The Drifter (Peter Ash #1)(41)

“Hey,” she said. “I thought I recognized that truck. You’re about on time for dinner. Three-bean soup tonight.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I have plans.” What those plans were, he wasn’t quite sure.

She cocked her head at him. “So. What are you doing here?”

“I got a text, so I pulled over.”

“Aren’t you the responsible one,” she said. “Do me a favor and come inside for a few minutes. We’re getting this place into shape and we need help. You’re a carpenter or something, right?”

Peter opened his mouth, then closed it again. Drawn by this woman, but not wanting to go inside. He was conscious of the bruise on his face. He already had a headache from his time indoors that day. She saw the hesitation. “Or not,” she said. “Hey, whatever.”

“No, I’ll come.” He turned off the engine and the lights. “But I only have a few minutes.”

“Sure,” she said. “I’m Josie.”

“Peter.”

She stepped into the flow of traffic so he could open the door. Cars slowed and diverted around her without honking, as if she were a boulder fallen in the road or some other force of nature. Her eyes flicked across the bruise on his face. “Just to let you know,” Josie said. “House rules. No drugs, no weapons, no fighting, and no assholes.”

“Who decides on the assholes?”

She put her hands on her hips and faced him squarely, chin out. “I do,” she said. Standing in the street, backlit by the headlights of waiting cars. “Problem with that, Hoss?”

“No, ma’am,” said Peter, smiling. He liked her toughness and her ponytail and the faint smear of paint on the corner of her jaw. “No problem at all.”

She nodded, turned into the traffic, and led him through. By the time Peter crossed the street, she was holding the door open for him.

But when he got to the threshold, the white static began to fizz and pop. Sparks flew the length of his nervous system. His fingers drummed anxiously on his jeans. The iron band around his chest began to tighten, making it harder to draw a full breath. The need to do something, anything, was urgent and real. Fight or flight.

He was stuck in the doorway. His legs wouldn’t let him inside.

It was a big room, the full width of the storefront, with fresh paint on the dented walls and mismatched carpet remnants laid over the bare concrete floor. At one end, three ancient steel desks stood in a line, their legs rusting from the bottom up as if they’d survived a flood. The nearest held a desktop computer and a potted plant and a broken-handled mug filled with pens. At the far desk, a skinny young guy with a buzz cut and a gigantic black beard poked experimentally at a vintage laptop while he muttered to himself.

Arrayed near the big front windows were a long homemade plywood table and a dozen cheap folding chairs. In the middle of the room stood an assortment of ratty plaid couches, where another man lay sleeping with his arm over his eyes and his coat for a pillow. At the back was a raw plywood wall, rough-nailed in place, with a framed opening that led to a dim plywood hallway.

It was the bare plywood that stopped him, thought Peter. It looked like the combat outpost they had carved out of that Afghan hilltop. Unfinished plywood walls and ceilings, plywood bunks, even a makeshift plywood command center. Everything reinforced with Hescos and sandbags to keep out the RPGs and contain the mortar blasts.

“It’s not much,” said Josie. “Not yet, anyway. Go in. I’ll show you what we need.” She still held the door behind him, still waiting for Peter to walk inside. He liked the lines around her mouth, the bright intensity of her eyes.

He reminded himself that he’d wanted to ask about Jimmy. It was a big open room with big windows. He’d be okay for a few minutes. He took a deep breath and stepped inside.

“A friend of mine used to come here,” he said. “Maybe you knew him, James Johnson, usually went by Jimmy. He was here maybe three or four weeks ago?”

“What’s he look like?”

“Black guy, big.” Peter held his hand six inches above his own head. “Real friendly, big smile, great sense of humor. The kind of guy who liked everybody, or tried to.”

She nodded in recognition. “Yeah, I think he was here a few days. We’re not much for recordkeeping, so I couldn’t swear to it. I haven’t seen him since. How’s he doing?”

“The police said he killed himself. That’s why I’m here. Trying to understand.”

She closed her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Fuck.” Angry now. “What a fucking waste.”

The skinny man with the gigantic beard said, loudly, “On behalf of the American people!”

Josie sighed. “Cas, keep it down, okay?”

The skinny man’s eyes were wide. He stood abruptly, knocking his chair over backward. “The American people! We shall rise!”

“Cas,” said Josie, slightly louder now. “Have you taken your meds today?”

The skinny man closed his mouth with an audible click, eyes flicking from side to side. Then hurriedly bent to pick up his chair and sat down.

Peter looked at the skinny man more closely. The beard was big and bushy, hiding the lower half of the man’s face. With the buzz-cut hair, what you saw was the shape of the skull. But there was something familiar around the eyes.