A Man Came Out of a Door in the Mountain (19 page)

Who's calling?

Who
is this
?

That you, Donny?

Hey, now, I told you I'd get it. Is there a need for this?

This is Donny, right? Or Getz?

Screw you, BritBoy, if this is you, don't be playing games with me.

Or is it You?

It's you, isn't it? Fuck you, I'm not coming.

No way, no how.

If this is you, I know what you said. I know what you threatened. I know what I promised, too. It's more than . . . well, I know . . . but . . .

But . . .

You still there? Because I'm here.

You know I'm here, damn it.

Damn it. You know.

I'm here.

Illegal. Ill-advised. Unstoppable. And sometimes—a godsend.

That's how Albie Porchier regarded the card games that simmered in his motel rooms on any given night. A crapshoot, no pun intended. To tell the truth, the games mostly occupied those fellows who might otherwise go looking for trouble. Their wild talk and drink were contained to a single room and when the game finally broke up, the men often stumbled back to their own beds. So Albie tolerated them. He turned a blind eye and a deaf ear to the sounds of footsteps in the corridors, boots clanking up the metal steps to the motel's top floor, where the bigger rooms were and where the games tended to originate. Sometimes, he even took a little cut to make all involved feel welcome. The ice machine churned constantly, unable to keep up with demand. Even his damn pop machine saw action on those nights. And as long as he caught the games before they soured, before cheating was discerned and called out and denied, before drunken men fell off their chairs and spattered dignities and empty wallets and spilled booze demanded loud retribution that would, if left unchecked, culminate in wall-battering, furniture-smashing fights—well, everything would be all right. And if sometimes he took pity on a fellow who lost his paycheck or even his whole nut in a game, Albie might stand him a meal at the Hot Spot, but that was as far as he'd go. You got to know what you're getting into when you sit down at the table.

Still, Albie had to stay alert. Bottom line was that any law officer could shut his place down for illegal gambling on almost any night of the week. Shut down the game and shut down the motel. Of course, the latter wasn't likely on a day like today, when a slew of operations and folks on the outskirts were being hustled into town. Still, Albie didn't like taking chances, so when Gerald Fucking Flacker's cousin, Mitchell, arrived in the crowded lobby that afternoon to check out a report of a stolen Toyota in the Peak and Pine's lot, it behooved him to cooperate.

“Vincent was on the desk,” Albie told Mitchell Flacker. “I woke him up this morning and read him the riot act. Said Nagle drove in in an old Toyota, must have been hot-wired, because it didn't have a key. I'd guess it was that car right over there.” Albie pointed.

Mitchell nodded but didn't so much as write down the plate number. He was an odd duck, Albie thought. More than once, he'd checked into the Peak and Pine himself, after hours, not alone, the patrol car parked in the back behind the Dumpster in the space that old van now claimed.

“Anybody been near it?” he said.

“Not that I've noticed,” Albie said. “But of course we've all been working around here.”

“I need to check out the room,” Mitchell said, “since a crime's involved.”

“A crime?”

“Didn't you just say he arrived in a stolen car?”

“I've got a customer about to take that room.”

“Not if it's a crime scene, you don't.”

Albie elbowed past his new clerk, punched in the code, and swiped a fresh card, Mitchell Flacker watching Albie's face during every step of the process as if Albie might be lying to him. Maybe it was that that made him add: “The girl's already cleaned it, you know. And she's damn thorough. Best maid I've had, I'll tell you.”

“Who's that?” Mitchell said. “That Madeline Bone?”

“Ha.” Albie almost snickered at the thought of Madeline as meticulous. “No, it's her niece, Ursula. Ursula Nowicki.”

“Nowicki? She got a brother? Big guy, more Indian than Pole? Drives an old GMC?”

“Yeah, sure. I guess that's him.”

Mitchell put out his hand for the keycard.

“Get that girl down here too. I'll want to talk to her.”

He left the squad car parked by the reception door, which did not make Albie happy at all. And mention of Ursie suddenly made Albie wonder. She should have been done with her rooms by now. By this time she'd usually be clocked out and sitting in a corner of the lobby with her long-necked bottle of Diet Bubble-Up, waiting on that brother. But Albie hadn't seen either one of them. He locked the cash drawer and made a quick sweep of the upper and lower halls. Not a door propped open. In the service closet, every cart parked neat as a pin, ready to go the next day.

“She must have left today without clocking out,” he stopped to tell Mitchell, who had finished sussing out the room and was now scouring the stolen Toyota.

“That usual?”

“Not exactly,” Albie admitted. “But this is not a usual day, you know.”

“Call her and get her back down here,” Mitchell commanded as he pulled himself out of the car, looking cross.

“She doesn't have a phone,” Albie said.

Mitchell scratched the side of his face but otherwise didn't let on he'd even heard Albie.

“I can get you her address,” Albie offered.

“We got it,” Mitchell finally said. “And we've got a report out on this car all right. From a nurse at the Health Centre.” His hand bypassed his radio and went for a cell phone, swearing as the connection broke one more time.

“You got a phone in that back room?” he asked Albie as he elbowed his way past. “I've got some calls to make.”

Madeline had locked the doors, just as Ursie had asked, but the truth was that since Ursie's mother had got really bad, Trevor had let nearly every needed house repair go. The house was too small. You couldn't be hammering or running a drill with a sick woman trying to rest. And after she passed, well, who cared all that much whether the sinks were slow to drain and the outside bulbs had burned out. The house fell apart right along with the Nowickis: wood window sashes split, linoleum curled, and, most important, the doors refused to line up properly so that the locks had to be jiggled until they fell (barely) into place. Most of the time Bryan and Ursie didn't bother with them. All GF Nagle had to do that afternoon was thunder onto the narrow porch and the screen door gave up and slumped to one side. Add two good fist thumps on the door to shiver the lock from its tentative purchase, and the door fell open.

Ah, GF was pissed. Little bitch thinking she could roll Markus—two fools. Who knew if Bryan Nowicki was in on it? Flacker's cousin Mitchell hadn't said. Nowicki's truck was gone, but last night he'd called about his delivery. He could use more right away, he'd said. The kid had been unusually eager, as if he needed the money badly, right away, and would do damn near anything for it. GF, who'd lost track of Markus about that time, told the kid to meet them up at Flacker's today. But maybe the kid hadn't wanted to wait. There'd been a strange ease in his voice that set GF—who was used to hearing high-wire fear from his runners—on edge, and now he could guess where that ease had come from. The kid was conning him or thought he was. Well, GF would give him something, that was for sure. First, GF would deal with the sister, who thought she could roll Markus and get away with it.

Despite the heat, Madeline had rolled Tessa up in another thin sheet on Ursie's bed, Junie's old Hudson's Bay blanket swaddled at her feet. GF kicked her in the side so that she half slid off the mattress. He slapped her around a little, paying special attention to her bandaged cheek and swaddled hand and still he couldn't wake her.

“She's on something, isn't she?” the Brit said.

“We don't have the time for this. He's waiting. Better take her with us. She'll talk when she comes around.”

A roll of electrical tape was produced; precautions must be taken. Who knew but that the girl would belt out a scream when least expected? It had happened to GF before, hadn't it? Pissed him off so much that just thinking about it made him kick the girl again.

In minutes, he hoisted Tessa as easily and carelessly as if she were a garbage sack and tossed her in the Matador's trunk, blanket and all, in the cleared spot beside the tire wheel well, just the right size.

“This feels perverted,” I informed Bryan.

“You're not going to diddle them, Leo,” he said. “You're babysitting, that's all. You could be saving their lives.”

“With Fruit Roll-Ups and Smashy cakes and butter tarts?” I said, peering into the sacks.

“That's right,” Bryan said.

This time, when I had slid onto the truck's front seat, Bryan seemed relaxed. Whatever grand scheme of destruction he'd hatched had obviously been abandoned for another kind of mission. The Sub-Rite sacks were neatly piled on the seat between us, the truck bed behind empty—and this was strange—broom-swept. At the end of Fuller, Bryan's truck joined the line of highway traffic heading east, only to rumble off alone onto Ledge Road.

“So, you're not really after him then?” I said.

“You won't have a thing to worry about,” he said. “It's simple.”

Bryan would use the contents of the Sub-Rite sacks to lure the Magnuson kids into an empty freight car on the other side of the abandoned mill yard.

“Keep 'em safe for a bit,” he said.

“From what?” I said, but Bryan wasn't listening.

My morning nap had pushed me off-center and the afternoon's dull glare, the constant drone of overhead traffic headed toward the fires, wasn't helping. Bryan was still talking as he positioned me near the freight car he'd chosen, but I couldn't make sense of what Bryan was saying. I kept missing pieces.

“. . . then get back in the truck and start it up . . . otherwise, run like hell—in that direction.” He pointed back toward the old mill yard, down those railroad tracks that now led onto a long, open stretch into miles of beaver pond.

“You're kidding.”

“If we get separated, I'll find you when it's over.”

“When what's over?”

“The fireworks, Leo.” Bryan said. “We're all here for the fireworks, aren't we?”

Bryan had sworn no one came near the old sawmill during the day. Just the same, he'd tucked the truck back into the weedy lot down a slope behind the long-closed sawmill. Even if, cruising by, you caught a glimpse of it, you might imagine Bryan's old truck, rusted and filthy, another abandoned relic left by another doomed outfit, a ghost endeavor.

“You'll be as good as invisible here,” he'd said as he pulled a backpack from the truck bed.

The thought made me unaccountably nervous.

He left me then, shifting and darting with a feather-soft tread I hadn't known he possessed. He moved from me so quickly, the hand I raised to summon him back was barely in the air before I lost sight of him and that overburdened backpack I was surprised to see crouching on his back.

It wasn't long before the little Magnusons arrived as if on cue, following the trail Bryan had laid out for them, practically somersaulting as they bent to pick up one treasure after another. I didn't think they fully saw me, so intent were they on sniffing their way to the railcar, where Bryan had unloaded the rest of the Sub-Rite sacks, spewing more packages of chocolate biscuits and crisps beside another sack full of soda-pop bottles. Per Bryan's instructions, I watched them edge beside the open door and then, almost without hesitation, fling their bodies upward. Their little chests hit the open bottom edge, their legs scrambled in the air, arms whirling. I boosted them then, shrinking at the momentary touch. They really weren't much more than skin and bone and rag, all animal urgency aimed toward the food. Practiced at disappearing, they seemed, to me at least, to flat vanish into the railcar.

Everyone was gone. The kids. Bryan. And I was, by all accounts, invisible.

A brief wander. A peek, that was all. Wasn't it about time I saw Flacker's world for myself?

The trails went uphill, every one of them, and I hadn't a clue which Bryan had chosen. The little Magnuson kids had emerged soundlessly as was their habit. I ducked my head and headed into the speargrass until my feet found a trail and I started climbing.

When I heard voices, I stopped.

“You still got her?”

“We didn't have time to finish.”

“Fuck that. Get it done.”

Bryan had told me the Nagles would be at Flacker's now, and I knew his new non-plan involved them somehow. He had grown so calm since yesterday and his wild notion of running Flacker off the road. This new plan of treating the Magnuson kids seemed a whole lot saner if not absolutely safe. From what he and Jackie said about Flacker, the guy would as soon as shoot you for giving a biscuit to one of his dogs as for stealing from him. Beyond the voices, another sound, a shuffling I was afraid had to be Bryan. If Flacker saw him on his property, he'd be dead for sure.

They were yelling now.

“Fucking chopped a head off in Winnipeg . . .”

“Not us. You got . . .”

“. . . the rest of the goddamn money . . . pockets for? . . . I got it wrong? I got it wrong? Fuckers won't chew glass before . . .”

The flat blade of cursing chopping the air. I would have turned tail and run away, but I could hear real threats now, and not a whisper from Bryan. On the schoolyard, Bryan used to appear when I was attacked. He'd sidle up beside me and, ignoring the rising catcalls, without fail would be my ally, my protector.

I couldn't leave him alone, and so when I heard the first crack, what I imagined as fist on chin, I threw myself clumsily up the trail, stumbling into the open behind their broad backs.

“Turn around!” I hollered, even before I reached the clearing, feeling for once that I might, like Uncle Lud, actually save someone.

“Turn around!” I shouted, only to see at once that Bryan wasn't part of this fight.

They must have thought I was a bear, at first, or the first of an onslaught of lawmen. The little Brit recoiled and darted toward the orange Matador. GF Nagle, hand on his face, jumped backward too, while tweaky Cassie Magnuson flitted right and left, right and left as if damn sure she'd be the first offered up to any attacker. A greasy, black-bearded giant who had to be Flacker took the opportunity to snatch up a rifle leaning on the concrete steps to his house.

“What is this?” he demanded once he'd gotten a good look at me. He glanced at GF Nagle and the Brit, who seemed even more pissed off.

“You know this fuck?” he said. He lowered the rifle, but his knuckles were still white around it. “What is this shit? What kind of a party are we having here?”

Cassie Magnuson made the mistake of standing still beside Flacker and reaching out to touch his elbow. Flacker pushed her away, squeezing one nipple as she skittered past, then kicking her hard in the rear when she was almost free of him. Girl flew feet while the Brit snickered.

“Get lost,” Flacker spat. “So who is this little fuck? One of your runners? You bring him up here with you?”

GF was shaking his head, walking toward me even as the Brit was nodding.

“Yeah, we know him,” the Brit told GF. “Little prick was palling around with Markus's girl, the sister, wasn't he? You remember, down on Fuller. That pretty puss in the red sneakers, this stupid fuck run up a lamppost.”

Markus's girl? On Fuller? The morning I'd shot the finger right back at the devil's man. A mad rushing began in my ears. I recognized it, and out of hard-won schoolyard habit, I slipped off my glasses and slipped them into my hoodie pocket seconds before a shove from behind sent me flying forward, my chin navigating gravel, a chittering sound beginning as if I'd entered a party and blacked out straightaway. My eyes opened and I threw up all at the same time.

“Get the fuck out of here,” Flacker told Nagle. “And take the rest of this mess with you. And get rid of that stupid-ass car. It's like a neon sign around town, Mitchell says. Do a twofer. Nothing left, you hear? And Nagle”—Flacker leaned in close to GF—“get the money to me today or you might as well dig a few more holes. Don't fuck with me.”

I cast about one last hopeless time for Bryan before I hit the ground again, my shoulders hitting rock, a steady drag, a creeping stream running behind my left ear into my neck, the gray light splintering as GF threw me against the Matador's backseat and slammed the door.

“We're stuffed,” the Brit muttered as he started the car.

“Just drive,” GF warned him. “We'll pick up the jeep, then ditch this mess, all of it.”

“Markus . . .” the Brit began.

“Don't even fucking mention his name. I'm going to roast his nuts if he shows up again.”

The Matador's engine screeched once, then rumbled uneasily alive.

“Yours, too, if you don't get us out of here,” GF said.

As to emphasize his threat, a single, magnificent explosion rent the sky behind Flacker's house. The sky split and cracked, raining fire and metal, and an unbearable vibration went through me, rattled my teeth so that I thought for a moment about spitting them out.

“What the . . .” GF swore.

More explosions followed, staccato booms that seemed to travel closer and closer until they shook the road beneath the Matador, which was suddenly moving at high speed. The car actually lofted under the last assault as if pushed from behind, even as the Brit accelerated, so that I was thrown in still another direction, the side of my head banging hard against the half-open window, and in that last bright moment before consciousness faded, I felt as if I had been set free through that tiny, gray gap, flying blindly.

Which way home? I begged the blackened air as I flailed. Which way home?