Collision Course (15 page)

CHAPTER 16

T
he roosters started crowing well before the sun came up. It must have been some kind of contest to see which one could create the most annoying sound. Gabe pulled his pillow over his head in an effort to filter out the morning row, but it was futile. The grand champion irritator let loose with a cock-a-doodle-doo that could have woken the dead. Gabe realized he was but a pawn in that feathered hell-spawn's world. He got up and padded to the kitchen.

He lit the lantern, which illuminated the blood still on the floor and the table. He found a mop and a bucket and set to scrubbing. The dried blood was hard to clean, but the motion wasn't much different from hoeing weeds. It didn't take him long. He cleaned the table with a sponge and some cleanser he found under the sink. It was soon spotless.

He rinsed out the sponge and the mop the best he could with as little water as possible. With the cleaning supplies returned to their places, he leaned back against the counter. His thoughts returned to the sheriff's suggestion the night before. It really wasn't a bad idea. If his neighbors were a man and his son, Gabe would have no problem moving in for the sake of safety. Should it make a difference that Jane was a woman? It shouldn't, but somehow it did.

Gabe saw the old percolator sitting on the stove. Coffee would taste good. He found a can of the black gold in the pantry and started the brewing process. Soon the aroma filled the kitchen. The sky was turning pink, and Gabe shut off the lantern.

“Man, that smells good.”

Gabe turned and saw Jane standing in the doorway. She was wearing a long flannel nightgown and a terry cloth robe.

“I can't remember the last time I woke up to the aroma of brewing coffee,” Jane said. “Is it ready yet?”

“You shouldn't be up,” he said.

“And why not?”

“Your leg. It might start bleeding again.”

“The doctor said I could walk on it. Just no running and no heavy lifting,” she said. “You cleaned the kitchen. Thanks.” She sat down and ran her hand over the table.

“You're welcome,” Gabe said as he poured two cups of coffee and sat across from her.

“Thanks for staying last night, Gabe.”

“No problem. In fact,” he said nervously, “last night when I was talking to the sheriff, he said I should move in here permanently. Isn't that the craziest thing you've ever heard?”

“I don't know. It kind of makes sense with the way things are. I guess the real question is, how do you feel about it?”

Gabe stared at her with a knitted brow. The question reminded him of the therapist he'd gone to see at his boss's insistence. She had asked lots of “feeling” questions. How does this make you feel? How do you feel about that? At one point, Gabe had had all he could take and gone ballistic on the woman. He remembered his last words to her. “I just lost my wife and my son, bitch! How the fuck do you think I feel?” He'd stormed out of the office and slammed the door behind him. On his way home, he'd stopped and bought a fifth of whiskey. That was when he discovered that the alcohol could take the pain away, at least for a little while.

“I think it's a bad idea, Jane. I'm too set in my ways to make a change like that.”

“I see.”

God, she was just as bad as Dr. How-Do-You-Feel,
Gabe thought. “Well, I better get going. My garden isn't going to take care of itself.”

“Do you want me to drive you home?”

“No. I'll walk.”

* * *

Light poured into the room. DJ looked at his watch and saw that it was almost nine o'clock. The smell of breakfast wafted through the house. He got up, dressed, and walked to the kitchen.

“That smells delicious,” he said. “What is it?”

“It's eggs and Spam,” Crystal said.

“Where did you get eggs?”

“From the neighbor. He has chickens. He gave me a gallon of gas, too.”

“Really? Can you get any more from him?” DJ asked.

“He said that was all he could spare, but we can ask the other neighbors. Sit down and eat while it's hot.”

“What did you tell him about the guys in the car?” he asked cautiously.

“I told him you showed up and scared them off,” she whispered. She looked at Nancy, who was working diligently on a small puzzle. “I didn't want to tell him the truth.”

“Good girl,” DJ said as he sat. The fried Spam was all right, but the eggs were delicious. They had bright orange yolks that were full of flavor. They weren't like the eggs from the supermarket with their pale yellow centers and bland taste. DJ ate the three eggs on his plate and asked for more. Crystal got up and cooked him two more. He devoured them and felt as if he could eat a whole dozen by himself.

“Those are the best eggs I've ever eaten,” he said. “Crystal, you are a wonderful cook.”

She blushed slightly at the compliment, a look that suited her well. DJ wondered if she had any other special talents. She certainly looked as if she should. When she got up to wash the dishes, he jumped at the chance to help. Maybe it would earn him some brownie points.

“So, Crystal,” he said as he dried a plate with a dish towel, “what kind of truck does Roger drive?”

“It's a Freightliner.”

“When did he leave?”

“Eleven days ago. He had to run a load to California. I begged him not to go, but he said we needed the money and that he'd be all right. He took a shotgun with him and a backpack full of food and stuff. He promised me he'd keep enough fuel in the tanks to get home from wherever he was,” she said.

DJ could hear some of the same uncertain tone he'd heard last night. He wouldn't say anything to make her believe that Roger wouldn't make it back, but maybe he could make her come to that conclusion herself.

“When was the last time you talked to him?”

“He called me when he got there. He was waiting to get unloaded, but he said he'd probably have to spend the night. The place he was delivering to only had half of their crew, and it was taking them a long time. The next morning when I got up, the phones were out.”

“How long ago was that?” DJ asked, trying to sound as if he was concerned.

“Eight days,” she answered. DJ saw a tear roll down her cheek. He almost felt sorry for her, but he pressed on.

“And when did you expect him back?”

“A couple of days after that.” The single tear was followed by a torrent, like the first fat, cold raindrop of a summer squall.

“I see,” DJ said as sadly as he could. He reached out and gently put his arm around her shoulders. She seemed to melt into him, and a river of sobs and indistinguishable words poured out of her. DJ held her tightly and slowly stroked her hair. It was soft and smelled like strawberries.

After a couple of minutes, the flood of tears slowed some, and she slowly lifted her head. “He could still make it, right?”

DJ thought about his answer. He didn't want to give her any hope, but he had to look sympathetic. “Anything's possible,” he said, “but . . .”

“But what?” she sniffled.

“But you might want to start thinking about what you and Nancy are going to do if he doesn't.”

The river began to flow again, and this time seemed as if it might rival the Mississippi. “I don't know what we'll do. I don't have any family and Roger's family is too far away. He's my whole life. If he doesn't come home, I don't know what I'll do. Tell me what to do.”

“There, there,” DJ cooed. This had been easier than he had thought. “We'll figure it out. I'll stay another day or two, and we'll come up with a plan. Don't worry. Everything will work out.”
For me,
he thought.

* * *

Gabe was mentally kicking himself. Why was he such a jackass? He didn't used to be this way. Why couldn't he just tell Jane how he felt? What would be so wrong with that? He didn't have an answer. He just knew he didn't want to let the words come out. As he walked down the road with his rifle slung over his shoulder, he wondered what else he could screw up.

“Mr. Horne! Mr. Horne!” a voice called out. Gabe looked and saw an old man waving at him and shuffling down his driveway. The name “Blake” was crudely painted on the mailbox in white in a juvenile, freehand style. Gabe wondered if he knew this man, but he didn't recognize the name. The elderly man looked slightly more familiar as he got closer, and Gabe looked up the driveway and recognized the late-model truck. He'd seen it pass by his house on many occasions, but the driver had always acted as if Gabe was invisible.

The fact that the men had never talked before didn't seem to bother Mr. Blake now. “Mr. Horne, I heard about what happened to Mrs. Walker. Is she all right?”

Gabe's first impulse was to tell this old goat—who'd never given him the time of day before—to go pound sand, but he thought about what the sheriff had said last night and decided to be civil.

Besides, I've probably already pissed off my quota of people this week
.

“Yes, she's going to be fine,” he said.

“Nasty business, getting shot over a couple of chickens. I hope it was an isolated event,” the man said, his eyes so wide they pulled half the wrinkles out of his face.

“Me, too.”

“Well, she's lucky she had you to help her out. It must be really hard for a woman without a man in times like these.”

“I reckon it is.”

“It's smart you're carrying your rifle, too. After what happened, I'm not going anywhere without a little protection.” The man pulled up his shirttail and revealed the grip of a small semiautomatic pistol.

“I guess we should all be prepared for the worst,” Gabe said as the two men nodded in agreement. “I'm sorry, but I need to get on home.”

“Sure. Listen, we're planning to butcher a steer later in the week. I don't have enough hay to feed all the cows over the winter. It'll be way more meat than we can eat before it spoils. I was wondering if Mrs. Walker would be willing to trade us some eggs and if you'd trade us some of those tomatoes of yours. My wife has bought some of them from Mrs. Walker at the farmers' market before, and they're the best I've ever tasted. I'll make you a really good deal.”

“I'm sure we can work that out, Mr. Blake. Thanks.”

“No, thank you, Mr. Horne. It's nice to know we have good neighbors like you to count on,” Mr. Blake said with a smile as he extended his hand.

Gabe took the hand and shook it. “Likewise. I'll see you later this week,” he said, feeling his own mouth turn up on the corners.

“See you later. You have a great day.”

Gabe continued his walk home, and noticed that his mood was much improved by the encounter. Maybe someone should get all the neighbors together and see what everyone needed or had to trade. He'd talk to Jane about it. She knew more people around here than he did. He needed to go back and apologize for leaving so quickly anyway. Maybe once he was done with his chores, he'd drive over and check on her. Maybe, if it was early enough, he'd take Michael's .22 over and show Robby how to shoot it.

Gabe approached his driveway, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up. He didn't know why, and he tried to convince himself that he was just being silly, but the feeling only got stronger as he got closer. Mentally laughing at himself, he unslung the rifle and peeked around the corner toward his trailer. There, backed up to the front porch, was a strange pickup. A man was seated behind the wheel.

Gabe's face went hot. He stepped into the drive and began to walk quickly toward the truck. “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing?” he yelled.

He saw a man behind the wheel jerk his head around and look at him. He honked the horn and nervously looked into one side mirror and then the other. A second later, a man appeared out of Gabe's open front door. He jumped into the bed of the truck, and the driver floored it. The truck leapt toward Gabe, showering the front of his mobile home with gravel and dust. Gabe stood dumbfounded for a moment, as the implications of what was happening sank in. At what seemed the last second, he jumped out of the drive as the truck rocketed past him. He kicked at it, as if it were some stray dog he was trying to run off. Gabe saw his Rototiller stashed in the back. A man was crouched down next to it, an evil grin on his face.

Gabe went from mad to furious in a millisecond. It wasn't that the old tiller was worth that much. It was that it carried a sentimental significance to him, being the last thing he and Hannah had bought together.

The truck squealed out of the driveway and onto the road so fast that Gabe thought it would roll onto its side. He ran the few steps back to the road and saw the goblin in the back still smirking at him over his tiller. Gabe realized he was holding a rifle in his hands, and he brought it up to his shoulder. He aimed at a tire and began to squeeze.

The smile on the thief's face vanished. Evidently, he hadn't noticed the rifle until Gabe shouldered it. Gabe continued to squeeze the trigger, but the gun wouldn't fire. Upon quick examination, he realized the hammer was on half-cock. Not that cocking it would have done any good since there wasn't a round in the chamber. Gabe dropped the rifle off his shoulder some and jacked the lever. As he was bringing it back up, he saw his tiller roll off the truck. It seemed to take forever, but it finally hit the road and began to roll. The man in the back must have pushed it out to distract Gabe, and distract him it did. He held his breath as the machine tumbled over and over. Gabe said a prayer for its safety and cursed the men who had done this all in the same breath. He fired a shot at the retreating truck, but he knew it was in vain the instant the rifle barked.

At long last, the tiller stopped, lying on its side, half on and half off the road. The truck disappeared around a bend. Gabe took a step toward the wrecked machine. He could see that the handles were bent down as if two giants had used them for a wishbone. He felt his throat close. A second later, he was able to convince his other leg to move in the direction of the contraption. Perhaps it would be okay. Another step and then, though he wasn't aware of it, he was running toward it. When he got there, it looked like a total loss.