Chuck Logan - Homefront

“I guess,” Barlow yelled back; her voice charged, building on Nygard’s.

“And Ruth-”

“I’m here.”

“Kick it. We’re going in real hot .” Nygard mashed down on the accelerator. He turned a quick eye to Nina, who was picking frozen snow out of the trigger guard of the Colt with the hem of the T-shirt she wore under the sweat-suit jacket. More blowing off tension than serious, he said, “If it gets rough, the book says I’m supposed to jettison civilians-”

“Drive,” Broker said in a grim voice from the backseat, where he was wiping down the shotgun, checking the action.

“Yeah,” Nygard said, doing 70 m.p.h., looking at maybe thirty yards of visibility, with Sergeant Barlow suicidally hugging his rear bumper.

Gator wheeled into his driveway, saw the Nissan sitting in plain view with the lights on, vaulted out of the truck, and stomped toward the farmhouse. Coming up the porch steps, this inky streak zipped between his boots, nearly tripping him. Saw the kitten race toward the barn, get swallowed in the snow. Great. And she let the cat out…

He went in and found Sheryl standing at the kitchen sink. Her leather coat was ripped at the shoulder, and the sleeves were scraped with red barn paint. She was putting a Band-Aid on her wrist, with difficulty because her hand was shaking.

“You let the cat out,” Gator shouted.

Sheryl stared at him incredulously, her face muscles jittery. “What?” she said. “ What? ”

Gator put the heel of his right hand to his forehead and pressed. Felt like something was busted in there, Spinning. “Where is she? And what’s the car doing running, all lit up?”

“Slow down, goddammit,” Sheryl hissed though clenched teeth. She held up her hand. “When I tried to get her out, she stuck me with something. She’s still in there. And I couldn’t get the garage door open. It’s stuck.”

“C’mon.” Gator spun on his heel.

Sheryl followed him outside. He pointed to the car. She opened the driver’s-side door and jumped behind the wheel. Then he approached the garage door, put his shoulder to it, and broke the ice jam. Shoved it open.

Sheryl gunned the engine and, wheels spinning, aimed the Nissan into the garage.

“Open the trunk,” Gator said, striding toward the back of the car. Sheryl was out of the car fast, grabbing at his jacket. Hair flying. Face all scrambled, she shouted, “Just a minute. What are you going to do?”

Gator gritted his teeth and yelled back. “We,” he corrected her. “What are we going to do. You’re in this too.”

Sheryl shook her head vehemently. “Uh-uh. No way. Not a kid.”

Gator poked her in the chest. “ You brought that idiot Shank in…from the big time…”

Sheryl pushed his hand away. “ You sent me to get him.”

“And you were supposed to be his ride out. So where the fuck is he?”

“She said he was chasing her. In the woods. I waited, I called him on his cell. Flashed the lights. Blew the horn. Yelled. I did a lot . Then I saw a car parked at that house, and I got the hell out of there.”

They glared at each other, shivering, shoulders hunched, the snow frosting their faces. Gator thinking how cold was hard on machinery, harder on people. Affects judgment…

“Bottom line, Sheryl. Whatever happened to Shank. The way we are now…she’s a witness,” Gator said with finality.

“Oh, Christ.”

“We find out what she knows. Then…I don’t see any other way. You found her lost in the woods. They’ll find her in the woods. Now open the goddamned trunk .”

Moving like a sleepwalker, Sheryl reached into the car. The trunk lid popped. In the agitated shine from the barn light, Gator Bodine stared at Kit Broker, who was coiled back in the cavity, brandishing a screwdriver.

“Hey, now, girl; you look cold in there,” Gator said in a reasonable voice.

“Leave me alone.”

Damn kid coiled tighter, like an obstinate snake. “Can’t do that-your mom and dad are on the way, with the sheriff. Heard you’ve had quite a night,” Gator said.

At the mention of her parents, the kid’s lower lip trembled. But the dark pockets of her eyes struck Gator as unyielding. He needed to get her in the light. See her eyes.

“Look, I’m not going to let you freeze. I’m taking you in the house.” He extended his hand; she wielded the screwdriver. Gator struck fast, snatched her arm, plucked the screwdriver from her hand, and tossed it away. Getting pissed, he lifted her bodily, roughly, from the trunk and tucked her, kicking and flailing, under his arm.

When he got her in the kitchen, he released her. Immediately, she tried to run. He caught her easily and shoved her back into the room. She banged up against the kitchen table, arching away when she saw Sheryl come into the room. Gator could see her eyes now; hot, green, hostile over the smeared dirt and blood on her face. And Sheryl wasn’t helping, walking to the corner by the stove, one arm folded across her chest, the other up, hand covering her face, fingers worrying at her forehead. Eyes downcast, Sheryl refused to look at the girl.

“C’mon, kid.” Gator gestured awkwardly. “You want something to eat, some milk or something?”

She gave him such a look of utter pugnacity that he saw, uh-uh, no way. This was going nowhere fast. So Gator tried to think it through, to solve it like a problem. Put her back in the trunk. Couple hours she’d be unconscious, then put her in back of the truck. That way Sheryl could get the Nissan out of here. Ditch it in the Cities. Then he’d sneak the kid back, say two miles from Broker’s house. Leave her in the woods. Be tricky, they’d be searching, but if the snow held, if he went on snowshoes…it just might…

“Gator!” Sheryl whipped around, alert.

He heard it too, a determined knock on the front door. “Quick,” he said, moving to the utensil drawer, yanking it open, pulling out the Luger. To Sheryl, “Get her out of sight. In the bathroom. Keep her quiet.” He glared at the kid. “Not a peep.”

The kid stared wide-eyed for a moment, fixed on the Luger, then on his face. The hot hostile eyes refocused. Very distinctly she said, “When my mom and dad catch you, they’re gonna shoot you right in the head.”

“Get her out of her, keep her quiet,” Gator muttered as Sheryl wrestled the kid down the hall into the bathroom, shut the door. He pulled his shirt out of his jeans, stuck the Luger in his back pocket, and flared the shirt around it. Then he walked to the door, moved the curtain aside, and groaned.

Cassie.

She stood in the porch light, wearing a white parka, bareheaded, hair whipping around, hugging herself, stamping her feet, face all bright and twitchy with craving of one kind or another. Gator opened the door. “What the hell?”

She stepped past him fast, shivering. “Cold out there. Crazy too. You hear…”

He stared at her. Un-fucking-believable.

“…somebody shot Harry Griffin, killed him, at his place he’s renting to that Broker guy. Except Griffin musta shot back, ’cause they found the guy they think did it. With a gun and everything. He bled to death, out in the woods. And you know what Madge Grolick heard from Ginny the dispatcher in the sheriff ’s office? She talked to Jeff Tindall who went out with Fire and Rescue and when they found the guy, he was all chewed up. Wolves, they think…”

“Cassie, you can’t be here,” Gator said. But he liked the part about Shank being off the board. Gave them some breathing room. Now if he could just get Cassie to shut up and go away.

“…and now Broker’s little girl is missing.” Cassie grimaced. “I met them, in town. The mother was…nice to me.”