Homefront. Part 37

"Ah, if somebody sees your car-" Gator said.

"It ain't my car. It's like the phones. Stolen. It belongs to a Carlos Izquierdo, who lives in Excelsior. He's in Ireland selling Snap-On tools. We took his car from long-term parking at the MinneapolisSt. Paul airport. We got this gal who works at a travel agency, gives us leads on people who are out of town."

"Ah," Gator said.

"And I don't give a f.u.c.k if someone remembers seeing seeing the car. I just don't want anybody the car. I just don't want anybody stopping stopping the car and seeing the car and seeing me me. Because if this goes off on schedule, I'll be driving all night back to the Cities. Tomorrow morning when the sun comes up, that Nissan will be parked on University Avenue, in St. Paul, in front of the f.u.c.kin' State Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. With Broker smelling up the trunk." The smooth demeanor changed as Shank smiled, curling his upper lip, showing his prominent canine teeth. "Gonna shoot the f.u.c.ker in the mouth. What we do with snitches."

"What about-" Sheryl started to say.

"You?" Shank interrupted. "I thought of that. You can stay here, or I can drop you in a town farther south, where you can rent some wheels. It ain't your job to drive back with me."

"That's cool, but what about, ah...the guy's got a wife and kid," Sheryl said.

Seeing the strangled expression on Gator's face when Sheryl said that, Shank raised a calming hand and said patiently, "This ain't the time to be sentimental, Sheryl. What about the wife and kid Jojo never had-you think of that?"

"You got a point," Sheryl said quickly.

"Any more questions?" Shank asked. "No? Then I got one." He reached in his bag, withdrew a stumpy dense SIG-Sauer nine, and cradled it in his palm. "Where do snitches get it?"

"In the mouth," Gator said, like he was reciting an oath.

"Good," Shank said. "Remember that, and we'll do just fine."

As Gator changed into his long underwear and winter camos on the mud porch, Sheryl stood next to him, nervously smoking a Merit. "Probably shouldn't a said that about the wife and kid," she said.

"No s.h.i.t. This guy's got his own ideas."

"I hear you," Sheryl said between puffs.

Gator sat on a stool and pulled on his boots. When he'd laced them, he stood up, picked his cell phone off the workbench, selected Ca.s.sie's number, and pushed send. When she answered, he said, "It's me. Yeah. Look, where's Jimmy today? Good, okay, he's got the long route south of town. Then he's back at the garage? How late? Is he there alone? Good. Johnny's with him, washing down the trucks. No, ah, maybe I'll drop by and see him at the garage, later tonight." Then his forehead bunched. "Yeah, right. We'll talk about that later, okay? Right now I'm busy. No. Not now. We'll talk tonight." He ended the call, shook his head.

"What?" Sheryl asked.

"Nothing. My f.u.c.kin' sister." He waved her off and went into the kitchen. Shank had changed into new Rocky boots, black Gore-Tex pants, a red parka, and red knit cap. Gator clicked his teeth together. "You know, we'll have light the next couple of hours. That red's gonna stand out against the snow cover big-time."

"You got a better idea?"

"Yeah." Gator went back on the mud porch and returned with a winter camo hunting smock. "Pull that over the parka." He tossed a black ski mask. "And this'll be handy, hide your face."

Shank slipped on the smock, bunched the mask on his head, and said, "Better?"

"Much," Gator said.

Shank handed Sheryl his car keys. "Get the car out. You're gonna be driving tonight."

When she'd left, Gator said, "I was wondering, should I bring something?"

"Like what?" Shank asked.

"Like a gun, you know-usually carry a pistol in the woods."

Shank grinned. "Wanna get your cherry busted, huh? Sure."

For the first time Gator felt a genuine flash of resentment at this smooth city f.u.c.ker who had so much power over him, with his expensive p.u.s.s.y winter gear and stolen j.a.p car-going into the woods dressed like a Christmas tree to kill a guy. He opened the kitchen utility drawer and removed the Luger.

"s.h.i.t, is that a real one, like World War II German?" Shank asked, a gleam coming into his pale eyes.

"Yep, my dad brought it back from Europe," Gator said, stuffing the pistol into his f.a.n.n.y pack, thinking, f.u.c.kin' bikers all go for that n.a.z.i s.h.i.t like little kids. f.u.c.kin' bikers all go for that n.a.z.i s.h.i.t like little kids. "See these markings on the grip? That's SS." "See these markings on the grip? That's SS."

"Like to look that over. But another time. Let's go," Shank said.

Chapter Forty-four.

Sheryl Mott sat in the idling Nissan and watched Gator and Shank march off down the trail, past this sign of a stick figure on cross-country skis. Wearing those white-and-black patterned outfits. Kinda blending in with the scenery and blowing snow. So here she was. Sitting in a stolen vehicle. The guy walking alongside her boyfriend was a murderer on his way to work. Nissan and watched Gator and Shank march off down the trail, past this sign of a stick figure on cross-country skis. Wearing those white-and-black patterned outfits. Kinda blending in with the scenery and blowing snow. So here she was. Sitting in a stolen vehicle. The guy walking alongside her boyfriend was a murderer on his way to work.

She looked again and they were gone, swallowed up in white.

Okay, they'd crept down the road to the green house with the tin roof and clocked it on the odometer-1.6 miles from the trail head. Hank made her write the number of the sign in the yard in ballpoint on her palm; the fire number, 629.

She cracked the windows, lit another Merit, and found herself thinking about the Las Vegas hooker's observation that guys resembled their d.i.c.ks. Shank, as near as she could remember, was white and bony, peeking out of a nest of wispy albino hair. And Gator, well, he had this st.u.r.dy handle. Get a good grip on him, and she felt she could move the world a little.

At least move a hundred pounds of ice. Fidgety, she extended her finger to the steamed windshield and traced "C10 H15 N" in the moisture, the chemical formula for methamphetamine...

Suddenly, like somebody had tapped the mute on a big remote, the wind stopped, the snow disappeared, and it was so quiet and still, she dialed the window all the way down. Leaned her head out, strained her ears to hear. How could pure silence be so...loud?

First she thought it was a radio playing, but the way the sound corkscrewed right down to the roots of the tiny hairs on the back of her neck told her, uh uh, that was f.u.c.king real real, man. That was wild animals howling out there in the woods.

Ice. Snow. Trees everywhere, and now wolves. This place could use a few Burger King signs. She shivered and hugged herself, turned up the heater. Think about something else. Belize...

Didn't work.

s.h.i.t, I hope we know what we're doing...

"What happened?" Shank looked around. One minute there was snow like a burst featherbed. Then nothing.

"Lull," Gator said. "Won't last long."

They trudged a few more steps, and Shank stopped again, head rotating around. "Hear that?"

"Yeah," Gator kept walking. "Deer must be moving."

"That ain't deer." Shank jogged to catch up.

Gator was starting to enjoy himself. The farther they got from a road, the more Shank, the heavy hitter, seemed to diminish in ferocity. Christ, they could see the lake through breaks in the trees. Houses.

"That ain't deer," Shank repeated.

"When a storm moves in, the deer do weird things. They can hunker down, or they can start moving. The deer move, the pack follows. Usually they stay farther north," Gator explained like a guide on a nature walk.

"Yeah, the wolves," Shank said. "Sheryl told me about that. They don't attack people, right?"

"I read about this wolf in India. Some kids killed her cubs, and she went into this village and took forty kids, right out of the houses. They found this big pile of bones in the den. I don't care what the tree huggers say. I wouldn't want to be lying out in the woods bleeding, know what I mean." Gator suddenly raised his hand. Stop. He pointed down the trail at a yellow No Trespa.s.sing sign. "We're there."

Shank checked his watch. "Not bad. Seventeen minutes." He reached in his smock and took out his cell phone.

"Wait, let's go in closer, so we can see the house," Gator said. More cautious now, they followed the narrow connecting trail through the trees. Gator raised his hand again. "Hear that?"

"Yeah." This clunky wood-on-metal sound.

"C'mon." Gator lowered his voice and made a downward pushing motion with his palm. Time to go quiet. They moved forward in a crouch. The trees opened more, and they saw the source of the noise. A hundred yards away, a man wearing a brown jacket and a black cap was piling wood in the back of a green Toyota Tundra next to a garage. The garage was attached to a cabin, the siding painted green. It had a rusted tin roof and a deck wrapped around the back.

They scurried a few steps closer and hunkered next to a thick patch of low spruce. Shank dug in his pocket, brought out a small pair of Zeiss binoculars, and eased the snow-laded boughs aside. Lensed the guy.

"No s.h.i.t, lookit," he whispered. "It's him him. Right f.u.c.kin' there." He pa.s.sed the binocs to Gator, who had a look and confirmed, "Yep, that's him."

"Right f.u.c.kin' there, like low-hanging fruit," Shank whispered. "It'd be easy, just walk up, say we're lost or something. Whattaya say?"

Gator worried his lower lip between his lip. Not the plan. You hadda stick to the plan. "I ain't supposed to be here when it-"

"Oh, s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t!" Shank moved up out of his crouch. The guy was getting in the truck, starting it. "He's driving away. Sonofab.i.t.c.h."

"Get down, be quiet, somebody could be in the house. What's the time?" Gator said.

Shank pushed up his sleeve and checked his watch. "Almost two-thirty."

"They only got the one truck. School's out in an hour. Maybe earlier, with the storm moving in." Gator thought about it, said, "He turned toward town, so he's probably going to drop off that wood where he works, then pick up his kid."

"How long?" Shank said.

"An hour, little longer."

Then like a giant white mare rolling over above them, the wind squashed down on the trees and set them to rattling. The silence erupted into snowflakes.

Gator seized Shank's shoulder and pointed with his other hand. "Check it out."

A woman dressed in an oatmeal gray sweat suit appeared on the driveway beyond the house, walking toward the road. She tucked a red ponytail into her cap, paused to look up at the sky, then up and down the road. Then she pulled on gloves and started running. At the end of the drive, she turned right and ran down the road, in the same direction the truck had taken. Shank followed her with the binoculars.

"b.i.t.c.h can run. She's really moving," he said, lowering the binocs. He turned to Gator. "Whattaya think?"

Gator looked up at the thickening snow. "This looks like the real thing. You up for hiking back to Sheryl, then coming back in while she takes me home?"

Shank glanced back toward the trail in the woods, then at the house.

Gator said, "You could go in the house, be waiting for them."

Shank shook his head. "Nah, too messy, people showing up piecemeal. I want them all together when I go in. But let's go have a look at the house, want an idea of the floor plan, the doors." He took out his cell, removed his glove, and made a call. When it connected, he said, "You hear me all right?"

"Yeah, it's starting to snow like h.e.l.l, what's up?" Sheryl said.

"We're going to check around a few minutes here, then Gator's coming back to the car. You run him home and get right back. Call me the minute you get back."

"How much time are we talking?" Sheryl said.

"n.o.body's home. We're all waiting. Maybe an hour and a half, tops."

"Okay," Sheryl said.

Shank ended the call, stood up, took out his pistol, and said, "Okay, this is it. Once you take off, I won't see you for a while. Then in a month or so, we'll get together in the Cities and talk some business."

"I'm for that," Gator said.

"But first, let's go have a quick look before the b.i.t.c.h gets back." Gator rose to his feet and removed the Luger from his f.a.n.n.y pack. Then he pulled his ski mask down, covering his face. Shank grinned and did the same. Guns at the ready, they jogged toward the house.

Chapter Forty-five.

Five minutes into her run, Nina was having doubts about being out in this weather. The wind doubled in velocity and tore through her cotton running suit and the flimsy silk-weight underlayer. The first tiny ice worms were forming in her eyebrow sweat. She could do ten miles in this stuff if she had to. Do it easily. But this was not a survival endurance test. She needed to unkink after cleaning the G.o.dd.a.m.n bathroom. Nina was having doubts about being out in this weather. The wind doubled in velocity and tore through her cotton running suit and the flimsy silk-weight underlayer. The first tiny ice worms were forming in her eyebrow sweat. She could do ten miles in this stuff if she had to. Do it easily. But this was not a survival endurance test. She needed to unkink after cleaning the G.o.dd.a.m.n bathroom.

Then, as if she needed more convincing this was not a good idea, she slightly turned her right ankle on a rock under the snow. She slowed and tested her weight. Not that bad, not even a strain. But she'd make it worse if she continued.

I give. Time out. The new sensible Nina.

She turned, pulled up her hood, plunged her gloved hands under her jacket, and walked back down the road toward the house. A few minutes later she was rounding a slight rising turn, about two hundred yards to go, thinking about her running course in Stillwater, up Myrtle Hill, out toward Matomedi. This time next week she'd be running up that hill. By then she'd have had her talk with Broker...

A different kind of cold gripped her chest. A twinge of panic antic.i.p.ating the conversation, telling him what he wanted to hear, after all these years. Admitting to the way she'd compromised her shoulder with the steroids. Jeez, thinking it was one thing. Actually doing it was- She took a deep freezing breath and constructed a box around the panic, tucked it away. Suddenly the box flew open...

Holy s.h.i.t!

A decade of conditioning and experience flung her off the road, rolling through the snow, scrambling in a fast low crawl to the cover of the trees.

Two of them. At the house? At the house?

As her mind protested the image, her reflexes pushed her forward, hugging the tree line; fifty, sixty yards to see better.

She rubbed her hand at the fine white squall, like she was trying to clear a windshield heaped with salt. Nothing out there now but the snow. House going in and out. Thought she saw one of them flattened against the side of the garage, like a lookout; the other testing the garage door. Black ski masks, winter camouflage tunics. She had 20/10 vision in both eyes. Those were pistols in their hands.

Gone now in the storm.