Killshot

21

“I JUST WALKED IN THE DOOR.”

“How was it? You have any trouble?” “It wasn’t bad. When did you get there?” “Four a.m. I got up at seven, had a shower. At

the moment I’m having some ice cream. Butter

scotch ripple.” “Are we a little hung over?” “You took the aspirin with you. That was a

cruel thing to do, you know it?” “Wayne, why don’t you leave as soon as you

can. In case Ferris stops by.” “He already has. He’s here right now.” “You mean he’s right there, in the kitchen?” “No, in the bathroom. I think his jaw’s broken,”

Wayne said and told her about it. Carmen listened. She said, “Wayne, you better

get out of there, now.” “Soon as I clean out the refrigerator.” As he said it, and told her he didn’t see a prob

lem, he’d ask Ferris if he wanted him to call Emergency Medical or the cops, Carmen was aware of a humming sound, familiar, one she was used to, and turned from the sink to look at the refrigerator. The door was closed and it was running. Wayne was telling her now he planned to keep his foot on the gas all the way and try to make it in ten and a half hours, set a new Cape to Algonac speed record.

“We turned off the refrigerator,” Carmen said, “didn’t we? I mean the one here.”

“We shut everything off but the phone.”

“Well, somebody turned it on.” She paused, listening. “Wayne, I think the furnace is going.”

“Check the thermostat.”

“I can feel it. It’s warm in here.”

“Maybe Nelson had the house open, trying to sell it. I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“Maybe,” Carmen said, looking across the kitchen to what had been a pantry and now was Wayne’s closet, where he kept his hunting and fishing gear, stacks of outdoor magazines. She listened to him speculate, Nelson gets an offer and the next thing they know he’s trying to sell them a two-bedroom over at Wildwood, your choice of decorator colors. The shotgun must be in there, in Wayne’s closet. It had to be, they didn’t take it with them. The closet would be locked and the key was on the ring with the rest of his keys, in her purse.

“Call your buddy Nelson and ask him.”

She’d get the shotgun out and put it by the door. It startled her, all of a sudden remembering the two guys.

“Carmen?”

“I will. I have to call Mom first.”

“You gonna be home when I get there?”

“I’ll see how she is.”

“Get her permission.”

“If I can leave her, I will. Okay? That’s the best I can do.”

“You get pissed off at Mommy and lay into me.”

“I’m tired,” Carmen said.

“Call the State Police, that detective, whatever his name is. Tell him you’re home.”

“I will. Hurry, okay?”

“I’ll see you about six, six-thirty. We’ll probably need a few things, huh, some beer?”

“It’s weird,” Carmen said, looking around the kitchen. She saw the oven door open a few inches.

“What is?”

“I don’t know—the feeling. I walked in, it wasn’t like coming back to a house that’s been closed up.”

“It’s only been a week but seems longer, that’s all. Call Nelson.”

“I will.”

“And that cop.”

“I’ll see you,” Carmen said. Hesitated a moment and said, “Wayne? I’ll be here.” She pushed the button to disconnect, dialed her mother’s number,

waited and was surprised to hear:

“Hello?” The tone almost pleasant.

“Mom? Did you know it was me?”

“I prayed it was. I’ve been worried sick.”

“I’m home. How are you?”

“Well, I’m walking now. The pain is still something awful, but at least I’m on my feet. When’re you coming over?”

“You sound much better.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“I could stop by later, for a while anyway. Wayne’ll be home this evening and I want to have his dinner ready.”

“I haven’t seen you in so long . . .”

“Do you need anything at the store?”

“I’ll have to think, I’m so used to looking out for myself,” her mom said. “Well, I could use a bottle of Clairol Loving Care. The light ash blonde, number seventy-one.”

“Anything else?”

“Oh—I got the report from Annoyance Call. There was a whole bunch of calls from where you were, three- one-four. There was one from Algonac, your house, and three from public phones. One Marine City and two Port Huron that must’ve been the hang-ups. That’s what they do, call from a pay phone so they don’t get traced, they’re slick articles.”

“I didn’t know you were having trouble.”

“I told you the day you had your phone put in, and you called? I was gonna see if a trap would catch him.”

“You must’ve had it done before we left.”

“It was right after, I know, because I was worried sick I hadn’t heard from you.”

Carmen said, “And one of the calls was from this house?”

“It’s your number on the list.”

“But we weren’t here, Mom.”

Her mother said, “Well, somebody was.” She said, “How’s your weather down there?”

Thirty miles away. Carmen wanted to hang up and walk out of the house—the weather was all right, it was weather, about 50 out, overcast, quite windy—walk all the way around the outside of the house and look at it good—her mom saying it was 52 degrees in Port Huron—look in the windows and find out for sure, was this her house? It looked like it, everything was in the right place, but it didn’t feel like her house, someone had been here and touched things. Everything wasn’t in the right place, the phone book and note pad she kept in a drawer were on the counter. Someone had been here and left a smell, the kitchen smelled, someone had been cooking, used the oven she never left open like that, plugged in the refrigerator humming away, what else? Looking around now—her mom asking what time she was coming—Carmen telling her she didn’t know offhand, she had to shop (think of something), she had to get a tire fixed, and heard a sound from somewhere in the house, hard, clear, a metal-hitting-metal sound. Carmen told herself it was a radiator clanging, hot air banging in a pipe, and told her mom she’d be there around noon, bye, I missed you too, Mom, yeah, okay, see you in a little while, bye. And hung up. She moved to the range, stooped to push the oven door open and looked inside. Three wedges of cold pizza and a few crusts lay on a cookie sheet. She could smell them. Carmen straightened, closing the oven, turned to the refrigerator and jumped, sucking in her breath.

Richie said, “How’s Mom doing?”

He stood in the doorway to the dining room wearing an ironworker’s jacket, Wayne’s old one, and sunglasses, holding a shotgun across his arm.

Now the other one appeared, coming into the kitchen past Richie Nix, also with a shotgun but holding it at his side, pointed down. Armand Degas, wearing the same dark suit he’d worn that day at the real estate office. He said