J. Konrath - Fuzzy Navel

“You okay?” Harry asks.

I’m about as far from okay as a girl can be, but I say, “Yeah. Get back in the house and keep an eye on Mom.”

“The cat’s in the house.”

“McGlade…”

“Fine. I’m on it.”

I wait, but don’t hear the patio door close. I twist my head and peek down through the slats. Harry is still standing there.

“Move it, Harry.”

“Yeah. It’s just…”

“It’s just what?”

He shrugs. “Maybe I should be the one on the roof.”

Unbelievable. “Little late for that now.”

“Just… just be careful, Jackie. I was an only child my whole life. I’m not anxious to be one again.”

I’m grateful I’m up here, because his tone implies he wants to hug me again.

“Don’t you have anything you want to say to me, Jackie?” he asks.

“Yes, I do, Harry.”

“Go ahead.”

“Are you listening?”

“I’m listening. I’m here for you. Say what you need to say.”

“Here it is: Get in the house and watch Mom.”

Harry nods. “I understand. You’ve got all of these new feelings, and it isn’t easy to-”

“GET IN THE DAMN HOUSE!”

“Got it. I’m going.”

Harry goes back into the kitchen, closing the door behind him. I sit up, then carefully get to my feet. The veranda is flat on top, and I’m able to keep my balance. Walking from the veranda to the roof is a bit more problematic, since the roof is on an angle. Not a steep angle, but too steep for a woman with multiple injuries who was shot in the head a few hours ago.

Standing isn’t going to happen. Crawling on the rough shingles hurts my knees. So I settle for a sort of sliding scoot, navigating the roof on my butt. I tug the flashlight from my belt and flick it on, giving this side of the roof a quick scan. I have no idea what a cell phone jammer looks like, or even how big it is. I’m guessing it doesn’t look like dead leaves; that’s all I see.

I make my way toward the garage, my bare feet brushing the gutters, methodically checking every other scoot for anything that looks electronic. I make it to the end of the house, maneuver over the corner of the roof to the side of the garage, and still find nothing.

Unless Munchel is lying, the only place the jammer can still be is on the front side of the house – which is where Alex is waiting with her sniper rifle.

I pause, switching off my light. There hasn’t been any shooting for a while. That might mean she fled the area. Or it might mean that she’s just waiting for me to come into view.

I rack my brain for other options, and can’t come up with any. I have to find the jammer, the sooner the better.

Either I get shot, or I don’t, I think. Not much in the way of rationalization, but it’s all I have to work with.

I scoot over the corner, facing my driveway, and notice an SUV parked down the road. There’s a big hole in the windshield, and its headlights are on.

I can’t make out who’s inside, but lying on the ground, near the passenger door, is Alex. My first hope is that she’s dead, but that’s dashed when I see her slink closer to the front of the truck.

If she’s sneaking up to it, there must be someone inside. Everyone in the house is accounted for. That leaves Phin.

I have to warn him.

I draw the Desert Eagle, figuring I’ll fire one in his direction to get his attention. But that will leave me unarmed.

Alex sneaks closer.

I switch on my flashlight, wave it over my head, and yell, “Phin!”

I don’t know if he hears it. But Alex does. She turns her head, waves at me, then begins to climb the hood. She’s going to go in through the hole in the front windshield.

Phin came here because of me. I have to do something.

Without considering the wisdom of my action, I kick my legs out over the edge of the roof and brace myself for impact with the ground.

HE KNOWS ALEX is in the dark somewhere, stalking him. Phin can’t find her. And until he does, he’s stuck in the Bronco. This truck is a mobile arsenal, with enough ammunition to overthrow a small country. He can’t carry it all back to the house in one trip. And if he abandons it, there’s a chance Alex will appropriate the ammo for herself.

Hot-wiring a vehicle is beyond Phin’s criminal ability. All that remains is sitting here, trying to spot Alex, and keeping an eye on the front of the house.

He’s tired, and in pain, and worst of all, sober. This gives him an unfettered chance to dwell on a future he isn’t going to have, which hurts more than his cancer and his elbow combined.

Living without hope is a shitty way to live.

He considers the grass in his pocket again. That would help take the edge off reality. But he needs to stay sharp. For Jack.

On the other hand, Jack is his friend, and she wants him to be happy. He’s not happy sitting in a truck in the middle of the night, shirtless and shivering, with a broken elbow and a cancerous pancreas, throwing a major pity party for himself.

He sticks his hand into his jeans, touches the bag.

Leaves it there.

Phin isn’t sure why Jack inspires this loyalty in him. Is it a crush? Or maybe something more?

Phin kills the thought. He has no future. He has no hope. There’s no room for love in his life.

For his own protection, he needs to prove that he doesn’t care. The easiest way to prove it is to get high right now.

But he still doesn’t pull out the bag.

Rather than dwelling on what that means, Phin turns the headlights on so Alex can’t approach from the front. His rifle is loaded, and so is a shotgun he found in back. He uses the night scope to check the rear again, and the woods to the side. Then he shifts in his seat to watch Jack’s house.

There’s a light, on the roof. It’s waving around, and then he hears Jack cry out, “Phin!”

A warning cry.

Phin jerks around to the front, spotting Alex on the hood. He fires the shotgun through the hole in the windshield, hitting nothing but sky, and she rolls to the side.

The gun bucks in his hands, and he can’t rack it again with a broken elbow. He wedges the butt between his legs, the barrel touching the ceiling of the truck, and moves to pump it with his right hand. Before he has a chance to, Alex pours into the cab.

She doesn’t go for the gun. She goes for Phin’s injured arm, grabbing and twisting until all he can see is a big red ball of blinding pain. He yells, hits her in the head with the stock, but there’s no force to the blow.

Phin pulls away, raises up his foot, but there’s no room in the front seat to kick her. Alex lets go of his arm, but then she’s wrestling with the shotgun, her two hands versus his one.

She’s winning, and he can’t hold on much longer. Rather than release his grip, Phin pushes forward, forcing her through the front window, climbing on top and pinning her back to the hood.

Phin lets her have the shotgun – she can’t use it on him while they’re grappling. His knee digs into her solar plexus, and his good hand locks onto her throat. He squeezes to kill.

Alex rakes her fingernails across Phin’s eyes, but he shuts them tight, concentrating on crushing her windpipe.

Then she finds his elbow again, and yanks on it so hard that something else snaps.

Phin cries out, rolling off of Alex, landing face-first on the cool grass. The shotgun skids across the hood and falls in front of the truck, between the headlights.

Alex is closer. She scrambles for it, reaching down.

The shot doesn’t come from Alex. It comes from behind them.

Jack.

The cop is only twenty yards away, jogging over with a huge handgun pointing in their direction.