Car keys, a wallet, some crumpled bills, change. A pipe for smoking meth wrapped in a red bandanna. Gator noted that the pipe and the scarf were the only items that came out of the pockets that appeared tidy and well cared for. Reluctantly the kid let a folding buck knife fall.
“Kick the knife toward me.” The knife skittered across the floor. “Now turn around, approach the wall, and get on your knees.”
“You gotta identify yourself,” the kid said uncertainly as he turned around. “Can’t just-”
Gator took a step forward and swung the pipe, slamming it in a short, powerful arc into the back of the kid’s right thigh just above the inner knee.
“Ow, shit.” He crumpled to his knees.
“Belly up against the wall, motherfucker!”
“Okay, okay, goddamn-” The kid scooted on his knees and hugged the wallpaper, digging his fingers into it. He was gasping, no, sobbing.
What a pussy. “Now, put your arms straight back, palms up. Do it!”
“Am I under arrest?” He extended his arms, hands shaking.
Gator tested an old chair, decided it would hold his weight, and sat down. “Name?”
“If you’re a cop, you gotta identify yourself, don’t you?”
“I don’t see any cops. You see any cops?” Gator said amiably. “Just you and me. Nobody else for miles.”
“Oh, shit. It’s you.” The kid’s voice began to shake. He cast a furtive look over his shoulder, trying to make out the dark shape behind the bright multiple halogen bulbs.
“Turn around. Keep your hands straight back. Now, what’s your name?”
After a long moment the kid said, “Terry Nelson.”
“Any relation to Cal Nelson?”
“My dad.”
“Cal was a year ahead of me in school. He still work for the power company?”
“Yeah.”
“He know you’re into this shit?” Gator aimed a kick at a can of paint thinner, sent it crashing across the floor into the wall.
“Aw shit; it
“I asked you a question.”
“My dad and me ain’t talked much lately.” From trembling lips, Terry’s voice sounded lost, confused. Like a child’s.
Gator let him build up his shakes for almost a minute, then he said, “Okay, kid, since I knew your old man I’m gonna give you a break. So turn around and sit down.” He’d been through this routine with local kids four or five times in the last year. He really enjoyed this part; first he’d jack ’em up, then let them down a notch on the hook. He extended the pack of Camel Reds. “You want a cigarette?” Uncle Gator.
Terry took a cigarette from the pack with shaking fingers, leaned forward, and accepted a light. He puffed and huddled, drawing up his knees, wrapping his arms around them.
“You got a problem, Terry,” Gator said.
“I wasn’t gonna sell it. I just needed a little for-”
“I mean the hot plate, dummy. You’re not thinking too clearly, are you? What the hell were you planning to plug it in to? Power’s been off here for years. Shit, your dad probably shut down the line.”
Terry puffed nervously, his face twitching in the circle of halogen light. “Last time I was here, I thought…” His voice ended in a tic of nerves that distorted his face.
“When’s the last time you got high?” Gator asked.
Terry’s shrug collapsed into a shuddering spasm. “Don’t know. Couple days. Over in Thief River.”
“Tell me about the last time you were here. You weren’t alone, were you? And you didn’t use a hot plate.”
“I don’t feel so good,” Terry muttered.
“We’ll get to that. Now who were you here with?”
“You gonna let me go?”
“Depends. One way you can walk outa here. Another way, we call Keith Nygard.”
At the mention of the sheriff, Terry attempted to concentrate. When he furrowed his brow, it looked like he was herding a scurry of tiny mice under the skin of his cheeks and mouth, struggling to get them corralled in his twitchy eyes. “We had a camp stove, I guess.”
“Who’s we?”
“Aw shit, man.”
Gator held up his cell phone. “Works real good, now they built the towers for the summer folks. Got Keith’s number right here in my phone book. All I gotta do is poke my finger. Gimme some names, Terry.”
“They’re my friends,” Terry sniveled.
“Pissant little tweaker like you got no friends. All you got is that pipe. Now take your time and think. While you’re thinking ponder about Keith’s jail. Not much to it. I hear it’s kinda grim.” Pause. “I’m waiting.”
“Danny Halstad and Frank Reed,” Terry said glumly.
“They local?”
“Danny’s a senior. Frank graduated last year.”
“Guess you guys didn’t get the word, huh? This Danny-he bringing shit into the school?”
“No way. Everybody knows about the people you-” Terry panted, dry swallowing, then gulped, “who burned up.”
“What about outsiders, say from Beltrami or Red Lake, coming in to these old houses on Z, cooking?”
Terry violently shook his head.
“Stand up,” Gator ordered. Terry scrambled to his feet, bent over, rubbing the back of his leg where Gator had laid the pipe. Gator put the light in his face. “Push up your lips so I can see your teeth and gums.”
“Huh?”
“Do it.”
Apprehensively, Terry manipulated his lips, revealing a grimace of teeth.
“Don’t look too bad, you ain’t that far gone. You could rehab your ass. You ever think of that?”
“Ah, sure. All the time.” Terry bobbed his head in a comic attempt to placate the dark forceful presence behind the flashlight.
Lying little shit. “Good. But first let’s get something straight.” Gator sidestepped, stooped, and snatched up the can of paint thinner he’d kicked. He put the flashlight under his arm, twisted the cap, then splashed some of the liquid on Terry’s chest. “I’m gonna keep this can and put your name on it. I catch you stinking up my woods cooking meth, you’re gonna drink this whole half gallon.”
The stark reek of mineral spirits underscored Gator’s words as he capped the container and lowered it to the floor.
“I won’t come back, honest to God,” Terry stammered as a glimmer of hope quivered in his dilated pupils.
“Right. Look, Terry. I’m going to give you some advice. If I was you, I’d get in that Nova and drive straight to Bemidji. You know that big Target store north of town?”
“Yeah. In the mall. I been there.”
“To the Sudafed aisle, smerfing for precursor, huh?”
“Drive to the Target store,” Terry said solemnly, like he could see it shimmering in the darkness.
“You go in and walk to the back where they keep the electronics. Where they got the big color TVs. Find one of those new flat screen plasma jobs. Easy to carry. If they got it chained down, go to hardware and pocket some bolt cutters…”
Gator lowered the flashlight so the beam tiled up, revealing the shadowed planes of his face, making it into a stern disembodied mask.
“…check the price tag. You want one that costs over $500. That’ll put you in felony theft. You grab that set and run for it through the back doors, into the warehouse.”
“Shit, I’ll never make it.”
“That’s the whole point. It’s a classic cry for help. Hell, they’ll do a drug screen and stick you in county for six
