Chuck Logan - Homefront

Shank reached to the fax machine on the desk, peeled off a sheet of paper from the tray, took a pen from the desk blotter, and handed it to Gator. “Draw it-the lake, the road, the trail, and whatever you know about the house.”

Gator stared at the sheet of blank paper like it was an entrance exam. Balked and said, “We should go in the house. I got a county map with the ski trail to scale.”

Shank nodded, retrieved his coat, and picked up his bag. “Let’s go.”

A few minutes later they were in the farmhouse, standing around the kitchen table, on which Gator had spread out the county map over the half-done puzzle. Shank summoned Sheryl, who stood off to the side, sipping a cup of tea. “C’mon, you’re part of this.”

Swiftly, Gator marked significant reference points; an X marked his house, a second X located Broker’s. He circled the trailhead turnoff of County 12, indicated the relevant portion of ski trail with arrows between the trailhead and Broker’s cabin. Then Gator stepped back and stood next to Sheryl, waiting while Shank leaned forward on his locked arms, like a general pondering over a tactical problem. Just then the kitten made an appearance, hopping lightly up on a chair, then onto the table.

“Fuckin’ cat,” Gator muttered, coming forward.

Shank slid a hand under the kitten, expertly palming it over and cradling it belly up along his forearm. “It’s okay. I like cats. Only animals I get along with.” He gently eased the cat back on the chair and watched it jump to the floor and pad into the next room. Then he looked back to the map. “Cell phones work up here?” he asked.

“Yeah. They built a couple towers for the summer people,” Gator said.

“Okay.” Shank reached into his bag and took out three cell phones, handed one each to Gator and Sheryl, kept one for himself. “These are cold-we lifted them from people who are on vacation. Let’s get our numbers straight.”

They turned on the phones. The displays showed normal service. Gator snatched a piece of paper and pen off the counter and made a list-Shank’s number, his number, Sheryl’s number. Then he copied it three times, folded the sheet, tore it in thirds, and handed out the individual lists.

“Now,” Shank said, “we do a dry run. Check the travel time going in on the trail, make sure the cell phones work. Make sure he’s there. Then we go back for real. You with me?”

Gator chewed his lip, unable to disguise the pained expression on his face.

“What is it? C’mon,” Shank asked.

“Well, the whole reason this happened, how I got the warrant is-Broker’s kid had a fight at school with my brother-in-law Jimmy’s kid. Then Broker and Jimmy got into it in front of the school. And the sheriff saw it. My sister asked me to kinda fuck with him, like payback. That’s how I wound up in his house and found the warrant. So if something happens to Broker, one of the first people they’ll look at is Jimmy and probably me.”

“And?”

“Jimmy’s no problem, he’s on the road all day picking up routes. But maybe I should be someplace public, like be seen having dinner in town, you know.”

Shank thought about it. “Makes sense. But you go in with me on the trial run, make sure I can find my way in and out. Make sure Sheryl can find the house when I call her to come pick me up.”

“Ah, if somebody sees your car-” Gator said.

“It ain’t my car. It’s like the phones. Stolen. It belongs to a Carlos Izquierdo, who lives in Excelsior. He’s in Ireland selling Snap-On tools. We took his car from long-term parking at the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport. We got this gal who works at a travel agency, gives us leads on people who are out of town.”

“Ah,” Gator said.

“And I don’t give a fuck if someone remembers seeing the car. I just don’t want anybody stopping the car and seeing me . Because if this goes off on schedule, I’ll be driving all night back to the Cities. Tomorrow morning when the sun comes up, that Nissan will be parked on University Avenue, in St. Paul, in front of the fuckin’ State Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. With Broker smelling up the trunk.” The smooth demeanor changed as Shank smiled, curling his upper lip, showing his prominent canine teeth. “Gonna shoot the fucker in the mouth. What we do with snitches.”

“What about-” Sheryl started to say.

“You?” Shank interrupted. “I thought of that. You can stay here, or I can drop you in a town farther south, where you can rent some wheels. It ain’t your job to drive back with me.”

“That’s cool, but what about, ah…the guy’s got a wife and kid,” Sheryl said.

Seeing the strangled expression on Gator’s face when Sheryl said that, Shank raised a calming hand and said patiently, “This ain’t the time to be sentimental, Sheryl. What about the wife and kid Jojo never had-you think of that?”

“You got a point,” Sheryl said quickly.

“Any more questions?” Shank asked. “No? Then I got one.” He reached in his bag, withdrew a stumpy dense SIG-Sauer nine, and cradled it in his palm. “Where do snitches get it?”

“In the mouth,” Gator said, like he was reciting an oath.

“Good,” Shank said. “Remember that, and we’ll do just fine.”

As Gator changed into his long underwear and winter camos on the mud porch, Sheryl stood next to him, nervously smoking a Merit. “Probably shouldn’t a said that about the wife and kid,” she said.

“No shit. This guy’s got his own ideas.”

“I hear you,” Sheryl said between puffs.

Gator sat on a stool and pulled on his boots. When he’d laced them, he stood up, picked his cell phone off the workbench, selected Cassie’s number, and pushed send. When she answered, he said, “It’s me. Yeah. Look, where’s Jimmy today? Good, okay, he’s got the long route south of town. Then he’s back at the garage? How late? Is he there alone? Good. Johnny’s with him, washing down the trucks. No, ah, maybe I’ll drop by and see him at the garage, later tonight.” Then his forehead bunched. “Yeah, right. We’ll talk about that later, okay? Right now I’m busy. No. Not now. We’ll talk tonight.” He ended the call, shook his head.

“What?” Sheryl asked.

“Nothing. My fuckin’ sister.” He waved her off and went into the kitchen. Shank had changed into new Rocky boots, black Gore-Tex pants, a red parka, and red knit cap. Gator clicked his teeth together. “You know, we’ll have light the next couple of hours. That red’s gonna stand out against the snow cover big-time.”

“You got a better idea?”

“Yeah.” Gator went back on the mud porch and returned with a winter camo hunting smock. “Pull that over the parka.” He tossed a black ski mask. “And this’ll be handy, hide your face.”

Shank slipped on the smock, bunched the mask on his head, and said, “Better?”

“Much,” Gator said.

Shank handed Sheryl his car keys. “Get the car out. You’re gonna be driving tonight.”

When she’d left, Gator said, “I was wondering, should I bring something?”

“Like what?” Shank asked.

“Like a gun, you know-usually carry a pistol in the woods.”

Shank grinned. “Wanna get your cherry busted, huh? Sure.”

For the first time Gator felt a genuine flash of resentment at this smooth city fucker who had so much power over him, with his expensive pussy winter gear and stolen Jap car-going into the woods dressed like a Christmas tree to kill a guy. He opened the kitchen utility drawer and removed the Luger.

“Shit, is that a real one, like World War II German?” Shank asked, a gleam coming into his pale eyes.

“Yep, my dad brought it back from Europe,” Gator said, stuffing the pistol into his fanny pack, thinking, Fuckin’ bikers all go for that Nazi shit like little kids. “See these markings on the grip? That’s SS.”