Parker, turning in at the driveway, said, “Which garage?”
“Doesn’t matter, they’re both full of junk.”
Parker stopped, switched off the engine, and opened his door. But Thiemann went on just sitting there. Parker said, “The sooner you talk to her, the better.”
“What the hell am I gonna say?”
“Honey, I made a mistake today.”
Thiemann’s expression was haggard. “That’s a hell of a way to put it.”
“It’s what happened.”
“A mistake.”
“Let’s get out of the car.”
They got out of the Taurus and looked at each other across its top. “I keep thinking,” Thiemann said, “it’s a good thing for me you didn’t get impatient. I don’t know why I keep thinking that.”
“I got nothing but patience,” Parker told him. “I’m on vacation. Go talk to your wife.”
“I will. Maybe I’ll see you around, before you leave.”
“Maybe,” Parker said.
10
Parker got into the Ford, and Lindahl immediately shifted into drive. Then, looking at the empty suburban street as it curved away in front of them, he said, “How is he?”
“You know him better than I do.”
“Not in something like this.” Lindahl gave Parker a quick uneasy look, as though not sure how to explain himself, then faced the road. “This isn’t something that just happened,” he said. “He shot a man. I can’t even imagine that.”
“You tried to stop him.”
“He was just too—” Lindahl paused while he turned out of the suburb onto a country road. “Fred likes to be in charge,” he said. “He likes to think he’s the guy can take care of it, whatever it is.”
“Can he take care of what he’s got now?”
Another quick glance. “What do you mean?”
“He’s in shock,” Parker said. “So right now he doesn’t know what he’s thinking. Also, down inside, he has the idea he ought to be punished. That could lead him to the law, which would be bad for everybody.”
“Especially you.”
“No, especially Fred. He may like to pretend he’s in charge, but he’s in foreign territory now. His grandfather’s memories aren’t gonna help him.”
Lindahl snorted. “I bet he’s sorry he said that.”
“Maybe, later.”
“I’ll tell you something could help him,” Lindahl said, “that he wouldn’t ever talk about. His oldest son is in jail.”
“How did that happen?”
“He was in the army, they sent him to the Middle East, teach those people all about democracy. He met a couple young local guys taught him a few things of their own. These are fellas walk into your house, walk out with stuff they didn’t have before.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Not like you. Small-time. Impressed George, though. He came back, he told everybody about them. They even had a special slang for them. Hawasim, it means looter.” Lindahl shrugged. “I guess it’s not as easy to be a looter in a war zone.”
“Probably not.”
“Young George thought he was hawasim himself, now he’s doing three to five in Attica, the last thing Fred wants is to be in the next cell.”
“Good.”
They drove on, silent a while. Parker thought the shock of a son in prison must have been almost as strong for Thiemann as the second shock that had hit him today. Would the double hit make him likelier to withdraw into himself, stay quiet, not make trouble? Or would it make him spin out of control?
“I want to do it,” Lindahl said.
There had been close to ten minutes of silence in the car, and now Lindahl spoke abruptly, as though not wanting to forget what he had to say. Or as though not wanting the chance to change his mind. The words had been forceful but flat, Lindahl’s expression intense.
Parker said, “The track?”
“I hadn’t seen any of those people for years,” Lindahl said. “What’d Fred say? Three years? He’s right, I don’t know them any more, and they don’t know me. They don’t give a shit about me.”
“They haven’t seen you.”
“They have an opinion about me,” Lindahl said, “and that’s all they need. You heard what Fred said. I lost my job, lost my wife, turned sour, end of story.”
“You didn’t give them any other story.”
“Because it’s true.” Lindahl nodded at the road in front of them, agreeing with himself. “As long as I stay around here,” he said, “I’m just what they think I am. A hermit, Fred said. Didn’t destroy my life just the once, destroy it all over again every day.” Another emphatic nod, this time with an emphatic glare in Parker’s direction. “As long as I’m here,” he said, “that’s who I am, there’s no hope I’ll ever get out of this. I have to go down and take that money from the track because otherwise I’m dead here, I’m just walking around dead, all by myself.” He laughed, a bitter sound. “With a parrot that doesn’t talk.”
“We’ll drive down there,” Parker said. “After dark.”
Lindahl took a long shuddering inhale and slowly let it out. “I’m a new guy,” he said. “I don’t look it yet, but that’s what I am.”
11
With the sound off, the television set seemed to be saying that nothing much had happened. Parker gave Lindahl back his outer coat and boots, and then Lindahl went off to find some take-out food. “You don’t want any of that rabbit I got,” he said. “And neither do I, any more.”
“Fine,” Parker said.
Lindahl shrugged into his coat. “There’s nothing real close around here,” he said. “I’ll probably be an hour.”
Parker said, “If you run into anything I should know, call here.”
“You’re not going to answer the phone.” Lindahl looked startled.
“No, I’m not. But I’ll hear what you tell the answering machine.”
“Oh. Fine. Good.”
Lindahl left, and Parker went back to the kitchen where, first time through, he’d seen a drawer of tools. First taking the wad of four thousand in new cash from his pocket, he stuffed it deep into the bad-smelling garbage bag under the sink, washed his hands, and turned to the tool drawer. From it he selected a hammer, a Phillips-head screwdriver, a flathead screwdriver, a hacksaw, and a flashlight. He also took, from the bedroom, a right handed black leather glove. Then he left the converted garage, carrying everything, and walked over to the rear of the boarded-up house.
It was now almost seven in the evening, twilight, just enough illumination left in the sky to see what you were doing. The few houses he could see with lights in their windows looked darker than the rest of the world. No traffic moved out on the road, no sounds could be heard but the small movements of little animals.
Parker stopped at the rear door of the house to study what was here. The door was up two concrete steps from ground level, with filigree iron railings on both sides. A piece of half-inch plywood had been cut to fit between the railings, then screwed to the door frame on both sides and across the top. There were a total of fourteen Phillips-head screws, which would have been put in with a power drill, a tool Lindahl didn’t have.
The big question was what length screws they’d used. For half an inch of plywood, a one-inch screw would be plenty, but a guy with a power drill wouldn’t mind putting in longer screws, if they were handy.
Parker put on the glove, picked up the Phillips-head screwdriver from the concrete step where he’d laid all the tools, and went to work. The first screw didn’t want to budge, having been put in position here a long time ago. Two-handed, he gave it quick hard twists, and at last it unstuck and then turned as smoothly as if it had been oiled.
One-inch; good. Parker pocketed it and went on to the next.