Mean Streak(29)

They were his nearest neighbors but they’d never spoken, and the only interactions he’d had with them had been contentious.

On more than one occasion he’d had to clear his yard of empty liquor bottles and beer cans that had been chucked out the window of the pickup as it jounced past. Twice the wall of his shed had been peppered with buckshot, possibly fired from the shotgun the shorter of the two was holding now. One day he’d returned home to discover a dead raccoon on his porch. It hadn’t died of natural causes. Its head had been severed.

Meanness for meanness’ sake. He detested that.

He figured the pair were trying to provoke him into retaliating. He didn’t give them that satisfaction. Instead, he’d ignored the incidents and had looked the other way whenever they drove past.

He’d been biding his time.

Now, he’d almost reached the gate when the one with the shotgun leaned forward and spat tobacco juice over the fence in his direction. The stringy mess landed just shy of his boots. The other was somewhat more polite. He touched the rolled edge of his cap in a mock doffing motion.

“Hey, friend. I’m Norman Floyd. This is my little brother, Will.”

Norman waited for him to introduce himself.

When he didn’t, the elder Floyd hitched his thumb over his shoulder. “We got a bit of a problem.”

“I see that.”

The pickup probably hadn’t been road-worthy to begin with. One of the front fenders was missing. All four tires were bald. The camouflage paint job looked as though it had been applied by an amateur hand. The loose tailpipe had been attached to the rusted rear bumper with a strand of barbed wire.

Now the front grill was wrapped halfway around the trunk of an evergreen that had been partially uprooted upon impact and was listing thirty degrees. The truck’s busted radiator was emitting steam.

“You shouldn’t have been on the roads today. Too icy.”

“Well, yeah, you’re pro’bly right.” Norman shrugged and gave him a goofy grin, which he would have to be a fool to trust.

Meanwhile, the other, Will, was looking beyond him into the yard, curiously taking stock of his pickup, the shed, the cabin. He hoped to God that Emory had taken his advice and was staying out of sight.

He would kill the two Floyd brothers if he had to, but he’d rather not have to today.

Norman said, “We’re neighbors, you know.”

“I’ve seen you drive past.”

“You know where we live?”

He did but thought it best not to let on that he did. He nodded toward their wrecked truck. “You shouldn’t try to tow it until the roads are clear.”

“What we figured.”

“Well, be careful. You should be okay if you stick to the shoulder so the gravel can give you some traction.” He disliked turning his back to a man holding a shotgun, but he hated even worse the idea of the brothers thinking that he was afraid of them. He made to turn, but Will spoke up for the first time.

“You figuring on us walking home?” He expressed his opinion of that plan by spitting again.

“What we thought,” Norman said in a whine, “was that you might give us a lift. It ain’t but a mile, mile and a half, up the road to our place.”

“If it’s no farther than that, you can easily make it before dark. If you start now.”

Beneath his beetled brow, Will’s eyes turned even more hostile. He shuffled forward a few inches and assumed a more combative stance.

Ordinarily, the subtle threat would have amused him. He would have been thinking, Go ahead, you hillbilly jackass, dare me. He would have waited for one or the other to come at him, and then he would have mopped the floor with both of them. He looked forward to that time. But today wasn’t the day. He had to take Emory’s safety into account.

“Walk, huh?” Norman glanced up at the sky and held out his palm to catch snowflakes. “Don’t look to me like this is gonna let up any time soon.” He scratched at something in his beard as he looked over his shoulder toward the truck. “For me ’n’ Will the walk wouldn’t be nothing. Even in this shit weather. ’Cept…”

He gestured behind him at the pickup.

*





Emory watched through a sliver of space between the window frame and the muslin curtain as the man she had tried unsuccessfully to seduce worked the combination on the padlock, went through the gate, and crossed the road to the wrecked pickup, where the passenger door stood ajar.

He bent down, looked inside, appeared to be speaking to someone. After a sixty-second conversation, he turned back to the two men. His expression was dark and dangerous. Tight-lipped, he said something to the pair, then strode through the gate and across the yard toward the cabin, leaving the gate open.

She backed away from the window as he burst through the door. “Stay out of sight, but keep an eye on them. Tell me what they’re doing.” He went to the end of the sofa, lifted it, and moved it several feet, then knelt and flipped back the corner of the carpet.

“What’s going on? Who are those men?”

“The brothers Floyd. Norman and Will.”

“Are they asking for your help with their truck?”

“It’s beyond help. They want a ride.”

“To where?”

“Their place. What are they doing?”