Homefront. Part 6

He started. Jesus! Jesus!

Not her face, which he could see now and which was not half bad as far as he could see, eyes still clamped shut in troubled sleep. s.h.i.t, no, it was the faded type printed across the front of shirt, like a sweat-soaked pennant stretched between the mounds of her t.i.ts: EAST M METRO D DRUG T TASK F FORCE.

Sonofab.i.t.c.h! What have we got here?

Gator reeled as his mind tacked out, going from zero to sixty in a second flat. Had to concentrate to keep his balance. He backed quietly from the room, rocked by a weird hilarity that alternated with a pure spooky sensation. In the hall his eyes traveled over the kid's bed, and he had an inspiration. Riding the impulse, he entered the room and plucked a worn blue-and-white-striped bunny from among the toys tucked into the fold of the bed. Then he hurried down the stairs, wanting to get out fast...but couldn't resist shuffling through the paperwork on the desk next to the kitchen door.

A Visa statement...his eyes stopped, reversed.

Drawn on a bank in Hong Kong? What the h.e.l.l-$10,000 cash advance. Credit limit a hundred thou? He looked up at the sheet of paper on the fax that had printed out a log of calls. Devil's Rock, Minnesota. Stillwater. St. Paul.

Fort Bragg, North Carolina?

Huh?

He rifled through the envelopes, and a return address jumped out: Washington County Sheriff 's Office.

Whoa, what's this? He opened the envelope and took out the top of a pay voucher. A handwritten note bearing the letterhead of John Eisenhower, Sheriff, was clipped to the form.

Broker,Here's the balance of the Special Projects money. Sorry as usual it took so long. I could only swing a few hundred to help defray the cost of your truck getting wrecked on the Saint thing. I heard your insurance didn't cover it. I'd look into suing that nutcase Cantrell. He finally resigned the county. insurance didn't cover it. I'd look into suing that nutcase Cantrell. He finally resigned the county.Hope all is well with Nina and Kit.Best, John Gator looked around, bouncing, giddy-d.a.m.n Ca.s.sie, well no s.h.i.t! They don't fit. Gonna put something extra in your stocking.... They don't fit. Gonna put something extra in your stocking....

Some kind of cop.

He listened carefully and decided he could chance only a few more minutes. But this was too good to pa.s.s up. It only took a few seconds to figure out the fax's copying function. Okay. He smoothed out the Visa statement and the pay voucher and aligned them into the feeder. Hit copy. The machine grumbled, and seconds seemed like an eternity until-Yes!-they printed out. Then he took the note, copied that. He rolled the sheets of paper carefully and inserted them into the wide webbed inner pocket of his jacket.

You should really get the h.e.l.l out of here.

But now he was staring at the stack of boxes. On impulse he reached into the top one, s.n.a.t.c.hed a manila folder at random, and stuffed it under his jacket.

Enjoying himself immensely, clutching the bunny comically with both hands to his chest, he cakewalked through the kitchen, having some fun but making sure he wasn't leaving any trace. He didn't worry too much. The floor was dotted with pools of melting snow that the guy and the kid must have left going in and out.

Going past the sink he paused, tucked the bunny in his jacket, and selected a brown glazed bowl from the countertop. Somebody just had some tomato soup. He slipped out the door, down the porch, and crossed to the truck. Knelt, listened. Quickly he fingered the ice pick from his pack, felt the deep tread on the left rear tire. New. Blizzak. Good snow tire.

He thrust the pick deep into a crevice of tread, heard a whoosh of rubbery air escaping. Up quick, skirting around the garage, where he stopped and set down the bowl next to the doghouse. Carefully, he slung off his pack, opened it, withdrew the Ziploc, and dumped the meat and antifreeze into the bowl. Tucked the bag back in the pack.

Dog or not, if this guy had half a brain, he'd get the message.

Then he caught Christmas-tree colors in the pines, moving red and green. A second later he heard their breathless chatter, coming in fast.

s.h.i.t! They didn't ski the whole loop.

Gator ducked along the side of the garage, keeping it between him and the trail, slipped around the front, hurried in through the front door. Christ, if the wife was up and looking out the living room window, she could see...

The voices, louder now.

Looked around fast. Found a cranny in the corner behind a table stacked with boxes, backed into it, and squatted in the dark as the back door opened.

Oh, s.h.i.t, oh s.h.i.t! They were right there. Seeing the steam from their breath rising in the half-light over the top of the boxes, he pulled the mask up over his mouth. Clatter of skis, c'mon. C'mon. Go inside.

Then the guy, Broker, told the kid to shovel the back deck. Not good. Then he went through the door that attached to the kitchen, leaving the G.o.dd.a.m.n kid out back sc.r.a.ping at the snow on the back porch. Gator didn't want to chance heading out the front-too open, and his stuff was back in the woods.

Sonofab.i.t.c.h. He got up to a crouch, listening hard. Had a chance heading out the front. Gotta go now. He left his cover, starting to head for...

Jesus Christ. The kitchen door opened, throwing an oblong splash of yellow light across the floor and far wall.

Gator scurried back to his hiding nook. Now what?

He listened as he heard Broker move to the back of the garage, go outside, talk to the kid. Then the soft sc.r.a.pe of his slippered feet went back into the house. The door closed. Something. A tinkle. A bell. Hey, kitty. Why not. A souvenir. Moving swiftly, Gator tiptoed from hiding, did a little dance to cut the cat off, and s.n.a.t.c.hed it up, carefully easing it into the deep side pocket of his hunting parka. Zipped it down, leaving a little opening so it could breathe.

He froze in place for another minute until he heard the shovel stop sc.r.a.ping. Heard the kid tramp across the back deck, go in through the patio door to the kitchen.

Finally.

On the way out he grabbed one of the short ski poles from the stack along the wall. He stepped out onto the deck, flattened himself against the outer wall of the garage. Looked up. Wonderful. Stuck out his tongue, let a snowflake melt on it. The snow started driving down. h.e.l.l, in minutes it would obliterate his faint tracks on the deck. Like he was never here. He slipped over the deck rail and, keeping the garage between him and the lights of the kitchen, headed for the tree line. Once he got into the woods, he could work his way back to the trail. Get his skis and gear.

Wow. What a kick.

Chapter Ten.

After stowing the skis in the garage, Broker told Kit to shovel off the back deck and think about what happened today at school. Then he took off his ski boots and went into the kitchen. He heard a fast h.e.l.l's-bells jingle too late-s.h.i.t-and tripped, almost losing his balance as the demon kitten ran a crazy zigzag between his stocking feet. in the garage, Broker told Kit to shovel off the back deck and think about what happened today at school. Then he took off his ski boots and went into the kitchen. He heard a fast h.e.l.l's-bells jingle too late-s.h.i.t-and tripped, almost losing his balance as the demon kitten ran a crazy zigzag between his stocking feet.

Cursed under his breath. "G.o.dd.a.m.n cat."

Griffin had brought the kitten as a housewarming present for Kit after they moved in. By the third day it was in the house, with Nina keeping the TV on, Kit had named the cat Ditech. It was everywhere underfoot, like the mortgage commercials.

Broker put on the slippers that were by the door, leaned down, swept up the handful of black fur, opened the door to the garage. Carrying the cat, he went to the back door, opened it, and spoke to Kit.

"When you're finished, come in though the patio door. Keep this door closed. I'm putting the cat in the garage while I cook dinner."

"She's just a kitten-it's cold out here," Kit protested.

Broker lifted the cat by the scruff of her neck. "It's an insulated garage, and this black stuff she's made out of is fur. Just till after we eat. Now, you shovel." He closed the door, put the kitty down, and went back into the kitchen.

Broker finished thawing the meat in the microwave, then sliced it in long strips, poured some canola oil into his big stewpot, started the burner, and added the venison. As the meat browned, he sliced onions, mushrooms, and green peppers, added them to the pot, and started uns.c.r.e.w.i.n.g four jars of Paul Newman pasta sauce. He raised one of the jars and eyed the contents for carbs and sugar. Hmmm. The late Dr. Atkins would probably not approve of the high-fructose corn syrup.

Kit came in, took off her coat, boots, and gloves, and went upstairs.

Broker c.o.c.ked his head when he heard the pipes in the wall of the downstairs bath rattle. Good. Nina was in the shower. He'd wait till she was done before he started the dishwasher. As he was wiping down the island, he looked up and saw Kit standing in the kitchen doorway.

"Mom's taking a shower," she said.

"Yep."

"I'll pick out some clothes for her to wear."

"Hey, that's good, honey."

Up on tiptoe, peering at the pot. "Ah, what's cooking?"

"Spaga," Broker said, using her baby word for his venison spaghetti.

She grinned, turned, and ran up the stairs.

Kit in motion: this house they rented from Uncle Harry was small, half the size of their home up in Devil's Rock. But Mom didn't want Kit going to school in the woods, so they'd moved into the Stillwater apartment. Then Mom got sick, and they were back in the woods again. Because people here didn't know her up and couldn't tell that she was different now. Just for a while, Dad said, until Mom's arm got better. When her arm was better, the rest of her would be better too.

Kit was used to her mom being real strong, bossing whole platoons and companies in Italy, so sometimes it scared her, seeing the way she wandered around smoking cigarettes in her pajamas and robe all day. Most of the other kids at school had their moms coming in, picking them up, talking to the teachers. Helping out. With her it was always her dad. And he never came in, just waited out in the truck.

Kit went into the closet next to the room where Mom slept and dug through some boxes. Up on tiptoe, she searched through some clothes on hangers, picked a few, then came back into her room and plopped them on her bed. Then she opened the door to the bathroom. Mom was standing at the sink, drying herself with a towel. She put the towel aside, opened the cabinet over the sink, and took out a jar of skin cream, removed the top, and dabbed some on her face.

That was a good sign.

Fresh from the shower, wreathed in steam, Mom had some color to her face. Mom was smoother now. She used to be too thin, laced tight with dents and veins. Could see the muscles sliding back and forth under her skin when she moved. Now she was filled out all around. Still sort of skinny, but not the way she used to be skinny. Kit understood she was not like other moms; but, of course, Kit hadn't seen other moms naked in the bathroom.

Nina Pryce peered into the steamy bathroom mirror. At thirty-six she still looked fit, for a civilian.Five-nine. One hundred and forty-five pounds. She'd gained ten pounds on the disabled list. She was getting b.r.e.a.s.t.s, a suggestion of fullness creeping into her hips and rear end.Curves, for Christ's sake.The nagging thought: did Broker like her this way; ripening like a pear...?Dependent on him.

A lot of moms were in shape. Gym-rat skinny, Dad called it. But not like Mom used to be. For instance, other moms didn't have the kinda purple gouge in their left hip and a bigger glob of purple scar on their b.u.t.t. Where the E-ra-kee shot her during the war in the desert, the war before the one that was on TV now. The one before Kit was born. Didn't have a big grinning skull-and-crossbones tattoo on their right shoulder.

Kit entered the bathroom cautiously, feeling her way into her mother's mood. In a general way she understood that Mom wouldn't get on her about the fight at school. She knew Mom didn't have the strength for that right now.

"It's okay, Little Bit," Nina said, turned her warm green eyes on Kit, smiling in real life.

Kit brightened and smiled back. Mom only called her "Little Bit" when she was feeling pretty good. Auntie Jane had called her Little Bit. And Mom's smile was only a little bit sad.

"So what's this boy like, you got in the fight with?" Nina asked.

Kit made a face. "He's a bully. He swears more than all the other kids put together. He knows the F word."

"Hmmmm," Nina mulled.

Kit tilted her head. "Can I say...h.e.l.l?"

"Okaayy..." Nina drew it out, curious.

"h.e.l.l is a swear word. But no one says, 'The H word.' Why is that? And what's the big deal about the F word?"

Nina fingered a snag in her hair and studied her daughter. "What do you think it means?"

"Don't know. But it's cool, because the older kids say it a lot."

Nina put down the comb, wrapped a towel around her middle, came into the room, and sat on the bed. "Well, it's complicated," she said.

"That don't sound like an answer. Sounds like another question," Kit said.

"I don't think you're ready for this. You sure you really want to know?" Nina asked.

"I want to know," Kit said, furrowing her forehead, attentive.

Nina scrunched her lips meditatively, "Okay. It's like this. The F word is initials. Like your name: Karson Pryce Broker. The initials are K.P.B.-"

"Yeah," Kit said.

"The F word is the same way. F.U.C.K. means 'For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge.'"

"I don't get it," Kit said.

"It's about...s.e.x."

Kit shook her head.

"Okay. s.e.x is a way of talking about making babies. Remember our talk about how Daddy and I made you?"

Kit's face contorted, recalling the description of Dad's t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es being full of swimmy things that swam out his p.e.n.i.s into Mom's v.a.g.i.n.a, hunting for this egg. She had looked at her father funny for a month after that.

"Mom, that's gross."

Nina nodded. "And so is the F word for someone your age."

"I'm going to change the subject," Kit said.

"Fine," Nina said.

"Can we play the game?" Kit asks.

Nina smiled. "Okay."

Days when Mom was feeling better, like now, she'd let Kit play dress-up on her, like she was a special doll. Something she would never have done last year in Italy. Kit would parade the clothes she'd selected. But first she'd comb Mom's hair.

"I like it you're letting your hair grow," Kit said, gently drawing the comb through her mother's hair, ratting out the snags.

Broker stood at the foot of the stairs and listened to the muted girl talk drifting down from Kit's bedroom on a mist of hot water and body lotion. He smiled and sagged a little with relief, hearing the normal chatter. More and more there were these tiny healing moments, cutting back the bleak days.

He went back into the kitchen, where steam from the boiling kettle of pasta water had fogged the windows. When his girls came down for dinner, he saw that Kit had talked Nina into an artifact of her student days at the University of Michigan, this ancient flowing green jabala jabala with threadbare gold embroidery. She had applied lipstick, dots of rouge, and streaked eyeshadow. Nina's red hair, for years shorn mob-cap short, had grown to an ambiguous length two inches off her shoulders. Kit had pinned it with barrettes at odd angles. A single crude braid dangled from the left side of her forehead. with threadbare gold embroidery. She had applied lipstick, dots of rouge, and streaked eyeshadow. Nina's red hair, for years shorn mob-cap short, had grown to an ambiguous length two inches off her shoulders. Kit had pinned it with barrettes at odd angles. A single crude braid dangled from the left side of her forehead.

Nina managed a wry smile and rolled her eyes. Kit led her by the hand, pleased with her efforts.

Broker encouraged, smiled back. "All right, looking good. Kit, go wash your hands." He placed a salad bowl on the set table, returned to the stove, thrust a ladle into the churning kettle, plucked a strand of pasta, took it in his fingers, and tossed it against the maple cabinet next to the stove, where it stuck in a curlicue.