Neil McMahon - Dead Silver

They were probably best known for their penchant for pilfering small objects and leaving others in their place. The consensus was that they didn't deliberately swap objects on a quid pro quo basis, but if a rat was carrying something and saw something else it liked better, it would drop what it had and pick up the new item. They were particularly attracted to shiny stuff. Eerily, they tended to trade up in value, as if they had an aesthetic sense. They'd abandon a scrap of cloth for a scrap of tinfoil, the tinfoil for a beer tab, and the beer tab for a coin. If you left any jewelry where they could get at it, you could kiss it good-bye.

Their peculiarities also included a fondness for flowers. They'd strip gardens of them, not to eat, but to decorate their turf-touching, considering that otherwise, they were about as destructive and filthy as creatures could get.

They'd sure proved that here.

The Skilsaw's shriek died off as Madbird finished his cut and released the trigger. When the blade stopped spinning, he jerked the saw out of its kerf and laid it on the floor. Blessed quiet settled over the room, and the swirling dust clouds settled over us.

"Hope there ain't any hantavirus in here," he muttered. "Be just right-die from mucking out the shit of the rat that killed you."

"Hugh? Can I come in?" Renee called from the doorway. She'd probably been waiting for the commotion to stop.

"Stay there, we'll come out," I said. We groped our way outside into the cool damp day. Spring was still taunting but not yet delivering.

When Renee saw us, she actually started to laugh before she caught herself. I didn't mind. It was the first time I'd seen worry leave her face. And we had it coming. Madbird looked like an extra in a Road Warrior movie-his body was white with dust except for dark goggle rings around his eyes, and his thick black hair was tangled with a nest of plaster chunks that suggested he'd gone through a wall headfirst. I was sure I was no improvement.

"My God," she said. "I'm sorry, I had no idea it would be so-chaotic."

"That's why we get paid the big bucks, darlin'," Madbird said. His gravelly voice was reduced to a parched croak.

"I baked fresh cookies," she said timidly. "And there's coffee."

"That sounds real tasty," Madbird said. "But you know, there's nothing works up my appetite for cookies like a couple cold beers."

I nodded agreement. We didn't usually drink while we were working, but this wasn't usually.

"Oh, no," she said. "I should have thought of that. I'll run get some."

"Half-rack of Pabst." He fished a twenty out of his wallet and handed it toward her, trailing dust. "Try Louie's; they keep it almost froze."

She pushed his hand away gently. "I'll buy it, don't be silly. Let me grab my keys."

While Renee walked to the house, Madbird and I stayed outside to suck down a few more fresh breaths. The sky was blue-gray with a threatening storm that sent occasional flurries of spitting snow and the breeze had a sharp edge, but it felt damned good.

"You know that couch for Darcy?" Madbird said. The question seemed abrupt, but his mind worked in mysterious ways.

"Yeah?"

"We could probably use another hand getting it up them stairs."

"Like, her boyfriend?" I said.

"You got it."

He'd mentioned earlier that Darcy had finally showed up at his and Hannah's house last night and picked out some of the furniture they'd offered her. Her new apartment was on the second story; the two of us were going to move the heavier stuff tomorrow, including a couch.

I'd told him about the drowning incident involving Seth Fraker on St. Martin island-not because it was important, but just because. That must have gotten him thinking about Darcy's situation; he'd decided he'd had enough of Fraker dodging him, and had seen a way to force his hand, by inviting him to join in a manly effort to help his girlfriend. If he refused, that would be a serious loss of face. Darcy would try to head it off, but Madbird could handle her. It was going to be interesting.

"Let me know what time," I said.

As Renee stepped out the door with her purse, a rumbling sound in the distance was getting louder and more jarring, fast. A few seconds later, its source rolled into sight-one of those yacht-sized sedans that Detroit had made in the '70s, with a body faded to bilious green and a vinyl top that was peeling like a bad case of eczema. Besides the shot muffler and disintegrating engine that the noise advertised, the car belched smoke and was cancerous with corrosion. A great old line from Raymond Chandler flashed through my mind-in this pretty, peaceful place, the big rust bucket stood out like a tarantula on a slice of angel food cake.

I recognized both car and driver the instant I first glimpsed them.

His name was Ward Ackerman. He was the tenant who'd lived in the Callisters' house for the past several years and had let it go to hell. The blame for the unchecked invasion of the pack rats and all the damage they'd done lay squarely at his sorry-ass door.

While I tried not to stereotype people, I couldn't help myself with Ward. I seemed to be noticing more and more guys like him these days-neither tall nor short, fat nor thin, with longish greasy hair usually covered by a baseball cap, smudgy goatees, and lots of tattoos. It was often hard to tell whether they were closer to twenty or fifty in age.

He came from an extended clan of similar relatives, who occupied a settlement of trailers and run-down cabins outside of town. They tended to be well represented in the newspaper's weekly DUI and crime reports; I knew that Ward had done jail time for petty stuff like dope and theft.

But the Ackermans were distantly related to the Callisters through some convoluted genealogy; when the house needed a caretaker, that and Ward's claims to be a skilled builder had persuaded the family to give him free rent and utilities in return for upgrading the place. Renee had visited her father often in the years since then, overseeing his medical needs and managing his finances, and she'd realized early on that Ward wasn't even pretending. But she lived several hundred miles away, with a demanding job. Trying to lever him out and make other arrangements was too much of a hassle, so she'd followed the path of least resistance until the Professor's death.

The only direct contact I'd ever had with Ward was a couple of construction jobs where he'd hired on as a laborer, and never lasted more than a few days. I'd never had any personal reason to dislike him. But now I had a couple of good ones-the mess he'd left Renee, and an uglier problem that he was causing her.

Ward didn't have a shred of legal claim to the house and wasn't even mentioned in her father's will. The property was clearly and indisputably left to Renee and her mother and brother. But when she informed Ward that he had to move out, he'd argued that he should inherit it, coming up with a bullshit rationale involving the work he'd supposedly done, his blood ties to the Callisters, and squatter's rights. She'd had to threaten eviction before he would finally leave.

Of course, he was furious, and he'd started a campaign of stopping by a couple of times a day on some pretext, such as that he'd left something that he had to look for. Then he'd bully her, telling her he was going to take this to court, he'd sue her if she tried to sell, and so on. He hadn't been overtly threatening, at least not yet, but she was constantly nervous that he'd show up, and a little scared when he did. She was right to be. Ward was a pissant, but there was no telling what kind of psycho state he might work himself up to, especially dealing with a woman alone.

Ward's car charged up the driveway and stopped just inches behind Renee's, blocking her so she couldn't move. He threw open his door and started to climb out.