Six Bad Things Part 16

--Trust me, that's in my best interest, too. And hey, I won't even bring up the police, because they would be in no one's best interest.

I shake his hand, it's almost as soft as his jacket, and he drives off.

I stand on the curb and imagine all the things I could do to make myself dead. I remember all the drunken times in Mexico that I thought about trying to swim to Cozumel, knowing that I would drown long before I got there. And I never did it. I sobered up and stayed alive long enough to kill a man who threatened my folks. And then I ran home to protect them. And by doing those things I have put their lives at greater risk than they ever were before.

Looks like it's a good thing Dad is tuning up the BMW, because I can't wait around here any longer for Timmy's call.

But I do have something I'd like to do before I go.

--SO, MOM, how have the neighbors been, any of them come around?

She looks up from the pasta Dad made for dinner.

--Pat and Charley used to check in on us, that first year, when it was especially hard. But, then they moved last year to . . . Oh, where did they go?

Dad is over at the stove, serving himself seconds from the big pot.

--Vacaville.

--Vacaville, they moved to Vacaville.

--Anyone else, what about the new people?

--I don't know, Henry, they know about us, but I don't think. It's not the kind of thing that comes up in conversation. A couple of my friends at the school, they ask, if we've heard anything, if we know how you are. But.

She sighs. Little Dog wanders into the kitchen and starts snuffling at her feet.

--Oh, get away from there. You know you're not supposed to be in here.

But she scratches Little Dog behind the ear. Dad sits back down at the table and gently kicks at Little Dog.

--Don't encourage her.

Now Big Dog comes over to see if any treats are being handed out. Dad shrugs his shoulders in surrender.

--See, now they're both in here.

He turns to me.

--We try to keep them out at meals, but your mom.

--Now don't start that, you feed them from the table all the time.

--I? I feed them?

As he says this, he's sneaking a sc.r.a.p of bolognese from his plate and slipping it to Big Dog. Mom slaps his shoulder.

--See, see, there, now you have to give some to both of them.

--See what? I didn't do anything.

And he tosses a bit of meat to Little Dog. Mom throws her hands up in the air.

--You, you encourage them and.

Dad's laughing now.

--I don't encourage anything, you're seeing things. See, Hank, your mom is seeing things.

He leans over and kisses her on the cheek. She shoves him away.

--Pest.

--You like it.

--I do not.

He leans over to me and stage whispers.

--She likes it.

I shove my linguine around the plate and think about Dylan Lane threatening these people.

--But no one else asks about me?

Mom stops playing with the dogs and goes back to her dinner. Dad sets his fork down.

--We don't talk about you, Hank. We don't talk about you to anyone. We don't talk about you with each other anymore. We had to stop.

He picks up his fork and takes a bite and chews it hard. Mom looks up at me, tears floating in her eyes.

--It hurt too much, Henry. We. And there was nothing to talk about. We didn't know anything.

I smile at her, at my dad.

--It's OK, I understand.

We all eat for a minute. Mom wipes some sauce from her lips.

--Wade calls sometimes.

--Wade?

--Your friend from high school.

--I know. Last I heard he was in San Jose.

--Yes, he moved there, and then a few years ago. You remember his mom died so young?

--Yeah.

--Well, his father pa.s.sed a few years ago and Wade moved back here with his family. They're living in his old house.

--Right around the block?

--Uh-huh. And he was so sweet right after all the trouble. He came over, and I hadn't seen him since I don't know when, and he's such a grown-up I didn't recognize him. And then we didn't hear from him for awhile and then I ran into him at the market and he started stopping by every now and then to see how we are, if we need anything, if we've heard anything.

Wade, my old housebreaking partner, the guy who liked to go into houses where people were still at home and awake. He always was a sneaky f.u.c.ker.

BIG DOG and Little Dog sleep upstairs with Mom and Dad and, both being half-deaf and half-senile, they don't raise a fuss as I slip out the back door. I walk over to the fence and boost myself over into the yard behind ours. I edge along the fence until I get to the next fence down, and boost over again. If I'm remembering this right, it should be the third house down after this one. I hop another fence.

Dog.

It's a big f.u.c.ker. It runs up to me out of the darkness, skids to a stop a foot away, and starts barking like h.e.l.l. I sprint to the next fence; halfway there I get clotheslined by a clothesline. Who has a clothesline anymore? I scramble to my feet, the dog barking at my heels, run to the fence, and vault over into the next yard.

Dog.

It's a terrier. The first dog is still on the other side of the fence going apes.h.i.+t. All the other dogs on the block are starting to join in. The terrier yaps at me as I make for the next fence, then it leaps forward, bites at my ankles, and gets a mouthful of my pants cuff. I hop across the yard, trying to shake it loose, but the little ratter has a good grip and isn't letting go. I make it to the fence and a light pops on inside the house. I c.o.c.k my afflicted leg back, kick out with all my might, and hear the cuff tear. The terrier flies off and I jump the fence before he can scramble back at me.

I fall into some bushes. I can hear the terrier raising h.e.l.l and bouncing off the fence as he tries to get through it to kill me. The porch light comes on in the terrier's yard. I hear a sliding gla.s.s door open and then a woman's voice.

--Digby! Digby, shut up. Shut up! Come here and shut up.

And so on. I lie in the dirt while she collects Digby and takes him inside, and then wait while the other dogs on the block settle down. By the time I crawl out of the bushes to see if I'm in the right yard, the night's chill has gone through the thin CSM jacket I'm wearing, straight into my bones, and the front of my jeans are soaked through from the damp earth. There's plenty of light spilling into the backyard from the street lamp and the Christmas lights strung across the front of the house. I'm in the right place. The paint job is different and the yard has been relandscaped, but I recognize the house and the big redwood deck.

I can't see any lights on in the house. I squint and scan the roofline, looking for one of those motion-detector security lights. No sign. I scuttle to the side of the house where I remember the side door to the garage being. I edge past a stacked cord of firewood. No helpful warning sticker left by an alarm company on the door. None of the alarm tape you would expect to see on the window in the door if it had been rigged. I put my hand on the k.n.o.b, twist it slowly. Someone jams a gun into the back of my neck.

--Don't you even breathe, f.u.c.ker.

I don't.

--Open the door.

I do.

--Now crawl inside. Stay on your hands and knees.

I do. The barrel of the gun stays pressed against my neck and I hear the door close behind us, then the lights come on.

--Turn around.

I shuffle around on my hands and knees, and look up at Wade and the huge revolver he's pointing at me.

His brow furrows. Air hisses out between his teeth.

--Hank?

He lowers the gun.

--Your mom and dad are really worried about you.

And that's how I know he's not the one who sold me out to Dylan.

THE GARAGE is stocked with a particularly large supply of suburban toys: a couple of Jet Skis; a small powerboat on a trailer; two golf bags stuffed in a corner; a ma.s.sive tool bench running down one side, with every imaginable power tool displayed on the peg wall behind it; snow skis laid out on the rafters; two Honda motocrossers, a ma.s.sive 420 and a matching 125; and five mountain bikes dangling from overhead hooks.

--Beer?

--I don't drink.

--Why not?

Because I got drunk and forgot something one time and a bunch of people died.

--It was bad for me.

--Soda?

--Sure.

Wade gets off the stool he's sitting on and opens the garage fridge.

--Sprite or c.o.ke?

--Sprite.

He tucks the Colt Anaconda into his armpit and grabs a can of Sprite and a bottle of Miller High Life. He hands me the can, twists the cap off his beer, tosses it into a waste can under the workbench, and takes a drink. Then he digs a key from the pocket of his Carhartt jacket, opens a drawer on the bench, takes the gun from his armpit, and drops it inside.

--Stacy would s.h.i.+t if she knew I had that thing, but I always keep it locked up.

I get a good look at the chambers in the cylinder before he closes and locks the drawer.

--It's not loaded.

He looks at me like I'm an a.s.shole.

--With three kids in the house? No, it's not f.u.c.king loaded.

I open my Sprite, take a sip, and huddle a little closer to the s.p.a.ce heater he fired up for me. I point at the side door.

--How did you?

--I was out here sneaking a cig before going up. Stace won't let me smoke in the house. I heard all that barking, switched off the light to take a peek, and saw someone hop the fence. Went out and hid behind the woodpile. Stupid s.h.i.+t, should have called the cops, but I was p.i.s.sed.

He fingers a gouge in the surface of the workbench, looks at me.

--You any warmer?

--Yeah.