Chuck Logan - Homefront

Then the kid punched her in the forehead with a soggy wet-gloved fist and almost staggered her.

“Fuck this,” Sheryl grunted and pounded the kid right back, stunning her enough to stuff her arms and legs free of the lid and slam it shut. As the kid’s feet beat a hollow tattoo on the inside of the trunk Sheryl ran back, yanked open the door, leaned on the horn. Listened to it echo into the still trees.

Tried yelling again, “Shank, Shank, over here!” into the gathering darkness. Wait a minute. Think. What if the person who’d been shot was still alive, was on the phone, calling the cops? Who’s they ?

Not the time to be jumping up and down yelling.

Sheryl jumped back into the car, turned on the dome light, and checked her face in the rearview, to see if she showed any damage where the kid punched her. Seeing none, if you didn’t count the panic in her eyes, she drew her hand across her forehead, straightening her hair, and then, for one long second, she looked up and down the road. Reached for her cell, checked her slip of paper, and punched in Shank’s number, listened to it ring. Got the fucking voice mail of the person the phone had been stolen from. Oh, great. She dropped the phone, put the car in gear, and drove slowly, scanning the trees to the left. Stopped, waited a minute. Nothing. C’mon. Where are you?

Then she crept farther down the road, right to the edge of the open lot next to the green cabin. She began to shudder. The shaking started in her belly and worked up into her arms and her throat. If she’d learned one thing living her life, it was not to hang around the scene of a shooting.

Then she picked up a flare of lights up the road. She killed the headlights, really shaking now as she saw the red vehicle sitting in the driveway of the target house. Two people. Running toward the house.

That’s it. Sorry, Shank, but it looks like every man for himself.

Lights off, keeping her eyes straight ahead, not even looking off the road when she drove past the driveway to the green cabin. When she rounded the turn past the house, she switched the lights back on, accelerated, and reached for her cell and punched in the second number on the slip of paper.

Keith Nygard sat at his desk in the sheriff ’s office in the corner off the courthouse, chewing a toothpick, his eyes drifting between reading an accident report and frowning at the snow on spin cycle in his window. He heard a knock on the doorjamb. Looked up. Saw Gator Bodine standing in the doorway. He looked different.

“Hey, Gator; you look different,” Keith said.

Gator shrugged, brushed his knuckles along his cheek. “Just treated myself to a shave and a haircut at Irv’s.”

“What’s the occasion?” Keith put the report aside.

“Barnie called me from Bemidji. Just sold that old 1918 Case Model 9-18, the one with the big steel wheels.” Gator shrugged. “What the hell, thought I’d take a break, maybe go to the Anglers, have a sit-down meal.”

“What’d you get for it?” Keith asked.

“After Barnie’s commission, I should see about eighteen thousand.”

“No kidding. I’m in the wrong racket. Grab a seat.” Keith indicated one of the chairs in front of his desk.

Gator lowered himself in the chair. “Ah, reason I’m here-besides dropping in to see Mitch, down the hall”-Gator always visited his parole officer when he sold a tractor, offered to buy him a beer; Mitch always grinned and just shook his head-“is, ah…” Gator cast his eyes around.

Keith nodded, got up, walked over, and shut the door. Resumed his seat.

“Reason is, I ran Terry Nelson’s kid out of the old Tindall place the other night. He had all the ingredients. But he’s pretty far gone. Had him an electric hot plate for a heat source. Check this, when I caught him, he was wandering around looking for someplace to plug it in. So, like that.”

Keith shook his head. “Jimmy Raccoon Eyes. Christ, has that kid gone south fast. Can’t believe he used to run the hurdles. He graduated high school just two years ago. Hot plate, huh? Christ. The electric’s been off in that place for years.”

“Uh-huh. So I hassled him some. Came up with some names.” Gator withdrew a folded sheet of ruled paper from his jacket pocket, slid it across the table. “One of them’s in high school. A senior named Danny Halstad. They been out at Tindall’s cooking on a propane stove.”

“How much?”

Gator shrugged. “Strictly their own use. A gram maybe. But if they keep it up, others will copy them.”

“Okay.” Keith slid the folded sheet across his desk and dropped it in his drawer. “What about the Mexicans?”

“They’re keeping to themselves. Stay in that trailer on the building site. I think they got the message after you popped those guys.”

Keith grinned. “You know, you got a flare for this snitching sideline.”

Gator flashed on Shank’s parting words: What do we do with snitches? “That ain’t a term I like, Keith,” Gator said evenly, but keeping his voice suitable humble.

“Yeah, well, you dumb fuck. You did it to yourself.”

After letting an appropriate amount of time pass, Gator asked, “So what about that thing we talked about?”

“Forget it. You ain’t gonna get your hunting rights restored, I don’t care how many meth labs you help me bust. We’d need a pardon from the governor. And that just ain’t gonna happen anytime soon. I checked with Terry”-Terry Magnason was the county attorney-“you should be happy with the local deal we worked with Mitch and Joey”-Joe Mitchell was the county game warden-“long as you hunt, quiet like, in the Washichu you can have your venison. You try going outside the county, even south of Z, Joe will stuff a walleye up your ass. End of story.”

Gator accepted the lecture passively. It didn’t really bother him anymore the way Keith harped on it-like he was mourning their high school friendship, like Gator had personally disappointed him or something. He glanced at the clock on the wall next to a mounted ten-point buck: 4:06. Then he stood up.

“Angler’s, huh,” Keith said, glancing at the snow boiling outside his office windows. “Watch it on the road going home. This could be a bad one. Howie’s out on a three-car pileup on Two.”

“You got a point,” Gator said. “Maybe I’ll drop in on Jimmy out at the garage. Looks bad, I’ll stay over.”

Keith nodded. “Good plan. You talk to Jimmy much lately?”

“Not really. Cassie called me few days back, whining about Teddy getting in a fight at school. Total bullshit.”

“Yeah, Jimmy and the other kid’s father went round and round. I had to get involved. Guess it did some good. Cassie called me, too, told me she got together with the kid’s mother and they worked it out.”

“Whatever,” Gator said.

“Yeah, well. Congratulations on selling the Case.”

Gator waved, turned, and left the office, walked down the hall, and nodded to Ginny Borck, who’d been two years ahead of him in high school and who now sat in a county uniform behind the dispatch desk with its bank of new radios and computers.

Strolling. He was strolling. Should be whistling. He went out on the street, turned up his collar, and strolled to his truck.

A few minutes later he was easing through the snow, approaching the Angler’s, when the secure stolen cell phone rang. Relaxed, feeling complicit with fortune, he punched answer.

Sheryl’s voice jumped at him; desperate, yelling, practically screaming: “We got a problem!”

Broker braked the Jeep halfway up the drive in a four-wheel drift, left it idling. They were out, running toward the house. Ten yards out, seeing the garage side door open, Nina took the lead. Then she sidestepped and pointed down with her left hand while she held the Colt ready with the other.