Homefront. Part 34

Griffin thought about it.

The rest of the place was so shipshape. Why would he have these bins full of rotten feed? Decided to give the bins a closer look. He rapped his knuckle on the side panel; a solid thump. Moved his hand down a foot. This time when he struck the wood with his fist, he got a hollow-sounding bounce.

Well, well.

After fiddling with the plywood, he determined that the bins had been constructed with lift-out front panels; the wood screws that appeared to pin them in place had been trimmed back, didn't go through. Cosmetic.

Grunting with the effort, he forced the tightly fit panel up and revealed a compartment beneath the false feed tray. It contained a tall cardboard box. He removed the box, opened the flaps. Three round-bottomed gla.s.s flasks and a long twin-tubed gla.s.s apparatus were carefully packed in wadded newspaper. Tubing, stoppers, and clamps were tucked in crevices between the flasks.

Gator's little home chemistry set. Okay.

Griffin stood up and looked down the row of bins. He didn't have time to open all five bins. After carefully repacking the box, he put it back in the compartment and forced the panel in place. Then he went to the last bin and swiftly wedged open the front panel. This compartment contained a stash of over-the-counter chemicals, just like he'd read about in his Internet search. Stacked gallon cans of camping fuel, toluene, and paint thinner. A tightly packed box of lithium batteries, cans of Red Devil lye drain opener. A row of red Iso Heet plastic bottles. And a bottle of ether.

Talk about fire in the hole.

Griffin surveyed the bas.e.m.e.nt. Now the yellow bags of rock salt piled along the wall behind the anhydrous tank didn't look so innocent.

Looking up at the series of overhead lightbulbs, he suddenly smiled. The old cartoonist in him suddenly frolicked in the image. Pop! Pop! Caption of the old lightbulb coming on in a thought bubble. It looked to Griffin like Gator's tidy work ethic had broken down here in the old barn. Because all the volatile chemicals hidden in the bins posed one serious fire hazard. Yes, they did. So. Caption of the old lightbulb coming on in a thought bubble. It looked to Griffin like Gator's tidy work ethic had broken down here in the old barn. Because all the volatile chemicals hidden in the bins posed one serious fire hazard. Yes, they did. So.

Maybe just skip a step, leave Keith out of it. Besides, Keith probably wouldn't really appreciate the concept of Gator's karma working itself out, so to speak. It had the added elegance of poetic justice. Seeing's how Gator made his Robin Hood reputation blowing up a meth lab.

Well, turnabout is fair play, motherf.u.c.ker.

Griffin vaulted up on the bin and unscrewed the lightbulb over the last bin, tossing it in his palms, hot potato, until it cooled; then he inspected it. Like he thought, a lightweight commercial bulb. He screwed it back in, jumped down, and hurried to the door and switched off the light. He needed a rough-service bulb with a more durable filament.

Then he slipped out the door and checked the road for headlights. Seeing none, he walked back into the pines and melted into the murky forest. Touchy going in the shadowy trees, jogging his way back along his tracks; but he immensely enjoyed every step of the trek back to his Jeep. Doubly enjoyed it because he knew he was coming back.

When it was really dark.

An hour and forty-five minutes later, Griffin was back home in his own modest garage workshop, taking three items from a bag he'd just purchased at Tindall's hardware in town; a package of heavy-duty lightbulbs, a sixty-milliliter vet's syringe, and a can of starter fluid.

Griffin opened the bulbs, selected one, placed the metal-threaded n.o.b in his bench vise, and carefully tightened the jaws until the n.o.b was secure. Then he took an electric hand drill, inserted a one-eighth-inch bit, and bored a hole in the metal thread. He repeated the procedure with a second bulb. Two should be enough.

Then he looked around for something to carry the fluid in, that would be easily accessible to the long syringe needle. He settled on a soup-bowl-sized Tupperware container filled with woodscrews, dumped out the screws, poured in the fluid, and secured the lid with duct tape.

He tucked the bulbs, syringe, and fluid in his backpack. Then he went into the house, found his small head-mounted flashlight, and replaced the batteries. Going back outside, he paused to look at the patchy clouds drifting past the constellations. The fattening half-moon. Fifty percent illumination. What the h.e.l.l, now he'd be able to see in the woods.

Thirty minutes later, the only thing moving on the back roads, Griffin arrived back at the logging road off Z, parked the Jeep, and set off trotting back along his fresh tracks.

Like he thought. Didn't need the light. The snow glimmered with faint moonlight, enough to see his tracks. As he moved, he thought about how this escapade had started because Kit Broker got in a fight at school. Messages were sent back and forth by the belligerent families. Now Griffin was adding his own anonymous little communique, and he was going to use a trick that Ray Pryce, the grandfather Kit had never known, taught him in Vietnam. The dormant artist in him loved the family symmetry.

Breathy with sweat, staying on his earlier tracks, Griffin approached the farm and stalked back along the pine windbreak. Gator's truck was parked in front of the barn, the cha.s.sis an oily yellow in the sodium vapor light on the barn. The farmhouse was blacked out except for the flicker of a TV in two of the first-floor windows.

Part of the fun, going in while Gator was there, awake.

Griffin crossed to the side of the barn, away from the yard light, and entered from the rear through the open shed and pens. Once inside, he pulled on the small headlamp and climbed onto the farthest bin from the front door. He took off his pack, and removed the bulbs, syringe, and plastic container of fluid. Then he reached up and unscrewed the lightbulb from the fixture, put it in the pack, and replaced it with one of the drilled bulbs. Snapped on the headlamp. Gingerly, working by the narrow light, he rotated the bulb just until the thread caught, leaving the hole exposed.

Now for the hard part. He untaped his container and drew a syringe full of fluid. The trick was to insert the needle in the hole and squeeze the fluid into the bottom of the bulb without disturbing the filament, then very carefully screw the bulb back into the socket so the liquid didn't slosh around, disabling the circuit.

Which he accomplished, holding his breath, with steady fingers. Then he repeated the operation, replacing and loading the next bulb. When he'd stowed his gear back and put the replaced bulbs in the pack, he switched off the headlamp and hopped to the concrete floor. He judged the danger close distance to the front door and the light switch. Should be enough cushion.

The next time that light was turned on, the bulbs would explode and spew liquid fire down on the plywood bins, hopefully igniting all the volatile c.r.a.p in the area. He wanted to give Gator a scare and hopefully burn his stash, not kill the guy.

Satisfied, Griffin exited the rear of the barn and ran back to the pines. Twenty minutes into the woods, he slowed his pace and allowed himself a cupped cigarette.

Not quite like night work in the old days. In Vietnam, he would have waited until the lights were off in the house, crept in, and cut Gator's throat.

But close enough to elevate the pulse.

Chapter Thirty-nine.

Sat.u.r.day night. Nina wore a new green peasant blouse with flared sleeves. Kit had a smaller version of the same garment in burgundy. Broker cleaned up as best he could, left his work coat on the hook and dug a decent leather jacket from the closet, ran a comb through the s.h.a.ggy hair curling over his collar. a new green peasant blouse with flared sleeves. Kit had a smaller version of the same garment in burgundy. Broker cleaned up as best he could, left his work coat on the hook and dug a decent leather jacket from the closet, ran a comb through the s.h.a.ggy hair curling over his collar.

Then he took the newly coiffed girls out on the town. Such as it was. The Angler's Inn was the only good restaurant that stayed open during the winter. It was located off the frontage road, near Glacier Lodge. The dining room was closed, but the bar side was open and served an abbreviated menu.

They entered the old eatery tentatively, like a family venturing into church after a long absence. Only two people sat at the bar; half the booths were filled. The TV was off. A ceiling of antique stippled tin stretched down the long room, etched gray with generations of nicotine, grease, and wood smoke from the open-hearth fireplace. Kit walked solemnly, hugging her bunny, inspecting the gallery of photos and taxidermy on the walls-musky, walleye, a wolf. A moose head projected over the bar like an incoming antlered s.p.a.ceship.

Like a shrine to the departed twenthieth century, an old Wurlitzer jukebox pulsed and bubbled red and green in the back of the room. Kit had never seen one before, so Nina led her to the music box with a handful of quarters. Broker sat in a booth watching as Nina helped Kit load up songs. The waitress brought water and menus.

At a moment like this, he could be as sentimental as the next guy. He allowed himself a vacation from suspicion about the future; enjoying looking at his wife standing next to his daughter. Nina in the new green flowing blouse, one hand planted on her hip, filling out a pair of Levi's 501s like a north-country roadhouse dream.

The women returned, and they ordered food as the songs came on. Some Gary Puckett. Jay and the Americans. Deliberate flourishes echoing back to their tornadic courtship.

"Come a little bit closer"...like that.

Midway through grilled walleye and moose burgers, he put the idea in play with a casual remark: "You know, I could call Dooley, have him get a housekeeper in to clean up the Stillwater place."

Nina looked up from her plate, blew a strand of hair away from her eyes, nodded, and said, "Give me another couple days to be sure. But I'm for that."

Seeing her mom and dad grinning at each other, Kit bounced in her seat. "You mean?"

"That's right, Little Bit," Nina said. "We're going home."

As they gabbed about Kit's friends on North Third Street, and swimming and piano, Broker rode the happy thermals. Nina mentioned that she and Kit had b.u.mped into Teddy Klumpe and his mother when they were shopping.

"How'd that go?" Broker asked, momentarily snapping out of his glide.

"It was icky," Kit said. "Mom was so nice so nice to her." to her."

Nina shrugged. "She's one uptight lady, so yeah, I made nice. Bought the kid a T-shirt to replace the one that got bloodied up-"

"When he he started a fight, and started a fight, and I I got suspended. It was got suspended. It was very icky very icky, Dad," Kit said emphatically.

Broker grinned as Nina and Kit went back and forth on the etiquette of the meeting. The waitress cleared their plates, and Broker asked for the dessert menu.

Nina was trying to explain to an eight-year-old the difference between necessary and unnecessary conflict. Kit scowled, furrowing her brow, looked to her dad for a.s.sistance.

Broker made a stab. "Remember our little talk about laws of human nature?"

Kit swelled her eyes. "Are we gonna throw more rocks in the air? Oh, boy."

Nina masked her laugh with her hand.

"Well," Broker said, "another basic law is there's two kinds of people-"

"Yeah," Kit said, "there's girls and there's fat creepy boys like Teddy-"

"Close. More like there's people who like themselves and people who don't like themselves. I don't think Teddy likes who he is. See, it's important to know the difference. Because the people who aren't comfortable in their skins make you miserable."

By way of response, Kit held up her bunny, holding its stubby arms over its ears. Broker turned to Nina and asked, "Whatta you you think?" think?"

"I think I'll have the German chocolate cake and ice cream," Nina said, suppressing a snicker.

"I give." Broker tossed up his arms. The waitress returned and he ordered German chocolate layer cake and ice cream all around.

A little later, as they drove back to the small house on the lake, he found himself sneaking looks at Nina and pondering his glib, simple cliche: What goes up must come down.

Broker built a fire in the Franklin stove, and they played two rounds of Sequence, a board game Kit liked, on the kitchen table. Kit won the first game.

"Don't pull your punches," Broker hectored Nina as he reshuffled the cards and they sorted the plastic chips.

"Hey, I didn't," Nina said, a little testy.

"Mom doesn't like to lose," Kit said.

Kit won the second game and yawned. Haircuts, shopping, dinner, talk of going home, dessert, and the fire had worn her out. They put her to bed and returned to the kitchen and the embers of the fire. Sat across the table from each other.

Nina took out a cigarette and instead of lighting it manipulated it in the fingers of her right hand, like a prop in a dexterity exercise. Finally she set the cigarette vertical on the table, balanced on its filter. Then she poked her finger and knocked it over. Looked up at him.

"You got something you want to say, say it."

Trying to keep the mellow mood going, he shook his head. "It can wait."

She studied him for a moment. "You're thinking, When is she going to call the doctor at Bragg, huh."

"I guess," Broker said. There it is. There it is.

"Pretty soon," she said with a sliver of the old steel in her voice. "And then we'll have a long-overdue talk. You and me." She grimaced ever so slightly, looked away, and picked up the cigarette, started out of reflex to put it in her lips.

Broker felt the tiny slippage in the air, the day starting to slide.

But then she snapped her wrist and darted the cigarette across the table into the glowing coals in the stove. "You know," she said, giving him that sidelong glance, "I wouldn't blush if you wanted to fool around again tonight. Unless Griffin snapped your d.i.c.k string lifting those weights this morning..."

Chapter Forty.

Because Gator generally didn't trust excitement, he compensated for his giddy Sat.u.r.day and weird brush with Griffin by working all day on the Moline. Important to keep the shop running normally. Never tell when Mitch Schiebel, his parole officer, might stop by for a spot-check and cup of coffee. By sunset he'd finished replacing the clutch and flywheel. excitement, he compensated for his giddy Sat.u.r.day and weird brush with Griffin by working all day on the Moline. Important to keep the shop running normally. Never tell when Mitch Schiebel, his parole officer, might stop by for a spot-check and cup of coffee. By sunset he'd finished replacing the clutch and flywheel.

He put away his tools and washed up. Sheryl had not left a message. And he was all right with that. She wouldn't talk to the gang until tomorrow morning. Why waste a drive to Perry's pay phone just to be anxious together?

Just after he turned the display light on his show tractor the phone rang. It was Ca.s.sie.

"Gator, you think you could drop by drop by again?" again?"

"Uh-uh, I'm through making house calls," he said in an idle voice as he watched the black kitty jump up on the office desk and stretch.

"C'mon, just one more time, honest," she said.

Gator reached out his hand and stroked the cat's glossy fur, feinted with his finger, sending the cat back on its haunches, paws up; then he darted in the finger, tickled it on the chest. "You want something, you're going to have to come get it," he said into the phone.

"I thought you didn't want me to come out there?"

Gator lifted the cat and let it pour from his hand, this smooth effortless motion. "Maybe I changed my mind," he said.

"I gotta think about that that," Ca.s.sie said.

"You do that," Gator said. Then he ended the call. For a moment he had a fleeting sensation of what it might feel like to get everything you want.

He pushed up off his chair and, feeling more balanced after a day spent with his tools, took some coffee, put on his coat, went out through the paint room door, and walked through the old machines in back of the shop. Looking at the sky filling in with dark clouds, he made a mental note to check the Weather Channel; see exactly what was behind the front taking shape to the northwest.

As the light left the sky, an afterglow seemed to cling to the snow cover on the fields in back of the shop. The snow cover had melted then frozen again, forming a tough crust. Faintly, then louder, he heard a swelling chorus of howls. The pack was active. Wolves could run across the crusted snow in which the deer foundered. Made them easy targets.

From the accelerating howls, he a.s.sumed they had located such a deer; a straggler, injured or just weak.

People in town had come to a.s.sociate him with the wolves, because he lived alone out here. Even attributing to him some of the animals' wildness.

He did see one comparison.

The meth they cooked would prowl along the margins of the population, selecting out the dumb, the naive, the weak. Like the wolves, it would devour the strays who, ensnared in their addiction, could no longer run.

Fact was, he would be providing a social service. In producing the drug, he would be culling out the weak and infirm. By killing them, he was improving the quality of the herd.

The wind gusted, and he turned up his collar and sipped the coffee. Hearing the howls and thinking of Sheryl negotiating with a killer brought to mind his own kills.

In addition to the tractors, his dad had left a locker containing a rifle, a shotgun, and three pistols. After his folks "died," he greased the weapons up with Cosmoline and wrapped them in oilcloth; a souvenir German Luger, two small .22-caliber pistols, a .12-gauge shotgun, and a 3006 deer gun. Took them into the tractor grave yard and hid them in the cha.s.sis of an ancient Deere. They stayed there for years. As a kid he favored the Luger, but as it turned out, when he returned to the farm, the Ruger .22 proved more useful. the weapons up with Cosmoline and wrapped them in oilcloth; a souvenir German Luger, two small .22-caliber pistols, a .12-gauge shotgun, and a 3006 deer gun. Took them into the tractor grave yard and hid them in the cha.s.sis of an ancient Deere. They stayed there for years. As a kid he favored the Luger, but as it turned out, when he returned to the farm, the Ruger .22 proved more useful.Homicide 101 on Cell Block D over bootleg cigarettes and contraband potato hooch. A .22 works just fine, but you gotta put the sucker right up against the poor f.u.c.k's head you're gonna kill. Or better, stick it in his ear and burn the body. That way, n.o.body's gonna know the body has a bullet in it 'cause the round won't exit the skull.

Like a TV show beamed in from a satellite on the dark side of the moon. Stuck way off the menu past the music channels, the auctions and the religious nuts. Always ran in the back of his mind. Way back.