“There’s two of them,” Nina said patiently. “In winter camo, ski masks, pistols; like Serbs…in the woods…” Saying that, seeing his face react; she knew it was a bad choice of words…
Sounded nuts.
Nina bit her lip. Sounded crazy…how it must look to him. The doubt bounced back fast, ringing her vision with blackness, closing in.
“Serbs in the woods,” he repeated slowly. The words echoed in his mind-Where is it? In the woods. “Aw, Christ,” he said. His face working now, thinking out loud, saying, “Too soon. Got ahead of ourselves…”
The boiling snow outside the living room windows bloomed with headlights. Their eyes snapped on the motion. “Griffin,” Broker said, raising a hand, trying for calm amid the shattered wood, the lock and hasp, the scattered magazines on the floor. “We switched cars. He’s coming to pick up more wood. C’mon.” He reached for her arm again. She danced back in an instinctive fighting stance, and Broker wondered if it was finally coming down to a no-holds bare-knuckle fight between them. Practicality counseled him: No, her training was to kill. Go for the eyes, then the throat. She wouldn’t use that on him. Grappling and restraint was his expertise. And he was encouraged by the quiver of indecision now trembling in her eyes, spreading down her cheeks into her lips. Her eyes getting wider. “C’mon,” he said softly. “We’ll have Harry sit with Kit. Take this down the road, out of the house.”
But he still wasn’t willing to turn his back on her. He waited until she stepped into the kitchen. Then he crossed quickly to the door, opened it. Kit stood framed in the doorway, clutching her bunny.
“What going on?” she said, close to tears.
“We’re just having an argument,” Broker said, with an awful forced calm in his voice.
Kit swallowed and stared at the rifle in his hand, the pistol in his belt. “With guns?”
“Go out and get Uncle Harry,” Broker said. He left the door open. Then, keeping the island between himself and Nina, he picked the deer rifle off the floor, slid open the bolt. Empty. He leaned it against the wall, and his hand was still shaking, because the weapon slipped sideways and crashed to the floor. He ignored it, continued to the patio door, and studied the back deck. Two inches of swirling undisturbed fresh snow. Glanced at the shadowy tree line, indistinct in the horizontal blowing snow. He turned, placed the AR-15 on the table, and slid the wobbling operating handle in place. Put the magazine next to it.
Nina stood hugging herself, one thought recurring over and over, timed to a tick in her cheek: Seeing things that are not there…She watched Broker do his thing; being practical, cautious. Every methodical move he made, checking the deck, disabling the rifle, assuring Kit, sending for Harry, was an instant replay of the last three months.
She was losing light. Sinking. Hallucination was another way of saying “seeing things.”
She watched Harry Griffin enter the kitchen, snow on his shoulders and cap, one hand guiding Kit. Heard Broker say something about a little ‘domestic situation.’ Could he keep an eye on Kit while they took a break to talk.
They were all so carefully normal…
…in the presence of the sick person.
Griffin’s alert eyes scanned all present, the room. Broker had zipped his jacket to hide the pistol, but the rifle was still in plain view on the table. Griffin adjusted immediately, low-key. Said something about Kit could help him load the oak. Be fun in all the snow. Kit’s eyes darting, confused.
Broker lifted Nina’s coat off the hook by the door, stood waiting. Sinking, she crossed the room, grabbed at the pack of cigarettes and lighter on the island. Eyes lowered, she walked past Harry and Kit, took the coat, and followed Broker out the door.
Chapter Forty-six
Shank hunkered in the thick spruce maybe sixty yards from the garage, squinting into the blowing snow. He’d hoped to spot the wife, coming back from running. Couldn’t see shit. Thought he saw some lights for a minute. Then a wall of whiteout erased the shadow of the house. The terrain had disappeared, the road, the woods, just this white plasma blob. Maybe Gator was right, should have broke in, waited in the house. Problem was, what if they came back and saw the forced entry? Scare them off. Better this way, he decided. He had his hood pulled up under the hood of the smock, one gloved hand on the cell phone in his left pocket, the other on the SIG in the right pocket. Not that uncomfortable, still warm from looking over the house, getting focused. In fact, he liked the harsh wind, working an edge off the storm charge in the turbulent air. And appreciated the way it banished the noises he started hearing when Gator left him. Those creepy Wild Kingdom noises sandwiched in the wind.
Fuck a bunch of wolves, just big dogs. Had to laugh, really; he’d killed nine men. Count ’em. Not the time to worry about animals. Still, every time he picked up a weird twist to the wind…
Then, faint headlights in the white gloom. Somebody coming up the driveway. Okay, let’s get this show on the road. Okay, folks, what’s going on here? Windows still dark in the house. Looked like. When he could see the fuckin’ house. The minutes stretched like chilly ivory dominoes, clicking end to end. Then, finally, he saw the headlights again. Closer. The green Toyota had returned, was pulling around the back of the house, backing up to the side of the garage. Like it was before. Uh-huh, that’s Broker, getting out of the truck. Impossible to make out his features in the blow, but the same brown coat and black hat. Hank’s heart skipped a beat, seeing the smaller figure get out of the passenger side. Must be the kid, in a blur of green coat and hat, something, a scarf maybe, tied around the face. This’ll be a first. He forgot, was it a boy or a girl? Fuck it. Green target. He hadn’t seen the woman but assumed, given this weather, she was inside.
He watched them start loading pieces of wood into the truck bed. Now he was waiting on Sheryl to get back in position. More white dominoes. Then, finally, the cell buzzed in his pocket. He whipped it out, removed his glove, and punched answer.
“I’m back,” Sheryl said. “But I can’t see shit.”
“Showtime. They’re home. Start your drive.”
He ended the call, replaced the phone in his pocket, then stuffed the glove in with it. When he looked up, he saw Broker and the kid climbing the steps to the back deck, going in the sliding patio door.
Okay. See better in the house. He was up, removing his other glove for a surer grip on the SIG. He unzipped the front of the camo smock, not liking the way it bound his chest and arms. Swung his arms-more freedom of movement. Shank pulled the ski mask down around his neck and stepped from the cover of the pines. No more detours, go straight in. Get it over with.
Kit stood at the end of the kitchen, by the basement door, unwinding her scarf. Griffin dusted snow from his hat, removed it. Seeing the frozen fix of her eyes, he went to her and gently brushed snow from her freckled cheeks. “Hey, honey, it’ll be all right.”
She looked up at him with an awful anger in her eyes. “You all say that. You all lie,” she said in a measured voice.
He reached to hug her, and she stepped back, arms raised, warding him off.
Let her be, he thought. Then he turned, started for the cabinet next to the stove, glanced out the patio door. “Funny, huh. We take a break and the snow lets up. Should be some hot chocolate in here-”
Something. A snap of red in the corner of his eye.
Whipping around, he saw that it wasn’t all right.
The figure of a man emerged from the trees, white camo flapping around something red underneath. One second he was obscure in the blowing snow. Then the wind stopped and the snow disappeared, and Griffin clearly saw the black pistol in his hand. The man started jogging toward the house.