and a big Onan diesel generator. Gaskets hung on the wall next to a Halon fire extinguisher. Lots of wood blocks, a few jack stands. What you’d expect to find in a mechanic’s shop.

Griffin briefly inspected the partitioned storeroom between the garage and the paint room. It contained a paint gun, two protective suits with breather masks connected to filter packs, and buckets of paint. Last, he walked through the paint room. The walls and floor and ceiling were rainbow-mottled with spray from the paint gun, as was the sink and a long worktable with a wide elaborate fume hood that he assumed led up to the blower exhaust fan on the roof.

He walked up to a small color snapshot taped over the workbench: palm trees, a sand beach, sea blue water, and surf that looked like ocean. He shrugged and walked back through the shop into the office, taking his time now. He noticed two things. There was a pile of rags under the desk and two bowls; one with a residue of milk, the other with cat chow.

And on the desk, a blue-green pamphlet caught his eye, lying on top of a pile of tractor magazines. Tropics View under a red logo. He opened it and thumbed through. It was a brochure for a puddle-jumper airline that catered to Belize, on the east coast of Mexico.

He put down the brochure. Nothing in the shop struck him out of the ordinary; the paint room could be dual use. Okay. Teedo said that he’d seen Gator moving boxes and drums with his Bobcat, to the barn.

Griffin put his boots back on and walked to the barn.

The hayloft was vacant, so Griffin went to the lower level and pulled open the tall, stout sliding doors. The basement floor was walled in two broad stalls; the one on the right was obviously used as a parking garage for Gator’s truck and was empty except for a battery charger and plastic gallons of wiper fluid and antifreeze.