Griffin didn’t waste time with how or why. He dropped instantly into threat and response, judging time and distance. He was in the middle of the room, between Kit and the table with the familiar rifle and magazine on it. Guy was fifty yards out…
First get Kit free. Out of the line of fire. The basement.
“Kit, come here, fast!” he shouted. Galvanized by his tone, Kit hurried to him, her face shaking. “Take this.” He whipped the cell phone from his pocket, opened it. “Now listen to me. Go in the basement. If there’s shooting, unhook the window, crawl out and get into the woods. Punch in 911. A nine and two ones. Press this button, here. Send. Tell them a man with a gun is coming into the house. Go!” he shouted, spinning, lunging for the AR-15 on the table.
Shank came up the steps two at a time, swinging up the pistol, saw a flurry of movement in the lighted kitchen. Shit. Musta seen him. Broker picking something up off a table…Then Shank’s boot slipped on the top step, and he skidded, righting himself, and his heart caught in his throat.
Broker was slapping a magazine into a serious military-type rifle, pulling the thingy in back, taking aim.
Nothing happened.
Close enough to see the look of surprise in Broker’s eyes, jerking at the operating rod.
Shank fired twice through the glass, saw Broker go down through a splatter of shattered glass, flung open the siding door, and fired a wild shot at the wide-eyed kid who ducked down a doorway at the other end of the room.
Stepping over…wait…paused a second, looking down at the waxy face of the man laying on the floor. Hit him solid, twice in the chest. Then…Where’s the fucking eyebrows? Not Broker. What the fuck? Blinked. Focused. Swinging the SIG, ready for the wife when she appeared. No sounds in the house. Immediately he sprinted for the basement doorway. Get the kid first, come back. Shank scrambled down the cramped stairwell, yelling, “All right, you little shit…”
Not sure why he’d lived, not knowing why he was dying, Harry Griffin opened his eyes and watched his killer step over him and dash down the stairs after Kit. Wouldn’t you know, the same old familiar things; the brimstone scent of cordite, the copper taste of blood. He lay on his right side, right arm trapped beneath him. Couldn’t move it. His left hand was detached. Couldn’t feel it, sprawled there on the floor, tremoring, having its own local death. A foot away from his palsied left hand, along the baseboard, level with his eyes, he saw the.257 Roberts laying on the floor, muzzle pointed in the direction of the basement stairwell, bolt pulled open.
Heard a snarl from the basement, stuff crashing, thrown around.
Hardest thing he ever did, resurrecting that left hand, willing it to reach over and tug the rifle along the floor. Way too weak to lift it. He fingered a bullet from the sidekick bandolier on the stock; trembling, he inserted it in the chamber.
Heard the guy yell, raging, “Why, you little shit!”
Tasting blood, Griffin smiled. She got out. Good girl. Run. He slid the bolt forward, locking in the round. Second hardest thing he ever did, feathery, his left hand went off on a journey, searching for the trigger, nudging the muzzle along the floor, centered on the stairway. Found the trigger as the heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs. Something going through his mind shutting off the lights on the way out…everything I ever did getting me ready for this moment…
Lied, Kit…not all right…but maybe…
Craning his neck, Griffin managed to catch a glimpse of the guy’s face and shoulders, clearing the top step; pale blue angry eyes, skin too white. Harry Griffin squeezed the trigger and rode the exhilarating crash of the bullet out of this life.
Shank stamped up the stairs, and the kitchen exploded in his face. He spun back, clawing at the handrail. The power of the needle pile driver that hit him promised a lot of pain to come. Hit him low in the left hip, it felt like…He touched the wound. There was a lot of blood. Not the hip. High inside the thigh.
He gathered himself, pulling on the rail, and staggered up into the kitchen. Saw the deer rifle on the floor next to the dead guy. Fucker had his eyes wide open, head contorted toward the stairs. Sonofabitch looked…happy. Shoulda shot him again…made sure…
The kid.
The kid had seen his face.
He lurched out the door into the garage, then into the driveway. Saw the open basement window, the scrambled snow where she’d crawled out. Different. Looking around, he realized the snow had stopped. Had stopped before he even got into the house. Just this huge white silence and the kid’s tracks leading through it. Looking across the yard, he saw her standing at the edge of the woods, looking back at the house. A lump of shadow against the white trees. Maybe eighty yards. Too far, but he took a shot anyway. She disappeared into the trees.
Now I’m really pissed.
He dug through his parka pockets. Found his bandanna, tied it around his screaming thigh, knotted it, and limped along the trail of small boot prints, leaking blood.
Chapter Forty-seven
“We’ll use the Jeep, Griffin needs the truck,” Broker said, guiding Nina. His thoughts mirrored the flurries driving at his eyes. His mind seemed erased, full of white noise. Never been to this numb hopeless place before.
They got in the Jeep, and as he turned it around, they glimpsed Griffin and Kit appearing and disappearing, climbing into the Tundra. Broker drove to the end of the driveway and stopped. At a loss for which way to turn.
He turned left, made it maybe four hundred yards down the road, pulled over, stopped, and put the shift in neutral. They sat, eyes fixed straight ahead, and listened to the heater fan grind cold air.
Nina stared at the webbed maze of the dream catcher hanging from the rearview mirror. Then down the headlight beams pushing into the snow. The electricity struggled out maybe twenty yards and fizzled. White or black. What’s the difference. She had lost the light.
She snuck at a look at him, slouched back, chest caved, snow shadows fluttering over his face, the muscles rippling in his cheeks. He grimaced, rose up, reached behind, removed the bolt for the AR-15 from his back pocket, and placed it on the dashboard like a compact steel indictment.
Still didn’t look at each other. No words left. And no moves either. Cratered.
Someone had to make a start. “I got scared,” she said.
He turned, looked at her, and brought up his right hand, palm up, fingers curled, like he’d packed it all-their whole history, all his hoarded resentments-down into an ice ball he could grip in his hand. The hand shook. “You got scared? What about Kit? What about-” He was yelling now. More out of control than she’d ever seen him.
“You?” she yelled back, grabbing his shaking fist and yanking it hard. “Listen. I got scared, goddammit!”
Their hands parted, and they both took a breath. “Jesus, Nina, you stuck an AR in my face, in Kit’s,” he blurted, his voice still shaking, but lower, reeling in.
“I thought I saw-” She stopped, began again. “The reason I got scared is because I knew I had to tell you something, and when I did, I’d have to face it myself. Really face it.”
They both looked up as a set of low beams materialized out of the gloom and a car slowly slipped past, this gray silent shadow.
She fluttered her hand, an explosion of nerves, and reached for her cigarettes. Clicked her lighter. “Christ,” she said, blowing a stream of smoke, making a bitter laughing sound, “look at me, just talk about it and I start to panic…” Nina shook her head. “Must have tripped something. Call it what you want, post-traumatic whatever…scary how real it seems.” She jerked her head back toward the house. Then tossed her hair, worrying her fingers through the sweaty ponytail. Turning back, she saw she had his full attention now. So she just said it. “Broker, this whole ugly thing we’ve been through. It’s not about Janey and Holly. Oh, it’s about loss, all right. A selfish, small loss. It’s about me, goddammit.” Her voice started to shake. “It’s about losing me.”