Mean Streak(30)

“Helping someone out of the pickup. Who’s that?”

“Their kid sister.”

During this terse exchange, he’d pulled up a section of the wood flooring. In the rectangular cavity under the floor was a metal locker like the one she’d found beneath the bed. He flipped the latches and raised the lid.

Firearms. Many. Of all types.

He lifted out a handgun, checked the clip, then tucked it into the waistband of his jeans and pulled down his sweater and coat to conceal it. While Emory stood there, mute with astonishment, he closed the trunk, replaced the flooring and the rug, and moved the sofa back into place.

He said, “Secret’s out,” and motioned down toward the hidden armory. “If the need arises, help yourself. Do you know how to shoot?”

She gaped at him as he went to the bed and stripped the pillowcase off the pillow. Then he picked up her shoes and tossed them into the pillowcase. “If you should run out of firewood before I get back—”

“Back?” she exclaimed. “You’re not seriously thinking of going with them?”

But apparently he was, because the trio outside were making their way toward his pickup. The one toting a shotgun looked eager to check it out. He went ahead while his brother, with noticeable impatience, ushered their sister around the icier patches in the yard.

“As I was saying, firewood is stacked on the outside of that wall.” He raised his chin in the direction of the wall that held the bookshelves. Patting his coat pockets, he located his gloves and pulled them on. He dropped his cap and scarf into the pillowcase, gathered the top of it in his fist, and tossed it over his shoulder like a Santa sack. “I won’t be long.”

She planted herself between him and the door. “Are you crazy? They look dangerous.”

“They are.”

“Then—”

“I’ll be okay.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know.”

“That’s no answer.”

“Move, Doc.”

“They could slit your throat.”

“Not their style.”

“What do you know about their style?”

“More than I want to.”

“You’ve had confrontations with them before?”

“Not exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

“I knew who they were, but until today, we hadn’t met. They’re my neighbors.”

“Which you claimed not to have.”

“Yeah, well, I lied about that.”

“How close do they live from here?”

“I don’t have time to go into it now. Move out of my way before they come to see what’s taking me so long.”

He tried to go around her, but she side-stepped to block him.

“You’ve been using the icy roads as your excuse for keeping me here.”

“They’re still treacherous. Which is why that damn heap crashed into the tree.”

“Then why are you driving them home?”

“Because it’s too far for the girl to walk.” He reached behind her, lifted his key ring off the hook, and dropped it into his coat pocket.

She grabbed his sleeve. “You can’t leave me here.”

For the first time since coming back inside, he paused to really look at her, then, with a sudden move, dropped the pillowcase and closed his hands around her head. He ran his gloved thumb across her lower lip.

“I swore to myself I wouldn’t touch you. But I wish like hell I’d f*cked you anyway.”

Then he bracketed her hips between his hands and forcibly moved her aside. “Stay out of sight until we’re gone. If they come back in place of me, shoot the sons of bitches and ask questions later.” In one fluid motion, he bent to pick up the pillowcase, opened the door, and left.

*





Following his interview with the detectives, Jeff was banished to the chaotic lobby, where the floor had been tracked with muddy, melting ice. He’d eaten a snack from a vending machine and washed it down with bitter, tepid coffee, also from a machine. He’d then claimed a vacant chair and camped in it, so to speak, while he waited for something to happen.

The longer he sat there, the angrier he became.

He had called in sick to his secretary earlier, but he was reconsidering whether or not he should notify his boss and tell him where he actually was and what was going on. But he talked himself out of that, deciding there was no sense in sounding an alarm until the situation called for it.

Alice had been worried about Emory yesterday afternoon. By now, she would be climbing the walls. He knew he should call her, but talked himself out of that, too. It would look bad if Knight and Grange discovered that he’d contacted his illicit lover while his wife was unaccounted for.

He read the Wall Street Journal and played a game of Scrabble on his phone, all the while stewing in resentment over being ignored. An hour crawled by. When he couldn’t stand the inactivity any longer, he took to swearing under his breath, and, when he got truly fed up, he risked losing his seat by leaving it to go to the reception window and demanding that the deputy seated there summon Sergeant Detective Sam Knight immediately.

A few minutes later, Knight came through the connecting door, seeming to be in no apparent hurry, uselessly trying to tug his off-the-rack trousers up over his belly. “Must be mental telepathy, Jeff. I was just about to come get you. Come on back.”