Homefront. Part 22

"Later," Sheryl said.

She ended the call, got back in the Pontiac, and put it in gear. Two minutes later, accelerating down the 494 ramp, she marveled. s.h.i.+t, man, haven't said that to a guy and really meant it since...high school. s.h.i.+t, man, haven't said that to a guy and really meant it since...high school.

Chapter Thirty-two.

After supper, Kit sat at the desk on the insulated office porch, practicing her cursive penmans.h.i.+p on a ruled worksheet. The porch was an add-on to the original house, so she could see into the kitchen through two windows set in the wall. Mom and Dad were doing the dishes, b.u.mping into each other, slow like, way more than usual. In fact they were laughing. on the insulated office porch, practicing her cursive penmans.h.i.+p on a ruled worksheet. The porch was an add-on to the original house, so she could see into the kitchen through two windows set in the wall. Mom and Dad were doing the dishes, b.u.mping into each other, slow like, way more than usual. In fact they were laughing.

Since she and Dad had come home from school and seen Mom running on the road, a different mood had been building between her parents. Kit got the part of about being happy that Mom was getting more like her old self, but there were parts to it she couldn't figure out; like whatever they were seeing when they looked at each other was invisible to her, a grown-up mystery.

She did have a basic idea about the difference between good things and bad things, and she decided that, whatever it was, it was a good thing. She turned back to the worksheet and drew a loopy G.

As Broker and Nina removed the dishes from the washer and stacked them in the cupboard, they played billiard with their eyes; soft cus.h.i.+on rail shots, indirect. Not an urge, not yet a desire, more like a discreet question that hovered over them. Physical contact? Whattaya think?

Broker thinking, Probably be the time to fill her in on the local soap opera that had been percolating offstage. He made a start.

"You know, when Kit had that fight at school?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, the kid's dad got a little aggressive in front of the school and, ah, I kinda dropped him," Broker said.

Nina grimaced with mock severity, "What? You hit him?"

"No, no," Broker was quick to add, making frantic erasing motions with his hands. "I just sort of threw a choke hold on him."

"Uh-huh. Just a choke hold. And Kit? She knew about this?"

Broker folded his arms tightly across his chest, and as he talked, his right hand jerked out and back, punctuating his explanation. "We thought it best not to bother you with it. And, well, he came back at me. The tire on the truck? That was probably him. And Kit's bunny was probably in the truck because it wound up planted on a ski pole"-he pointed his jerking hand out toward the woods-"out by the ski trail. Griffin took it home the last night, st.i.tched it up." He took a breath, exhaled. "Had Ditech's collar buckled around the neck. So he probably got the cat too."

"Jesus, Broker. He came on the property?"

"It's cool. When Griffin came over, he brought the sheriff-"

"The sheriff sheriff, what the-"

"Ah, oh yeah, I left something out. The kid's dad is the garbageman; he was driving the truck yesterday morning, and he flung our garbage in the ditch while I was watching. So I collected it, took it to his garage, and dumped it in front of his office. Ah, that's why the sheriff came out."

Nina grinned. "Christ, Broker; we came up here to keep a low profile. And you started a war?" She shook her head.

"Me? He started it, a.s.shole came at me-"

"Well, I guess this explains you being more snaky than usual."

Broker unfolded his arms and went back to making the brisk scrubbing motion with his hands. "No sweat. It's all taken care of. The sheriff is affecting a rapprochement. I'll meet him halfway, maybe replace the kid's s.h.i.+rt that got b.l.o.o.d.y, like that. Griffin went and talked to the guy..."

Nina actually laughed, and it was good to see her bubble with spontaneous humor. "Harry? Oh, great, and he's so good at quiet diplomacy. He'll just cut the guy's throat, along with his wife and kid, kill the pets, burn the house, and spray the land with dioxin so nothing ever grows there again."

They were both laughing now. Infectious giggles. Months of pressure surfacing and popping like cold bubbles.

Kit wrenched open the porch door, deep glower creases in her brow. Clearly, she felt left out. "Keep it down, you guys," she announced. "I'm trying to study study."

"She right," Nina said. "Get a hold of yourself." She rinsed a dish in the sink and handed it to Broker, who obediently put it in the washer.

Despite her show of annoyance, Kit went fast into sleep, tucked in happy with her risen bunny. Broker and Nina stepped carefully down the stairs. As they walked into the kitchen, their eyes met once, then glanced away. It was mutual.

The laughing jag at the sink had exhausted the requirement to talk. And the loud drifting silence dwarfed mere language. Broker thinking how the vectors of their lives had flashed in tangents, fiercely independent; now they had been united during this crisis. The big dangling question: Now what?

The wrong word might betray a lurch of hope or fear, precipitate an avalanche. Tip her back into the darkness.

For months they'd moved in a clumsy deliberate weighted dance around each other, two deep-sea divers in old hard suits. They'd b.u.mp surfaces, but their skin remained remote, not really touching, covered by layers of protection. Air hoses trailing, getting tangled.

And that was also in the signal of their eyes. Careful now, kicking off the deep-sea weights. Could be danger in ascending too fast.

So they treaded forward, side by side, through the tactile silence. They were coming up from a great depth. Still braced for the riptides, undertows, and threats...

...that had coiled and thrashed in the close shadow of madness.

Griffin had built a plywood platform in one corner of the office off the kitchen that supported a queen-size futon. The bed was covered with a lush green-and-orange quilt of vaguely Polynesian design. Bolsters and pillows to match. The colors were an exception to the stern North Vietnamese blacks, browns, and grays that Griffin favored. A souvenir perhaps, left behind from some forgotten amorous interlude. The bed beckoned now, a shallow protected place. They rambled there.

Still no words.

Nothing needy or hungry. Slow moves with no wasted motion. Nina striped off her clothes efficiently-the precocious birthday girl unwrapping a present. Chaste almost, until you saw the grinning skull-and-crossbones tattoo on her right shoulder. And the scars.

Two pairs of jeans mingled on the floor, socks, underwear; his s.h.i.+rt, her blouse. Chilly on the porch. Goose b.u.mps. An almost adolescent scramble to get under the sheets and quilt.

Christ. How long? More than a year.

Since he'd strayed with Jolene Sommer.

Their first kiss was tentative, gentle. Cautiously, they found each other with a slow innate mastery of all things physical. They did it almost weightless, hummingbirds guarded on a bed of eggsh.e.l.ls. She was especially wary, having lost control and not sure she had regained it.

Broker was making love with a woman who matched him scar for scar. His fingertips grazed the slick braille on her hips, her b.u.t.t, her shoulder, her legs. And the one he couldn't claim; the cesarean below her navel. Her birth ca.n.a.l had been scarred by fragments of the Kalashnikov round that had clipped her hip. After Kit's difficult birth, the doctor told them they would be taking chances having another child.

Still no words. A final perfect fit of hope and fear. They took courage for granted, were less honest about being stubborn.

What was she thinking behind her green eyes? Probably what he was thinking: What happens now that we're getting through this crisis?

Will we go back to who we were before?

Will we be changed?

Slowly she fingered the pack of cigarettes and lighter from her jeans, put one in her mouth, and lit it. Then she held it to his lips. He puffed but did not inhale, watched the smoke curl up to the tongue-and-groove ceiling. He remembered the Vietnamese connection. ARVN soldiers jotting on slips of paper, then burning them in the predawn. An airstrip at Phu Bai, Broker watching, waiting for the helicopters that would take them in. Smoke was the prayer language of the dead.

No words.

Chapter Thirty-three.

Harry Griffin pa.s.sed a fitful night that was not altogether unpleasant. Sometimes, like now, when he'd get excited, this auxiliary energy kicked in. He woke up, ready; electric in the dark. And it seemed as if all twenty-five years of his sobriety surrounded him like a thick magnifying lens. Images from his past life jumped up huge, in aching detail. that was not altogether unpleasant. Sometimes, like now, when he'd get excited, this auxiliary energy kicked in. He woke up, ready; electric in the dark. And it seemed as if all twenty-five years of his sobriety surrounded him like a thick magnifying lens. Images from his past life jumped up huge, in aching detail.

Four-thirty A.M. He got out of bed, went into the kitchen, and heated water, ground coffee, put a filter in the Chemex coffeemaker.

Waiting for the water to boil, he went into the living room and sat on a cus.h.i.+on in front of the fireplace. He folded his legs in a half lotus, shut his eyes, and tried the TM trick: let his runaway thoughts stream away like rising bubbles. Tried to calm down.

Didn't work. He startled when the teakettle shrieked, boiling over. So much for the tricks. He got up, poured the water into the ground coffee, and slit the cellophane on a fresh pack of Luckies. Since he couldn't get his night horse back in the barn, he settled down to ride it out with coffee and cigarettes.

Sitting at a stool at his kitchen snack bar, he held out his right hand, thick-veined, bone prominent, absolutely steady. Vividly he remembered the last person he'd killed. Ten years ago, when he got talked into that last-minute hunting trip in Maston County...

Coming in on a dead run toward the shots and screams, seeing Chris Deucette, sixteen, working the bolt, ejecting the spent cartridge, then aiming the deer rifle at his stepdad, Bud Maston. Maston lying in the snow, already bleeding. Supposedly Harry's buddy... Maston lying in the snow, already bleeding. Supposedly Harry's buddy...Felt again the smooth reflex swing, his own 3006 coming up.Safety clicking off...Snap shot, peep sight, eighty yards.Easy.The Maston County prosecutor didn't even convene a grand jury. Called it self-defense.The Viet Cong and North Vietnamese he'd slain were just numbers on a time card. A job. Didn't bother him. None of them did, not even that whole family in Truc Ki, the night that stealth had required he use the knife. Broker had puked and walked away, struggling to believe there were still rules even down in the bottom sewer of guerrilla war.Nothing he could remember bothered him.Griffin curled his fingers into a fist.It was the one he couldn't remember...That night, after the war; blacked-out drunk, walking the Ca.s.sCorridor in Detroit, maybe a lingering scent of sweat and perfume from a stripper at the Willis Show Bar. Or maybe the hooker in Anderson's Gardens down the street. Had his .38 jammed in his waistband because he sure as h.e.l.l found it there in the morning with four rounds fired...trouble easy to find...all the jive punks on the street, flipping gang signs, pulling up their f.u.c.king s.h.i.+rts, showing off their 9-millimeters... Anderson's Gardens down the street. Had his .38 jammed in his waistband because he sure as h.e.l.l found it there in the morning with four rounds fired...trouble easy to find...all the jive punks on the street, flipping gang signs, pulling up their f.u.c.king s.h.i.+rts, showing off their 9-millimeters...It was that single image of a zombie homicidal clown that haunted him; a mindless drunk composed of reflexes staggering around in the night. Reason he'd called Broker in Minnesota, got in his old cherry '57 Chevy, and driven to the frozen North. Reason he'd sobered up with Broker's help. Got to keep that jokester locked up... Reason he'd sobered up with Broker's help. Got to keep that jokester locked up...

Griffin squashed out his cigarette in the full ashtray and watched the sun rise thin over the lake. Okay. Be honest. Maybe the last one did get to him, the kid. There'd been a woman in St. Paul he thought he might marry, even start a family. Maybe Broker was right. He'd run away. After that scene in the woods, he'd quit his newspaper job and migrated up here. Do some honest work with his hands where there were fewer people.

Fewer people to hurt.

But there were exceptions. And possibly Gator Bodine was one them.

Quarter past nine Sat.u.r.day morning Gator was dipping his toast in an egg yolk at Lyme's Cafe, looking at a picture on the front page of USA Today USA Today-soldiers in chocolate-chip camo riding a tank all covered with red dust.

He looked up and saw Harry Griffin come through the door and walk straight to the booth where he was sitting. Stood there looking down with that shrink leather face, looking a little shaky with a wild aspect. Hadn't shaved.

"We never been properly introduced, you and me," Griffin said.

Gator tucked the toast in his mouth, chewed, then dusted the crumbs off his thick fingers. "That what this is, getting introduced?" he said, keeping his voice neutral, sizing Griffin up close. A real bad boy in his time, people said, but now he was starting to show his age. Still had this solitary yard-bull intensity to him, like a very few guys in the joint who stood their ground alone. With no group affiliation. The way you fought that kind of guy was, you caught him asleep with a club.

Griffin sat down in the opposite seat, casually leaned his elbows on the table, and said, "This is about proxies-you with me so far?"

"Like stand ins?" Gator nodded, working at keeping his face calm.

"Yeah, like for instance, if Jimmy Klumpe got into something he couldn't handle and someone was to stand in for him. Say sneak into a guy's house, steal stuff, and knife his truck tire. Chickens.h.i.+t stuff like that."

"You lost me," Gator said, not real comfortable with the cold disquiet in Griffin's ash-colored eyes. Sure had a lot of leftover b.a.l.l.s for an AARP fart.

"Okay, let's get you found," Griffin said. "The house where Broker's staying, that somebody was snooping in-it's my f.u.c.king house. Anybody comes around, like in through the woods on skis, they're gonna find me standing in." Griffin paused. "What goes around, comes around."

"Yeah, I recall reading that saying in a book about the sixties. And I think maybe you're reaching a little, connecting the dots. What I heard," Gator said carefully, "is they made up. No reason for anybody to do anything on it. Like dumping garbage."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Just so we understand each other," Griffin said.

"Hey, you're a bada.s.s old man, and I was brought up to respect my elders, what can I say," Gator said with a straight face.

"You're on notice; we'll leave it there for now," Griffin said, standing up. "Oh, yeah, and nice meeting you."

"My pleasure," Gator said in an icy f.u.c.k-you tone.

As Griffin turned to leave, he paused, raised his finger and pointed. "And, Gator?"

"Now what?"

Griffin smiled. "You got egg on your chin."

Driving home from his weekly sit-down breakfast, Gator briefly entertained the notion of shutting Griffin off like an antique tractor. Then he calmed down and went over the story about Griffin beating up that bunch of drunks in Skeet's with a pool cue. But that was three, four years ago. And he only heard heard it, he didn't it, he didn't see see it. So he decided the intelligent thing to do was let Griffin have his little senior moment, raffling wolf tickets, showing solidarity with his friend. Maybe drop a hint to Keith that Griffin was getting cranky with him. Off-his-meds kind of thing. it. So he decided the intelligent thing to do was let Griffin have his little senior moment, raffling wolf tickets, showing solidarity with his friend. Maybe drop a hint to Keith that Griffin was getting cranky with him. Off-his-meds kind of thing.

Had more important business to think about.

Griffin drove back to his cabin fast, drifting the Jeep around the turns with an almost adolescent glee. The whole aggravated knot of insult and age and punk-a.s.s youth and past and present unraveled when you yanked one cord: Okay. Now it's personal. And he started it.

Don't go off completely half-c.o.c.ked. Wait for J. T.'s call.

And Teedo had given him directions how to come in on Gator's place through the woods.

So go take a look for himself.

The notion toyed with him with a palpable prod of danger. Felt like this sleeping figure was waking up in his chest, unfolding its limbs, putting him on like a suit of clothes. Susan Hatch would counsel he was too old...

"No, I ain't," Harry Griffin said aloud. h.e.l.l, he'd always been at his best alone, on his own. Mindful that Broker was coming over in an hour, he decided to keep this one to himself. And if it turned out that Teedo's story was true, he could tell Broker about it later.

Run away, my a.s.s.

Chapter Thirty-four.

J. T. Merryweather woke up before the alarm on Sat.u.r.day morning, and as his feet searched for his slippers on the chilly floor, his first thought was about Phil Broker. before the alarm on Sat.u.r.day morning, and as his feet searched for his slippers on the chilly floor, his first thought was about Phil Broker.

Griffin didn't specify in so many words, but J. T. was thinking this had to do with Broker being up north.

Moving quiet, so he didn't wake his wife and daughter, he selected clothes from the closet and dresser in the dark. Then he padded downstairs, plugged in the coffee, and showered in the first-floor half bath.

After he dressed and breakfasted on a quick bowl of cereal, he retrieved Griffin's license number request and made some phone calls, taking notes. Not entirely satisfied with what they told him on the phone, he decided to take it a step further.