“Let’s go fishing,” I said.
The instant I opened the door, Clyde’s hackles went up. He leapt out of the truck with his ears pricked and his nose raised to catch a scent.
Alarmed, I said, “Boy?”
Clyde looked at me, waiting for my command before he took a single step. But he was on high alert. Not the death fear. Something else.
I frowned and my hand went to the butt of my gun. Silently, I signaled Clyde and we moved toward Zolner’s house.
As we had that morning, we went up the weed-choked driveway to the front door. I kept my eyes on the house and yard and my hand near my gun. Clyde was all sinewy watchfulness, his head and ears swiveling. But whatever had caught his attention, he didn’t deem it an immediate danger.
I knocked on the door. My hammering echoed, then died away, and the only sound was the wind rustling through poplar trees in the yard. I knocked again, then Clyde and I turned away and eased around the house to the gate we’d used that morning. I watched for a signal from Clyde that this was a bad idea. But he didn’t escalate from hypervigilant to crazed, so I pushed the gate open and we slipped into the back.
On the concrete patio, light falling through a gap in the curtains at the sliding glass doors etched a faint white line on the ground. Clyde and I made our way past the piles of dog shit to the edge of the concrete slab. I leaned against the house, straining to hear. Far down the street, a dog began a frantic, high-pitched barking, and a man called to a kid named Joey to come inside now, goddammit. The dog yelped, a door slammed, and both the dog and the man fell quiet.
Clyde grew easier. Whatever he’d sensed seemed to have melted away into the gathering gloom. He wouldn’t have reacted to another dog with such alarm. Maybe it had been coyotes or a bear—they wandered into the city now and again. I hoped Fido’s yelp meant only that his owner had dragged him inside.
Clyde and I glided forward until we stood next to the patio doors. I peered through the opening where the curtain stopped short of the jamb.
I was looking into the kitchen. A battered table and two chairs sat in the center of the room, the table covered with half-crushed beer cans and two heaping ashtrays. Beyond the table I made out an old white stove, splotched with stains, and a section of countertop, also covered with beer cans.
The light came from a swing-arm floor lamp placed next to the table. A cord ran along the floor. By leaning back and angling my head, I could just make out where the lamp plugged into a white-and-gray timer that sat in the electrical socket.
Deflated, I pulled back. Maybe this was what amounted—in Bull’s alcohol-addled brain—to a theft deterrent. And probably it was sufficient. It was hard to imagine anyone being motivated to case this particular joint and break in, unless they were looking for aluminum cans to recycle.
I signaled Clyde, and we returned to the front of the house. I stopped at the single-car garage door.
“Achtung,” I whispered. Watch out. I grabbed the garage-door handle and yanked up. The door groaned and creaked and came off the ground eight inches before refusing to budge any farther. I eased it back down and walked over to the pile of discarded cinder blocks I’d spotted near the edge of the driveway. Maybe Bull was planning some home improvements. I selected one and returned to the garage. This time when I wrestled the door up, I wedged the block into the gap, then lay down on the cement and shone my flashlight inside.
The light picked out a few rusty-looking garden tools against the back wall, a gas can, and a snowblower. The rest of the space echoed with emptiness. So Bull really had taken off in his black Dodge. And now I understood why he hadn’t pulled the monster truck in. It wouldn’t fit, even if he folded in the side mirrors and climbed out the back. It must have killed him to leave it behind. And the only reason I could think for him to do that was because he was on the run; the truck was way too flashy to serve as a getaway vehicle.
I stood, pushed the block free, and eased down the door. Clyde looked up at me and gave a small whine that sounded like the canine version of Let’s blow this Popsicle stand.
“One more thing,” I whispered. I walked to the F650, stepped onto the running board, and shone my light through the driver’s window, bracing myself for an alarm to sound. But the world remained quiet. The truck was empty, as clean inside as out.
I gave Clyde a signal and we headed back toward my truck. We were halfway across the street when Clyde growled—a low, soft threat that upended a gallon of ice water down my back.
I stopped and pulled my weapon. Clyde’s focus was firmly in the direction of my truck, but I couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. I backed up a few yards and directed Clyde across the remainder of the street. As soon as our feet hit the curb, I halted him and studied the truck from the other side.
I saw nothing other than a cracked and broken sidewalk, a neighbor’s empty yard, and a mailbox that had been staved in by drive-by vandals.
Clyde’s hindquarters relaxed a millimeter or two. He remained tense, but again, I got the sense that whatever had been here only seconds ago was gone. He and I continued our approach to the truck.
I hustled Clyde into the vehicle through the driver’s door, threw myself in after him, and yanked the door closed. Once inside the cab, I took a few hard breaths.
“The hell was that, Clyde?” I said.
Clyde kept watch out the window. His hackles were coming down, but he wasn’t happy.
I hit the lock and waited for something to show itself. A coyote, a bear, the abominable snowman. But the afternoon remained quiet.
My phone gave a soft buzz. I looked at the screen—a message from my boss.
Don’t forget therapy in an hour. Job requirement so they don’t fire your ass. Hang in there.
Trust Mauer to get straight to the point.
Furious at the strictures DPC had put on me for just doing my job, I considered blowing off the appointment. I was starting with a new therapist this week, and maybe he or she wouldn’t report my absence—the VA wasn’t exactly a model of efficiency. On the other hand, maybe I’d get suspended, assuming Hiram Davenport didn’t fire me first. How much help would I be to Lucy then?
On it, I texted back.
I returned my attention to Zolner’s house. The fading structure, the blasted yard, the $100,000 truck that said everything about Bull’s priorities. I pictured the old man sitting at his kitchen table on other nights, hunched over his cigarettes and his beer, his dog whimpering in its sleep by the door. Maybe Bull wished for a wife or a daughter. Perhaps some friends to join for a night of bowling or poker.
Or maybe he didn’t have any thoughts at all.
Maybe that was the point of the beer.
CHAPTER 12
Aren’t we all looking to be heroes? Right up until we get our chance and realize the cost.