Homefront. Part 40

"We should call...," the kid started to say.

"No, we gotta hide you first. Get you outta here, someplace safe." She turned, dashed back to the car, leaned in, and punched the trunk release. Saw the bottle of spring water in the dashboard caddy, plucked it up, and hurried back. "Here, drink this, it'll help calm you down." She thrust the plastic bottle into the kid's gloved hand. "Don't cry now."

The kid bunched her forehead, blew a strand of loose hair from her face with a fierce huff, and said, "I'm not crying crying."

"Okay, right." Firmly, Sheryl gripped the shoulder of her jacket and walked her around to the back of the car. The kid started to resist. "Look, you said a guy with a gun. We gotta get you outta here. If he sees you in the car with me, he'll be after me too. So you gonna hide in here." Sheryl lifted the trunk lid.

"No way," the kid said. She threw the bottle of water at Sheryl's feet and started to back away.

"Sorry," Sheryl said, pitching forward, throwing her arms around the kid, hauling her up, and falling forward with her over the edge of the trunk. s.h.i.t, the kid was strong. "This will be easier if-"

Then the kid punched her in the forehead with a soggy wet-gloved fist and almost staggered her.

"f.u.c.k this," Sheryl grunted and pounded the kid right back, stunning her enough to stuff her arms and legs free of the lid and slam it shut. As the kid's feet beat a hollow tattoo on the inside of the trunk Sheryl ran back, yanked open the door, leaned on the horn. Listened to it echo into the still trees.

Tried yelling again, "Shank, Shank, over here!" into the gathering darkness. Wait a minute. Think. What if the person who'd been shot was still alive, was on the phone, calling the cops? Who's they they?

Not the time to be jumping up and down yelling.

Sheryl jumped back into the car, turned on the dome light, and checked her face in the rearview, to see if she showed any damage where the kid punched her. Seeing none, if you didn't count the panic in her eyes, she drew her hand across her forehead, straightening her hair, and then, for one long second, she looked up and down the road. Reached for her cell, checked her slip of paper, and punched in Shank's number, listened to it ring. Got the f.u.c.king voice mail of the person the phone had been stolen from. Oh, great. She dropped the phone, put the car in gear, and drove slowly, scanning the trees to the left. Stopped, waited a minute. Nothing. C'mon. Where are you?

Then she crept farther down the road, right to the edge of the open lot next to the green cabin. She began to shudder. The shaking started in her belly and worked up into her arms and her throat. If she'd learned one thing living her life, it was not to hang around the scene of a shooting.

Then she picked up a flare of lights up the road. She killed the headlights, really shaking now as she saw the red vehicle sitting in the driveway of the target house. Two people. Running toward the house.

That's it. Sorry, Shank, but it looks like every man for himself.

Lights off, keeping her eyes straight ahead, not even looking off the road when she drove past the driveway to the green cabin. When she rounded the turn past the house, she switched the lights back on, accelerated, and reached for her cell and punched in the second number on the slip of paper.

Chapter Fifty.

Keith Nygard sat at his desk in the sheriff 's office in the corner off the courthouse, chewing a toothpick, his eyes drifting between reading an accident report and frowning at the snow on spin cycle in his window. He heard a knock on the doorjamb. Looked up. Saw Gator Bodine standing in the doorway. He looked different. in the sheriff 's office in the corner off the courthouse, chewing a toothpick, his eyes drifting between reading an accident report and frowning at the snow on spin cycle in his window. He heard a knock on the doorjamb. Looked up. Saw Gator Bodine standing in the doorway. He looked different.

"Hey, Gator; you look different," Keith said.

Gator shrugged, brushed his knuckles along his cheek. "Just treated myself to a shave and a haircut at Irv's."

"What's the occasion?" Keith put the report aside.

"Barnie called me from Bemidji. Just sold that old 1918 Case Model 918, the one with the big steel wheels." Gator shrugged. "What the h.e.l.l, thought I'd take a break, maybe go to the Anglers, have a sit-down meal."

"What'd you get for it?" Keith asked.

"After Barnie's commission, I should see about eighteen thousand."

"No kidding. I'm in the wrong racket. Grab a seat." Keith indicated one of the chairs in front of his desk.

Gator lowered himself in the chair. "Ah, reason I'm here-besides dropping in to see Mitch, down the hall"-Gator always visited his parole officer when he sold a tractor, offered to buy him a beer; Mitch always grinned and just shook his head-"is, ah..." Gator cast his eyes around.

Keith nodded, got up, walked over, and shut the door. Resumed his seat.

"Reason is, I ran Terry Nelson's kid out of the old Tindall place the other night. He had all the ingredients. But he's pretty far gone. Had him an electric hot plate for a heat source. Check this, when I caught him, he was wandering around looking for someplace to plug it in. So, like that."

Keith shook his head. "Jimmy Racc.o.o.n Eyes. Christ, has that kid gone south fast. Can't believe he used to run the hurdles. He graduated high school just two years ago. Hot plate, huh? Christ. The electric's been off in that place for years."

"Uh-huh. So I ha.s.sled him some. Came up with some names." Gator withdrew a folded sheet of ruled paper from his jacket pocket, slid it across the table. "One of them's in high school. A senior named Danny Halstad. They been out at Tindall's cooking on a propane stove."

"How much?"

Gator shrugged. "Strictly their own use. A gram maybe. But if they keep it up, others will copy them."

"Okay." Keith slid the folded sheet across his desk and dropped it in his drawer. "What about the Mexicans?"

"They're keeping to themselves. Stay in that trailer on the building site. I think they got the message after you popped those guys."

Keith grinned. "You know, you got a flare for this snitching sideline."

Gator flashed on Shank's parting words: What do we do with snitches? What do we do with snitches? "That ain't a term I like, Keith," Gator said evenly, but keeping his voice suitable humble. "That ain't a term I like, Keith," Gator said evenly, but keeping his voice suitable humble.

"Yeah, well, you dumb f.u.c.k. You did it to yourself."

After letting an appropriate amount of time pa.s.s, Gator asked, "So what about that thing we talked about?"

"Forget it. You ain't gonna get your hunting rights restored, I don't care how many meth labs you help me bust. We'd need a pardon from the governor. And that just ain't gonna happen anytime soon. I checked with Terry"-Terry Magnason was the county attorney-"you should be happy with the local deal we worked with Mitch and Joey"-Joe Mitch.e.l.l was the county game warden-"long as you hunt, quiet like, in the Washichu you can have your venison. You try going outside the county, even south of Z, Joe will stuff a walleye up your a.s.s. End of story."

Gator accepted the lecture pa.s.sively. It didn't really bother him anymore the way Keith harped on it-like he was mourning their high school friendship, like Gator had personally disappointed him or something. He glanced at the clock on the wall next to a mounted ten-point buck: 4:06. Then he stood up.

"Angler's, huh," Keith said, glancing at the snow boiling outside his office windows. "Watch it on the road going home. This could be a bad one. Howie's out on a three-car pileup on Two."

"You got a point," Gator said. "Maybe I'll drop in on Jimmy out at the garage. Looks bad, I'll stay over."

Keith nodded. "Good plan. You talk to Jimmy much lately?"

"Not really. Ca.s.sie called me few days back, whining about Teddy getting in a fight at school. Total bulls.h.i.t."

"Yeah, Jimmy and the other kid's father went round and round. I had to get involved. Guess it did some good. Ca.s.sie called me, too, told me she got together with the kid's mother and they worked it out."

"Whatever," Gator said.

"Yeah, well. Congratulations on selling the Case."

Gator waved, turned, and left the office, walked down the hall, and nodded to Ginny Borck, who'd been two years ahead of him in high school and who now sat in a county uniform behind the dispatch desk with its bank of new radios and computers.

Strolling. He was strolling. Should be whistling. He went out on the street, turned up his collar, and strolled to his truck.

A few minutes later he was easing through the snow, approaching the Angler's, when the secure stolen cell phone rang. Relaxed, feeling complicit with fortune, he punched answer.

Sheryl's voice jumped at him; desperate, yelling, practically screaming: "We got a problem!" "We got a problem!"

Chapter Fifty-one.

Broker braked the Jeep halfway up the drive in a four-wheel drift, left it idling. They were out, running toward the house. Ten yards out, seeing the garage side door open, Nina took the lead. Then she sidestepped and pointed down with her left hand while she held the Colt ready with the other. up the drive in a four-wheel drift, left it idling. They were out, running toward the house. Ten yards out, seeing the garage side door open, Nina took the lead. Then she sidestepped and pointed down with her left hand while she held the Colt ready with the other.

Broker nodded, going numb. He saw the blood crystallizing, freezing in the snow outside the door, a lot of it. Then he saw the tracks. The bas.e.m.e.nt window hanging open. Looked up. Nina was in. Started after her. She met him at the door to the kitchen. "Don't come in here," she said, looking him dead serious in the eye.

"Kit?" His knees buckled, then he recovered and surged past her. Saw Griffin sprawled on the floor next to the Roberts. Saw the AR-15 on the floor behind the body. Had a magazine in it. The operating handle angled back loose.

"I told you not to come in," Nina said. "Stay here." She darted away. He heard her dash up the stairs, rummage though the upstairs, come back down the stairs. Doing something in the living room.

"Kit?" he shouted.

"Not here." Nina reappeared, handed him the .12 gauge, a box full of sh.e.l.ls.

"Bas.e.m.e.nt," Broker said, pointing to the b.l.o.o.d.y steps as he jammed sh.e.l.ls in the shotgun and racked the slide. Then old reflex kicked in. "Don't touch anything." He stuffed more sh.e.l.ls in his pocket. "I'll be outside."

Nina skipped down the stairwell, avoiding the b.l.o.o.d.y steps. Broker turned toward Griffin. Do something. Shut his eyes Do something. Shut his eyes. Shook it off. Totally on automatic. Don't touch anything. Don't think Don't touch anything. Don't think.

"Not here," Nina yelled.

"I'm outside," Broker yelled, going back out the garage. When Nina came out, he pointed to the tracks leading off across the lawn. "She got out the bas.e.m.e.nt window. Those are her boots. The shooter's following her. Let's go." Then he froze, and his voice failed as it hit him. He swallowed to clear the roar in his ears. Through the explosions of their crystallized breath, he said, "He loaded the AR, Nina. I left him with a piece that didn't work..."

She pounded him hard on the chest. "Do your job! He did!" she shouted in that fierce voice, indicating the blood trail. "Now you do yours!"

They moved off in unison, running on either side of the tracks leading across the field. As he ran, Broker tore out his cell and punched 911.

"Nine-one-one, is this an emergency?" the dispatcher answered.

"This is Phil Broker. Fire number 629, on the lake. Harry Griffin is dead, shot by an intruder in my house. My eight-year-old daughter is missing. Put me through to Keith Nygard."

"Stay on this connection."

"Get Keith!" Broker shouted.

"Stay on the connection," the dispatcher repeated.

They were approaching the tree line. Nina shouted over her shoulder, "Griffin hit him hard. All this blood. This guy ain't going far."

They ducked into the trees. The dispatcher came back. "h.e.l.lo?"

"Keith?"

"He's already in his car, on the way," the dispatcher said. "We're starting EMT..."

"Start everything everything!" Broker yelled.

"Calm down. We're sending all we got. Now, Keith wants you to end this call. He has your number off our system. He'll call you back on your cell. Do you copy?"

"Copy." Broker ended the call, ran holding the cell phone up in his left hand, the shotgun like a dueling pistol in the other. They were moving fast, staying wide of the meandering b.l.o.o.d.y trail, with an eye for taking advantage of potential cover, aware that the bleeder at the end of these tracks was armed, had killed.

"Broker...," Nina called out, a ragged edge to her voice. He saw what she was pointing at. More tracks, animal tracks, a lot of them. Too big for coyotes. When he looked up, he saw Nina sprinting ahead, arms pumping, charging headlong.

Broker tried to keep up, felt something, looked up, and swore, "s.h.i.t!" Not only were they losing light, but the top tier of the trees shivered and bent. Then the snow went off in his face like a white phosphorus round. Blinding.

Heard Nina's m.u.f.fled scream. "I saw them. They ran. I can't tell...is it..." He ran forward to the sound of her voice. Found her dancing back and forth, peering down at...Oh, no. Without hesitating, he stepped forward, kneeling in it, checking the gristle of the face, clenched teeth showing two inches of bone top and bottom, the nose and lips chewed away. Without hesitating, he stepped forward, kneeling in it, checking the gristle of the face, clenched teeth showing two inches of bone top and bottom, the nose and lips chewed away.

Stood up, shook his head. "It's the shooter. Griffin got him. C'mon," he yelled, grabbing her as he went by. Dragging her away from the partially devoured corpse. His heart pounded hot as he pushed her forward. "See, look, look! There's her tracks. They keep going...leave that that for the sheriff," he panted. Then he realized that Nina was crying, the tears freezing on her cheeks, yelling sweetly, "Harry!" over and over as she ran. Suddenly she stopped, raising her free hand cupped, like she was trying to hear. for the sheriff," he panted. Then he realized that Nina was crying, the tears freezing on her cheeks, yelling sweetly, "Harry!" over and over as she ran. Suddenly she stopped, raising her free hand cupped, like she was trying to hear.

"What?" he yelled.

"Phone," she yelled.

Christ, the phone was ringing in his hand. He fumbled with freezing fingers; neither of them were wearing gloves. Hit answer. Heard Nygard yelling: "Broker, it's Nygard. Where the h.e.l.l are you, man?"

There was a jagged adrenaline surge to Nygard's voice, but also a touch of deference. "Not sure," Broker stopped, looking around, trying to get his bearings. "Somewhere north of the house, in the woods between the lake and the road. Where are you?"

"At the foot of your drive. Tell me quick," Nygard said.

"We followed a blood trail from the house and found a body. Griffin fought..." His voice failed.

"Broker, you still there?"

Now stronger. "Griffin got the guy, he was following my kid, judging by the tracks, and he bled out."

"Where's your daughter?"

"In the woods, still running, We're on her tracks, but the snow..." Broker stumbled. Nina was dragging him by the arm, trying to stay on the fading tracks.

"I'm out of the car. I'm coming in," Nygard said.

"No. Give me lights and flashers north along the road. Maybe we can pick you up, talk you in. We need a search party in here."

"On my way. Stay on the phone."

Almost immediately they spotted the blue-red slap of lights blooming faintly through the ghostly swirl of trees and white.

"Good girl. Good girl," Nina yelled, pulling on Broker's arm. "Look. See. She'd headed toward the road...the lights..."