Chapter 49

The fog above the property is glowing orange and pulsating.

I imagine an alien ship docked there, or a circus. Aliens or clowns, either way, it's supernormal and terrifying.

I wonder if I've made a mistake.

The trip has been quiet. When we cross over the bump in the county road and begin our descent, Walt says, "Having second thoughts?"

"No," I say.

I'm a tad weirded out that he seems to know what's going on in my head.

He pulls off the pavement so suddenly my shoulder slams into the door, and pain runs bent for leather through me. I'm not past it, and I wasn't expected to be past it. He's unaware, though, and I don't say anything.

"Listen," he says, weary but stern, putting the Bronco in park then setting the brake.

His released seatbelt clanks against his door, and he turns to me, his face half lit by the blooming, heaving hell beyond the darkness.

"Okay," I say, not sure I'm loving the tone.

He rubs his hand across his mouth.

"Tonight, Vic, nothing is up for debate." He's all gruff and in charge. "This isn't a conversation. You're listening and I'm talking or you're staying right here in the field and I'll pick you up on the way back."

"Seriously, Walt? It's like thirty-five degrees."

"I've got extra clothes and blankets in the back."

"So you planned this?"

"I covered my bases," he says, but a drop of warmth squeezes through a crack in the tough-love act. "You're support tonight. You do exactly what I tell you to do when I tell you to do it. You're not getting anywhere near that guy."

I let out a dramatic sigh, but only because it's not in me to just roll over, not because I don't get it. The truth is I don't feel as badass as usual, and I don't want to find out the hard way where I'm rusty.

"Vic?"

"Yeah, okay," I say. "Fine."

Our radios crackle and hiss then Ferg's voice comes at us, clean and loud. We both fumble for our volume knobs.

"Go ahead, Ferg," Walt says into his shoulder mic.

"Sheriff, we're parked in the back pasture. It's the quonset hut burning, not the barn. Lights on in the house, but no sign of Van der Horn yet." He's breathing hard, and he's quieter when he says, "We're moving in closer on foot. Over."

"Stay low. Once you're close enough to see, let me know. Turn down your radios. Over."

"Wilco, Sheriff. Out."

"Wilco?"

"He studied the manual," I say, but not the way I would have said it four months ago. I'm simply reporting an observation.

Walt looks out towards the fire, eyes narrowed.

"We clear, Vic?"

"Yeah," I say. "We're clear."

He puts on his seatbelt then reaches over and takes my hand from my lap and holds it on the seat between us, not letting go until we reach the entrance of the Van der Horn estate.

Before we cross under the wooden frame, after he has returned his right hand to the wheel, I almost tell him I love him.

It's for a whole new reason that I falter, and that I ultimately decide against it. If I tell him here, now, in this situation, the suggestion is there's a reason why now might be the time, why this might be the place. I can't go there.

About halfway down the long dirt driveway, he cuts the lights and slows to a crawl.

"See that shed?" he says pointing off to the side, about hundred yards from the farmhouse.

It's one of those odd perception things, like those magazine games, the two photographs. What's different in the bottom picture? The structure is familiar now, even in the dark. I remember the eroded metal shed, fifty square feet give or take, but I would not have noticed its absence. It's a testament to the mental state I was in the last two times I was here.

We leave the Bronco just off the driveway in the low scrubby grass and cross the lumpy, crunchy field to the shed, weapons drawn. The cold night air is an oppressive mixture of smoke and fog, seeping through to my bones and camping out in my lungs.

Just as we arrive at the shed, the radios gasp. "Come in, Sheriff."

Walt crouches down against the metal wall. "Go ahead, Ferg," he says, guerilla volume.

"We're on either side back here. Unobstructed view of all the windows and doors in the back. Over."

"We've got the front. Soon as you see any sign of life, you call me."

"Copy, Sheriff. Out."

When I start to open the door, the hinges creak, and I freeze, hold my breath, quickly scan our surroundings for movement, listening, hyper-alert. Hot blood pumps through my veins, and I can feel it increasing speed.

Walt's eyes are calm. He brings his index finger to his lips and nods at the door, telling me we're doing fine, telling me we can do this.

When I continue, hands back on the cold metal edge of the door, I lift slightly and pull towards me, but I do it a fraction at a time, breaking the creak up into split-second sound clips that in isolation amount to nothing. I stop when the opening is big enough for us to fit through.

Inside the shed, the yellow beam of Walt's flashlight illuminates ancient farm tools and greasy rags and dented, rusted buckets, all veiled in cobwebs. It smells of rancid oil and sulfur with possibly a hint of dead raccoon.

We clear a space on the crumbling pressboard floor up against the wall, and situate ourselves so we can peer through gaps in the corrugated metal while we wait it out.

For a long time we're both focused on the house, ready. It had felt so close when Ferg called, like it was teetering right on the edge of going down, but now the minutes have dragged on.

Finally, after I've adjusted to the dark and the silence and the cold and the smoke and the endlessly flickering flames, Walt says, his voice hushed, "Tell me something, Vic."

"What?" I whisper.

I've been lying on my stomach, propped on my elbows, and I adjust my position, put more weight on my left side so that I'm half-facing him.

"Were you planning on coming back from Philadelphia?"

For some reason this triggers a burst of confused emotion, and I'm aware like I've never been before of how far from home I am.

"There's no were. I'm still going. Why do you ask?"

"Why do you not answer?"

I shift my weight again trying to resolve my emotional discomfort through physical revision.

"Yes, Walt. Of course I was planning on coming back. I wouldn't just walk out on the job."

"That's the only reason?"

Though I'm having trouble hearing him, I'm afraid we're talking too loud.

"Really? You want to do this now?" I whisper.

"What?" he says, leaning in closer, and now there's more Walt and less raccoon, and I want him to stay right where he is.

"Yes, I was planning on coming back, but whether or not I stayed was dependent at least partially upon whether you planned on standing up to your daughter."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know what I'm talking about."

"There's no issue with Cady, Vic."

"You wouldn't lie to me, would you?"

"No," he says, now shifting his weight so he's half lying, half sitting with his shoulder and head against the wall, peering between two bowed and corroded panels.

On this side of the farmhouse, there are two visible windows. The interior is lit up like a jack-o-lantern, and the curtains are sheer. It's all by design, all part of the trap.

"You sure about that?"

"She was a little less than supportive," he admits, keeping his eyes trained on the house.

"I know. She came to see me."

He doesn't move, doesn't say a word, and after a while I'm thinking maybe this little exchange is over, and maybe that's good.

"About what?" he finally says in a bark-like whisper.

"What do you think?"

Anger radiates off of him, but he keeps it contained. Only recently have I been able to separate myself from these natural swings. They used to throw me, cause me to question myself. Through all this, though, something in me that needed breaking has broken, and whatever it was that supported the paranoia is lost in the gulch below.

He feels what he feels. It isn't me he's angry with, but even if it were, ownership doesn't change.

"I'm sorry, Vic." He glances at me. "That wasn't her place."

"In her mind it was."

"This is none of her business," he says. "I'll talk to her tomorrow."

"No. Don't do that. She already hates me."

"She didn't say that."

"She didn't have to. It's in both of our best interests that she doesn't hate me."

Within seconds of the radios hissing and crackling back to life, a thin, shaggy figure passes in front of the large window to the right of the front door. A wave of paralyzing fear washes over me, but I brace myself and ride it out, and when the second one comes I'm prepared to duck, to avoid getting hit head-on and oblivious.

"Sheriff," Ferg whispers across the two-way, "he's there."

Walt shoots up to his feet like a much younger, much shorter man.

"Just saw," he says. "Go wide around to the front. Meet us behind the shed. Over."

When I'm up, too, he looks down at me.

"Copy, Sheriff."

"I'll handle it, Vic," he whispers, but he hasn't thought it through.

"Bud, you there?" he says, eyes still with me but washed out by the Mag he's clutching close to his chest and shining up into his own face, blinding himself.

Bud's voice comes through, a bit loud for my comfort: "I'm here, Sheriff. Just rounding the east side. Over."

He doesn't see what he could lose if he doesn't play it right.

"Copy, Bud," he says. "Out."