Cotton Crossing

  Steph darted a glance at Mark. “You saw that, right?” Squeaky, and breathless.

  “I, uh.” Mark swallowed hard, the funny bump every boy started to get in their throat bobbing up and down. “It, uh, looked like old Miz Clampett.”

  Something hot and rancid was in Steph’s throat, and it wasn’t the coffee Mr Quartine had insisted everyone drink. She swallowed, her stomach flipflopping uneasily, and the thought that Mark might not like her as much if she horked all over his new truck was the only thing that kept her from doing it.

  “Steph?” Mark shook his head, violently, as if trying to dislodge what he’d seen. “Am I crazy?”

  “No,” she whispered. “Her wig is still there.”

  The glossy fake-red pile lay inside out on the sidewalk, snowflakes catching in its nylon cap.

  “Jesus.” Mark sounded choked. “Jesus Christ.”

  At school, Steph would have made a face at the taking of the Lord’s name in vain, because it’s what her mother did in public, though Mama could lay down a string of swears more blistering than even Daddy’s full-throated cascade when he skinned his knuckles on something. Once, when she was younger, Steph had set out to ask her mother why one set of swears was okay but the other was BLASPHEMY—you could hear the capital letters every time Mama said it—but she lost her nerve halfway down the stairs.

  Her hands ached, probably because they clutched at each other with hysterical strength. “Uh, Mark?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Maybe you can drive me all the way home.”

  “Yeah.” He nodded, and checked to make sure the truck was in gear, though he hadn’t moved the shifter. “Yeah, I think I should.”

  Uptown

  Nice little duplex, painted brown, snug and trim. Yard mowed, still green in spots from the just-fled Indian summer. The left half of the duplex had a maroon minivan crouching in the open garage and a child’s plastic playhouse on their lawn; Ginny had a doohickey to open the garage door for her half. The Toyota pulled into that neat, bare little cube with cupboards along the back and stopped, brake lights flashing a bit before she cut the engine.

  He’d had a chance to peek in her backseat. She had a cooler in there, a nice blue plastic cube. You could store a a week’s worth of campin’ food in something that size, so she might have been on her way out of town.

  The thought of her driving into trouble like they’d just had without someone around to keep her head down just about turned him cold, despite his truck blasting heat from the vents. Something was going on in Cotton Crossing, and despite doing his best to ignore everything outside his small piece of stompin ground, Lee had heard enough to know that it was happening elsewhere, too. A whole lot of elsewhere, which meant interesting times ahead.

  The Toyota’s brake lights went off, but she didn’t get out of her car. Lee cut the truck’s engine and got it settled. He spent a few moments looking down at the small rectangular metal box peeking out from under the seat. It was attached to the seat mounts with a steel cable, and stayed there, rain or shine. Every two weeks he took its cargo out, checked and cleaned it.

  Question was, could he—or should he—take it inside? Mostly, toting it was more bother than it was worth. Some bastards with teensy balls had to have one with them even in the goddamn john to make a point, but Lee figured if he wasn’t in a war zone or fixin to kill, why, he shouldn’t carry.

  Unfortunately, his combat sense was tingling. They was out on the street in broad daylight, with a merry little popper on a Jeep. Not a Humvee, but pretty effective. Mobile and nasty, with infantry coming along the sides. Pigeon shoot, dammit, but no secondary troops to check for casualties. What the hell?

  Ginny wasn’t likely to take kindly to him bringing a piece inside. She was a city girl, and probably what Poppa Q would have called a damn librul, defending every amendment except the Second.

  You’re assumin she’ll invite you in, Lee.

  The thing was, he didn’t want to leave her alone. Maybe he should just…get her settled, and see how she was?

  Hell. He was more worried about her than he was about why Main Street had just been shot to shit. Or why Grandon had shown up at his house. Lee sighed, took Ginny’s package from under his coat, and laid it on the seat. The fancy gift bag was torn and crumpled, and a dull, pointless anger struggled to surface under the grip he had on himself. Every time you got something nice, the world decided to step on it.

  At least the books were all right, though gravy had splattered the cover of the Hemingway. Lee sighed, stacked the books neatly, and reached for his door.

  Ginny still hadn’t gotten out of her car. She was just sitting there, her garage a cave with boxes stacked all along the far side—looked like she hadn’t even unpacked all the way—and not a toolchest or a rack in sight. Lee tapped on her window, and she flinched. But that got her moving.

  She got out of the Toyota like her bones were creaking. Probably were, too, he hadn’t helped by landing on top of her. But damn it, she’d just been standing in the street. Frozen like a rabbit. That was usual for civilians—you sank to the level of your training in a crisis, and normal folk didn’t have much call to hit the floor when there was incoming.

  Lee waited for her to say something, thumbs stuck in his belt. Out of the wind, it wasn’t bad, but the snow had begun in earnest, skipping along on a brisk breeze that rose sharpish when it got its legs under it. It was gonna drift up anywhere there was a windshadow. Occasionally he glanced down the cul-de-sac towards Sixteenth and found himself tensing. This kind of weather put blinders on. You wouldn’t see someone until they were too close to avoid, especially after a few hours.

  Finally, Ginny moved again, half-climbing back in the car to get her red purse. “Why don’t you go inside?” A soft, flat question, too calm.

  “You ain’t invited me.” He looked for a way to close the garage door. “Should close this up, Miss Virginia.”

  “Just press the button, it’s right there.” She straightened, caught him looking out at the cul-de-sac, and whirled, one of her braids slipping loose and falling over her ear. She stared at the snow and the street like she expected to see the Second Coming, and Lee realized he’d spooked her.

  “It’s all right.” He tried to sound soothing. “Ain’t nothin out there.”

  That earned him a mistrustful, hopeful little glance. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah.” Sure enough. Something bothered him, though. “Just lookin. Don’t like being surprised.”

  A brittle, jagged little laugh escaped her. “Oh, yeah. That would be a bad thing. That would just finish today off perfectly.”

  Snow slid into the garage, fingering along the floor with a dry hissing whisper. Lee decided, turned sharply, and two long strides got him to the door leading inside, with a rickety wooden step braced under it. He pressed the rectangular red button wired to the wall to the left of the door, and after about ten seconds of clatter he was alone with Ginny, the wind suddenly a comforting whistle because it was outside. A whole lot of things were better on the outside of your walls.

  “Okay.” She hitched her purse strap a little higher and reached for her fallen braid, pushing at it with her fingertips. “You can go on in. I have to…I think I should bring the cooler in.”

  “I’ll do that. You go get warmed up.”

  In the end, she popped the trunk and brought in her suitcase, a pretty black number with wheels and a handle so you didn’t break your back lugging it. Lee toted the cooler, and kept trying to figure out why he was so uneasy.

  He should have been downright overjoyed at being invited into her house. Instead, he knew he was missing something, and he didn’t like that feeling. Not one bit.

  * * *

  God damn, but she was uptown.

  It was a big place for a single girl—two bedrooms and a master bath upstairs, a living room bigger than his own, downstairs half-bathroom, a neat kitchen all scrubbed and shiny with new appliances, dining room attached, a glass door
out onto a patio. It looked like a showroom, all the furniture matching and the bookshelves arranged with little knick-knacks. There wasn’t a doily in sight, just books, more books, a pale cream couch—surely you couldn’t sit on the thing, was it just for show? And plants in pots, on the south-facing windowsills or clustered underneath, taking advantage of every scrap of light. Upstairs was smaller, so the living room had a skylight, and the peculiar cold infinite glow of snow filled the room. It was a little chilly, because she’d turned the heat down before she left but hadn’t opened the cupboards so the pipes wouldn’t freeze. Damn good thing she’d come back.

  What got to him most were the books. She worked around them all day, and it looked like she came home to more of the same. Even her knick-knacks were quality—an elephant carved out of some shiny stone, a small wooden statue of a fat man with his eyes closed, probably praying, a little bell that looked like sterling silver, a blue glass apple on a high shelf between two thick books on European history. The pictures hung up were actual art, too, copies of paintings he wouldn’t be able to name but she probably could rattle off all sorts of trivia about.

  Christ. He knew she was class, but this was…

  The half-bath downstairs was just sink and commode, sharing space with a small but new stacked washer and dryer set, but it was full of peach towels and washcloths, small decorative soaps in a glass dish, sparkling-clean mirror, and a framed picture of an old-timey sailing ship. It was enough to make a man feel like a lout for pissing. Regardless, his back teeth were floating, and he at least knew to use the liquid hand soap instead of the pretty little rosettes of scented froufrou. Even that liquid was scented with peach.

  Jesus.

  The mirror showed him a stubbled idiot with dusty hair standing up every which way, hatless and in a scuffed jacket full of crap from the diner floor. Cheeks raw from the cold and his hands still grimy no matter how much Gojo he used, his jeans well past news and fraying at the hems, and his old Army kickers. He was a sad goddamn sight, and he was likely to knock something over or sit on it wrong and break it if he stayed here.

  Water ran upstairs. The heat pump kicked into life. The best thing to do was probably to go out her front door, crunch through the rising snow, get in his truck, and get out while he could.

  He stood in the middle of her living room—she’d even left the curtains wide open, for God’s sake. His truck sat patiently in the driveway, the snow still melting on the hood and windows but coming down thicker and eventually winning. He could make it home all right, even without chains, if he left in the next hour.

  Lee rubbed at his eyes. He was nervy as shit, and that was not good. He kept thinking he saw things moving in the flying snow, like the things the Army boys had been shooting down.

  Human size. Human shape. But movin’ wrong.

  There was one thing she didn’t have. A tee-vee. Just those bookshelves, and he couldn’t turn them to a news channel and start piecing things together. He watched the light fade out the window by degrees, squinting every time the snow eddied or whirled, and saw nothing but figments of his own imagination.

  Lee’s hands turned into fists. Hell of a goddamn day, he was still keyed up from being shot at again, and he needed something to do.

  Unfortunately, he couldn't think of a goddamn course of action that held any promise of satisfaction whatsoever. So he stood there, squeezing his bitten nails into his palms, and pretended he was on sentry.

  Might as well.

  Is It Usual?

  It wasn’t until she was halfway down the stairs, comfortable in a sweatshirt and yoga pants, that Ginny realized she’d been a complete asshole. He stood, arms akimbo, staring out the front window, and he hadn’t even taken his coat off. His shoulders were taut, and even though he was rangy he still had a good deal of muscle packed on him.

  She should know, he’d dragged her bodily into the diner and then landed on her. To keep her from getting…shot.

  With her hair clean and the rest of her still stinging-warm from the brief shower, she felt a million times better, which just made it even ruder for her to abandon a guest. Had he been standing there the whole time? “Jesus,” she said. “I’m sorry. That was really rude of me.”

  He turned just his head, a catlike motion, chin to shoulder. “Whatnow?”

  “Do you want to get cleaned up?” It was a relief to have something to organize. “You can take a shower upstairs. I don’t have anything clean that’ll fit you, but I can go next door and borrow something from Harry. If, you know, you need it.” She took a deep breath. His hair was full of dust, and hers hadn’t had any broken glass in it that she could feel. But he’d been on top of her when the windows got shot, so he was probably covered in the stuff. “I’m not sure you want to go driving in this, especially with…Jesus. I should—are you hungry? I can make something.” What did she have? Not a lot, it was the end of her work week, her shopping day wasn’t until Tuesday, but she could come up with something. Ginny shook her head a little, trying to clear it. As long as she was thinking about cleaning him up and getting them both fed, she wouldn’t have to think about…anything else. The things in the road. The popping, the roaring, bullets plowing into everything. The entire world had veered off-course and was in the ditch, wheels spinning and engine belching smoke.

  The rest of Lee turned to match his head, easily. “I could eat.”

  “Yeah, you were at the diner.” Now she even felt bad for being in her big comfy socks.

  “Was gonna do some readin’ and have me some dinner.” He nodded again, probably forgetting he wasn’t wearing a hat. Of course, they took them off when they came inside. Pretty much all the older men did, and most of the younger. “Little late, but I’m glad I did.”

  “Me too.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say, and he was looking at her strangely. Those eyes of his were still lighter than usual, and under the mess of dark hair on his forehead they peered out fiercely, intent on her face. His stubble had shown up, too, dark like his hair but faintly gold at the tips.

  It was the first time she’d had a man in this house, other than the plumber during the event with the McCoy’s upstairs bathroom last year. Lee stood, just staring at her, and the awkward sense that he expected her to say something put a rock in her throat. He was probably as uncomfortable as she was, stranded in a virtual stranger’s living room.

  All right. Let’s get going. “I’m going to go next door and ask Harry for some clean clothes for you. You can go upstairs and use the shower, there are towels in the—”

  “I’ll come along.” Lee’s shoulders relaxed even further. Maybe she was doing something right. “Man might like to know where his clothes are goin. I ain’t too bad, though, just my coat.”

  “Oh. Okay. Let me get some shoes.” Why was he looking at her like that?

  As soon as she stepped out the front door, her hair turned to an icy weight. Ugh. She hissed in a freezing breath through her teeth, taking the concrete steps one at a time. It was a short walk to next door, but she stopped halfway there—Lee had moved out into her front yard, slipping his coat off his shoulders. He shook it, gently at first, then gave it a couple of good cracks. Snow whirled and puffed, and Ginny shivered.

  She continued shuffling towards the McCoys’ front door, stepping carefully in her unlaced Nikes. They were the only shoes big enough for these socks, and she was probably going to have wet feet by the time she got back inside.

  Lee arrived, and draped the shearling across her shoulders. “Here.”

  Oh, for God’s sake. She pressed their doorbell. The coat was, needless to say, a welcome warmth. But that meant he was standing there in a chambray shirt and his leather vest, and if she was already shivering, he was going to get frostbite. “You need it more than I do.”

  “You gonna catch cold with your hair like that.” His jaw had set, his eyebrows drawn together, and he looked close to furious.

  What the hell is he mad at me for? “I’m a grownup, Mr Quarti
ne. A few minutes won’t—”

  THUD. The door shuddered, wood splintering, and Ginny almost went over backward.

  Lee caught her elbow, steadying her. “Sonofa—”

  “Jesus!” she yelped at the same time, which would have been funny, but whatever was behind the door hit it again.

  POW. More splinters popped out around the doorknob—the deadbolt was locked, and tearing free as whatever was behind the door started scratching and scrabbling.

  Lee pulled her back, and they both almost fell off the stairs. She caught her balance before he did, and hauled on his arm to keep him upright in turn, her Nikes slipping on fresh snow and the shearling almost falling free too. He kept backing up; they ended up standing in the McCoys’ front yard, Lee pushing between her and the duplex. “That normal?”

  “What?” She couldn’t get a breath in, so it came out squeaky. Snow blew in her face, stinging slightly before it melted.

  Lee regarded the door like it was a rattlesnake. “I mean, they got a bear in there as a pet, or is that how they get salesmen off their front porch? Is it usual?”

  “N-no.” Snowflakes clung to her eyelashes, she blinked them away. “Jesus. Their garage.” The McCoy’s garage door was wide-open, the maroon minivan crouching next to the ATVs they sometimes fired up in the summer, the kiddie pool they put out on hot days, and other ephemera you accumulated when you had kids and a paycheck.

  “I knew somethin’ was off,” he muttered. “That ain’t normal neither, I take it.”

  “No.” Jesus Christ. Her brain seized up for a second, trying to figure out the right word for this situation. There wasn’t a single one that seemed to apply.

  “All right.” He eyed the front door, which shuddered again. Whatever was inside wanted to get out, bigtime. “I want you to go on in your house, while I see what’s in there.”

  “Like hell.” She tried to slide his coat off her shoulders, but he grabbed the front, holding it closed. “They’re my neighbors.” A raccoon, maybe? Yeah, sure. A super-sized one hopped up on steroids.