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 months. Beltrami’s a Holiday Inn compared to Nygard’s dungeon. They got programs, counseling. Get a dentist to check out your teeth. Could turn your life around.”
Then Gator grabbed Terry’s arm and shoved him toward the floor. Terry panicked at the touch, the downward movement. “Please…”
“Pick up your shit,” Gator said, not hiding the disgust at this kid’s callowness. “Go on.”
Terry scrambled on the floor, grabbing at items. His hand hovered near the pipe. Gator’s mashed the heel of his work boot down, crushing it. “How much money you got?” he asked.
Terry stood up and held out the crumpled bills. Four singles, some change. Gator palmed his wallet, selected a twenty, and handed it to Terry.
“What’s this?”
“Gas money. Get some McDonald’s. A malt.”
“Ah, thanks,” Terry mumbled, staring at the bill.
Gator took Terry by the arm and walked him to the swaybacked porch. “One last thing.”
“Sure, anything,” Terry said, antsy, seeing his car just thirty feet away.
“Say, ‘Who was that masked man,’” Gator said,
“What?” Terry’s voice cracked wide open with fear, sensing some freaky trick coming just as he was about to get free.
“C’mon. It’s just words. Say it.”
Terry swallowed, took a breath, and said, apprehensively, “Who was that masked man.”
Gator smiled. “Good. Now get the fuck out of here.” He shoved him hard and sent him sprawling off the porch into the snow. “Run, you little shit. Run for your life,” he taunted as he put the light on him.
Terry scuttled on all fours, gamboling through the snow. Got to his feet, surged for the car, hurled open the door, and jumped behind the wheel.
Gator watched the kid fishtail the Nova, hell-bent with a twenty in his hot hand, heading for the nearest dealer who’d sell him a chunk of ice. But probably not in Glacier County. The kid would get high and embellish the story. Tell ’em to keep clear of those spooky woods where nobody lived but crazy cousin-killer Gator Bodine. And the wolves.
And that’s just how Gator wanted it.
He went back in the house, shone the light at the cook ingredients strewn on the floor.
