Three houses they’d passed. A couple more to get there. They moved together under the pine boughs in dark, scented air. East’s eyes were opening up to the dark, but still he could not see all the branches, had no feel for space. There wasn’t really space. He listened to Ty creeping ahead, Walter trying to stay on his feet. A snap of branch, a muffled curse.
He breathed it. He could sleep in here. The dark, the soft ground. Not even cold. But he too made his way. Nothing to carry, just the hard little spigot of the gun at his hip.
The ground kept climbing slightly. They passed a fourth house, lights on upstairs but quiet. A ceiling fan turning above the light. The fifth house was dark.
East was separated by fifteen, twenty yards. The fat boy had gotten himself snagged, had to unhook himself, fell behind. His brother likely was already there. That was it. That was the right house; he was certain. He picked a way under pines toward the dim light in the clearing.
Ty was already there, waiting just outside its edge.
“The house?”
“The house,” Ty agreed.
Boxed in tight except for the drive — trees came to within ten or fifteen feet of the house. Not wide enough for a firebreak. The clearing was uncut field grasses, calf-high, still green.
Walter came creeping out, hands and knees. “Easier to crawl,” he grunted. “Not so branchy.”
One yellow light hung unlit over an empty deck, another over the back door.
For East, the house was stunning in its anonymity. They’d crossed all this land to an address: this was it. Just a brown house in the woods. Big A on each end made of windows running light from front to back.
“Seems empty,” Walter whispered.
“Nice to be sure,” said Ty.
East looked up and gauged the sky. Seemed dark as they’d walked up, but now silver, strangely luminous, in the gap between the pines.
“Easy as pie,” Ty whispered. “Angles on every inch of the place. Big windows on the bedrooms. No basement.”
Walter said, “Where is the guy?”
“Can’t see,” said Ty. “Could be in bed in the dark. Could be out to dinner. Could be sitting right there on the sofa in the dark with a gun, waiting.”
“You expect one or more than one?” East said.
Ty rolled his eyes. “I don’t expect. We take what we get.”
Walter said, “So what do you want to do?”
“How about we spread out a little and get some angles on this.”
“All right,” Walter said. “But stay back. It’s no rush. Make sure we got the right guy.”
“Did you call your George Washington?” needled Ty. “Is this the place?”
“It’s the right house,” East hushed. “Let’s get the right guy.”
“I don’t see any guy,” sniffed Ty. “Why don’t you two collaborate on that. I’m gonna go see what I see.” He began picking his way left along the seam of yard and woods, creeping along the flank of the house.
Walter stood breathing heavily beside East. They listened to the pine needles crackling under Ty’s steps.
“Drive all that way thinking about it, man,” Walter said. “And then here it is.”
“I was thinking that,” East said.
“Sure seems empty.” Walter stood stock-still. “Seems nobody’s home.”
“You don’t want to wake somebody up, and then you got a now-or-never in the dark,” East reasoned.
“Yeah. Question is, how long you want to stand and wait?”
“I can wait awhile,” said East.
Nothing sounded or moved. They’d lost track of Ty.
Walter said, “You gonna recognize him?”
“Who? The judge?”
East recalled the photos. The fierce, thick head on the man. The sides of gray. But it could have been sharper. The face swam with different faces in his mind: Fin’s. Walter’s. His own.
“I think so,” he said.
“I’ll know him.”
“I will too,” East said. But he wanted to get away from Walter.
“How many times your brother done this?”
“Ask him,” East said. “Good luck,” he added.
“How big was he when he started?”
“Who knows.” He took a step away.
“He knows what he’s doing,” said Walter. “I mean, he goes right at it.”
“He’s got a reputation to protect,” East said. “I’m a check the other side.” He started tracing the seam around to the right.
“Fine. Stay invisible,” Walter said uselessly.
The ground could be quiet if you slid your toe into each step. Like putting on slippers. East found a spot shaded by branches where he could see in the side windows and see the drive out front, the black truck and a glimpse of the road. He stood there, black face in a black hole. He could barely see his hands. He put one on his heart and tried to calm his blood down. Inside the black string was buzzing with irritation. Like he got sometimes at the crew at the house, when they ceased to watch, ceased to be in the moment. Became wild again. It annoyed East, made him bitter. And stubborn.
He made a smooth spot in the needles and tested it. Dry — but cold. He sat down anyway. Funny — a few days back, he was used to twelve-hour shifts on his feet, did six a week. Now he was eager to sit.
How many days had they been going again?
As if his mind was sand. The irregular sleep was one thing. But the road: as if he’d been brainwashed. As if he’d stared into a washing machine for days without closing his eyes. Even the lines and reflectors on the highway: like a code he couldn’t read but couldn’t stop, like a sound he’d wanted no longer to hear. His head felt out of shape, weak.
For years he’d guarded a place that mattered, looking out, seeing everything. Now he sat against a tree, staring in, seeing nothing at all. Nothing in the wooden house sounded or moved. It was wearing him out.
He thought he’d have time to think about it on the trip — killing a man. Or that in all the work of keeping things straight, the killing would become just another motion, another step. This was the address. They would find a man. He would be the man. Put it on the tab.
But he hadn’t thought about it. What he hadn’t seen was that in the rush across the country, the man would be forgotten. The face, the plan, inapparent. Only the miles and the goal remained. He’d declined the subject of the man until he was sitting outside his yard, waiting. Waiting on him to come home and die.
Darker. He heard something in the trees behind him — skitterings, like a bird. Something watching him. And then a heavier crunching. Walter coming like a freight train through the trees. East could not believe the noise he was making. He sat still until Walter had nearly blundered past him, then hissed, “Hey.”
Walter stopped and peered around until he located East. He said, “Ty says it’s empty. He’s gonna check it out.”
“What if somebody drives in?”
“Then we’re loaded,” said Walter. “We have the jump.”
“He might drive in alone or not,” East said. “We don’t know. We’re not even gonna know if it’s him.”
“You know what Ty said?”
“No,” East exhaled. “I don’t wanna know what Ty said. I know if there’s anyone home on this road, they can hear your ass.” His veins clouded with annoyance. He got up, but the cold stuck on his butt, an unpleasant circle.
He sized up the yard. “Tell you what. Go back. Take the back corner, left side. I’ll get the front corner, right. We’ll see all four sides. Then Ty can go close and look around.”
“He’s already doing it,” Walter said.
“Still.”
“All right.” Walter turned and began again toward the back of the house. Making painful progress through the branches. Ty came out then. East watched his brother move. Casual, erect, no cat-stalking dramatics. He carried the gun in his hand but kept it shadowed. He crouched when he went against the house’s frame. There he tested the ground and crept low along the window line. Popped up against a frame and peered inside. With one hand he tried the front doorknob. Didn’t open.