Page 17 of Mean Streak

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B rakes squealed.

He released Emory and made it to one of the front windows in time to see the rattletrap in a fishtail skid before it plowed into a tree across the road from his gate.

In the same instant he recognized the pickup, Emory streaked toward the door. “Shit!” His hand shot out and caught a handful of flannel shirttail, bringing her up short.

She gave a small cry, but he turned her around, jerked her up hard against him, and clapped his hand over her mouth. “Listen to me. Stay quiet and out of sight.”

She wiggled and tried to throw off his hand.

“Goddamn it, listen to me! Those men? You don’t want them messing with you. They would hurt you bad. Trust me, please. Okay? I’m serious, Doc. You think I’m a threat, you can’t imagine the party they’d have with you.”

Somehow, he got the message across. Her eyes remained wide and fearful, but she stopped struggling.

“I’ve got to go out there, but can I trust you to stay inside?”

She nodded.

“I’m not bullshitting you. They’re bad news. Okay?” She bobbed her head again, and he removed his hand from her mouth. “Don’t let them see you.”

Moving quickly, he snatched his coat off the peg, opened the door, and stepped out onto the porch, hollering, “Stay where you are.”

The two men had crossed the road to his gate but stopped when he shouted at them. He covered the distance in long strides, smelling them before he got halfway to the gate. They reeked of wet wool, stale tobacco, sour mash, and body odor.

Scraggly, unkempt beards covered the lower two-thirds of their faces.

They wore stocking caps pulled over their brows.

Dressed almost identically in heavy coats and canvas pants tucked into rubber boots, the only features distinguishing one from the other were the couple inches’ difference in their heights and the double-barreled shotgun cradled in the shorter one’s left arm.

They were his nearest neighbors but they’d never spoken, and the only interactions he’d had with them had been contentious.

On more than one occasion he’d had to clear his yard of empty liquor bottles and beer cans that had been chucked out the window of the pickup as it jounced past. Twice the wall of his shed had been peppered with buckshot, possibly fired from the shotgun the shorter of the two was holding now.

One day he’d returned home to discover a dead raccoon on his porch.

It hadn’t died of natural causes. Its head had been severed.

Meanness for meanness’ sake. He detested that.

He figured the pair were trying to provoke him into retaliating. He didn’t give them that satisfaction. Instead, he’d ignored the incidents and had looked the other way whenever they drove past.

He’d been biding his time.

Now, he’d almost reached the gate when the one with the shotgun leaned forward and spat tobacco juice over the fence in his direction. The stringy mess landed just shy of his boots. The other was somewhat more polite. He touched the rolled edge of his cap in a mock doffing motion.

“Hey, friend. I’m Norman Floyd. This is my little brother, Will.”

Norman waited for him to introduce himself.

When he didn’t, the elder Floyd hitched his thumb over his shoulder. “We got a bit of a problem.”

“I see that.”

The pickup probably hadn’t been road-worthy to begin with. One of the front fenders was missing. All four tires were bald. The camouflage paint job looked as though it had been applied by an amateur hand. The loose tailpipe had been attached to the rusted rear bumper with a strand of barbed wire.

Now the front grill was wrapped halfway around the trunk of an evergreen that had been partially uprooted upon impact and was listing thirty degrees. The truck’s busted radiator was emitting steam.

“You shouldn’t have been on the roads today. Too icy.”

“Well, yeah, you’re pro’bly right.” Norman shrugged and gave him a goofy grin, which he would have to be a fool to trust.

Meanwhile, the other, Will, was looking beyond him into the yard, curiously taking stock of his pickup, the shed, the cabin. He hoped to God that Emory had taken his advice and was staying out of sight.

He would kill the two Floyd brothers if he had to, but he’d rather not have to today.

Norman said, “We’re neighbors, you know.”

“I’ve seen you drive past.”

“You know where we live?”

He did but thought it best not to let on that he did. He nodded toward their wrecked truck. “You shouldn’t try to tow it until the roads are clear.”

“What we figured.”

“Well, be careful. You should be okay if you stick to the shoulder so the gravel can give you some traction.” He disliked turning his back to a man holding a shotgun, but he hated even worse the idea of the brothers thinking that he was afraid of them.

He made to turn, but Will spoke up for the first time.

“You figuring on us walking home?” He expressed his opinion of that plan by spitting again.

“What we thought,” Norman said in a whine, “was that you might give us a lift. It ain’t but a mile, mile and a half, up the road to our place.”

“If it’s no farther than that, you can easily make it before dark. If you start now.”

Beneath his beetled brow, Will’s eyes turned even more hostile. He shuffled forward a few inches and assumed a more combative stance.

Ordinarily, the subtle threat would have amused him.

He would have been thinking, Go ahead, you hillbilly jackass, dare me.

He would have waited for one or the other to come at him, and then he would have mopped the floor with both of them.

He looked forward to that time. But today wasn’t the day.

He had to take Emory’s safety into account.

“Walk, huh?” Norman glanced up at the sky and held out his palm to catch snowflakes.

“Don’t look to me like this is gonna let up any time soon.

” He scratched at something in his beard as he looked over his shoulder toward the truck.

“For me ’n’ Will the walk wouldn’t be nothing. Even in this shit weather. ’Cept…”

He gestured behind him at the pickup.

***

Emory watched through a sliver of space between the window frame and the muslin curtain as the man she had tried unsuccessfully to seduce worked the combination on the padlock, went through the gate, and crossed the road to the wrecked pickup, where the passenger door stood ajar.

He bent down, looked inside, appeared to be speaking to someone.

After a sixty-second conversation, he turned back to the two men.

His expression was dark and dangerous. Tight-lipped, he said something to the pair, then strode through the gate and across the yard toward the cabin, leaving the gate open.

She backed away from the window as he burst through the door. “Stay out of sight, but keep an eye on them. Tell me what they’re doing.” He went to the end of the sofa, lifted it, and moved it several feet, then knelt and flipped back the corner of the carpet.

“What’s going on? Who are those men?”

“The brothers Floyd. Norman and Will.”

“Are they asking for your help with their truck?”

“It’s beyond help. They want a ride.”

“To where?”

“Their place. What are they doing?”

“Helping someone out of the pickup. Who’s that?”

“Their kid sister.”

During this terse exchange, he’d pulled up a section of the wood flooring. In the rectangular cavity under the floor was a metal locker like the one she’d found beneath the bed. He flipped the latches and raised the lid.

Firearms. Many. Of all types.

He lifted out a handgun, checked the clip, then tucked it into the waistband of his jeans and pulled down his sweater and coat to conceal it. While Emory stood there, mute with astonishment, he closed the trunk, replaced the flooring and the rug, and moved the sofa back into place.

He said, “Secret’s out,” and motioned down toward the hidden armory. “If the need arises, help yourself. Do you know how to shoot?”

She gaped at him as he went to the bed and stripped the pillowcase off the pillow. Then he picked up her shoes and tossed them into the pillowcase. “If you should run out of firewood before I get back—”

“ Back ?” she exclaimed. “You’re not seriously thinking of going with them?”

But apparently he was, because the trio outside were making their way toward his pickup. The one toting a shotgun looked eager to check it out. He went ahead while his brother, with noticeable impatience, ushered their sister around the icier patches in the yard.

“As I was saying, firewood is stacked on the outside of that wall.” He raised his chin in the direction of the wall that held the bookshelves.

Patting his coat pockets, he located his gloves and pulled them on.

He dropped his cap and scarf into the pillowcase, gathered the top of it in his fist, and tossed it over his shoulder like a Santa sack. “I won’t be long.”

She planted herself between him and the door. “Are you crazy? They look dangerous.”

“They are.”

“Then—”

“I’ll be okay.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know.”

“That’s no answer.”

“Move, Doc.”

“They could slit your throat.”

“Not their style.”

“What do you know about their style ?”

“More than I want to.”

“You’ve had confrontations with them before?”

“Not exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

“I knew who they were, but until today, we hadn’t met. They’re my neighbors.”

“Which you claimed not to have.”

“Yeah, well, I lied about that.”

“How close do they live from here?”

“I don’t have time to go into it now. Move out of my way before they come to see what’s taking me so long.”

He tried to go around her, but she side-stepped to block him.

“You’ve been using the icy roads as your excuse for keeping me here.”

“They’re still treacherous. Which is why that damn heap crashed into the tree.”

“Then why are you driving them home?”

“Because it’s too far for the girl to walk.” He reached behind her, lifted his key ring off the hook, and dropped it into his coat pocket.

She grabbed his sleeve. “You can’t leave me here.”