The house had been smaller at one time. It looked like there had been two additions, one for a garage and one to add space to the house. Neither had been done well. The roofs didn’t line up, the siding wasn’t a match, and the window frames were different.
They had been done years ago as testified by the faded brown paint, overgrown shrubbery, and general air of disrepair. A rusted-out old car perched on blocks beside a pickup that had blackberry vines covering so much of it that the truck was hard to see. The house was wide, the roof slope shallow, and the effects of being near saltwater obvious in the rust and corrosion on metal, and the faded paint of the siding. Things age quickly when near saltwater, especially metal and wood.
We moved forward and I parked the bike around the corner of the house, where it would be out of sight for anybody coming down the driveway. A wooden deck covered the front of the house, which was the side facing the water, and because the ground sloped downward to the shore, there was a basement level that was unnoticed from the driveway.
The deck made a sunroof for the lower part of the house, and there was an outside door that stood open. Nothing else was out of place. No broken windows, none of the obvious signs of the owner’s absence. As Sue started to slip off the bike, my hand reached for the nine-millimeter.
“I wouldn’t, if I was you,” the voice of an old man warned.
He stood under the porch roof behind a stack of split firewood piled chest high. He held a double-barreled shotgun pointed at my stomach from a distance of a dozen feet. He couldn’t miss.
“We’ll leave peacefully,” I said.
“And bring ten more back here?”
“No, sir.”
A deadly silence followed. He cleared his throat and asked, “You got a story? A short one?”
Sue answered, “We were just riding through town when two men on motorcycles chased us and shot at us. I fired back and may have winged one or scared him because he dumped his bike. The other went back to check on him.”
“There was a hell of a lot more gunfire than that, and your story doesn’t fit the facts of what I just heard.”
Sue didn’t like the tone he used, and she placed her fists on her hips and moved a few steps closer as she snapped, “That’s because you didn’t listen to the whole thing.”
“I said to keep it short.” He grunted.
It was not like her to back down and I thought about speaking before her, but she had moved closer and he hadn’t shot her. She continued, “Four more came after us. We did nothing to cause that. We hid at the top of your driveway in the trees. They passed right on by and we thought it would be okay, but then we heard gunshots and only three came back. They searched every driveway.”
“That’s cause they knew you hadn’t gone past the roadblock the Indians set down the road. You had to be around here. I guess you ambushed them when they returned?”
She nodded. “We did and I’m sorry they died, but damn it, they should have minded their own business.”
“You Indian?” He asked Sue.
“Hispanic. Maybe some Indian from Mexico, I don’t know.”
“Too bad. If you go to the roadblock, you can probably pass through easy enough if you lie to them about that. Tell them you’re from a tribe they don’t know and they’ll let you pass. Where you go after that, I don’t know.”
“We just wanted to get as far as one of the little beach communities.”
He lowered the shotgun as he asked, “Why’s that? You planning on taking a vacation?”
“To grab a couple of kayaks,” Sue said without hesitation.
He waited. Finally, wagged the barrel of the shotgun and spat, “Steal them, you mean.”
She didn’t elaborate.
A gull landed and perched on the rail and watched them stare at each other. I watched the gull.
He broke the impasse. “Then what?”
“We’re going to try stealing, if that’s the right word, a sailboat from Everett. Not from anyone alive. We were hiding out in a mining tunnel above Darrington and could see that wouldn’t work out for us for summer and next fall. We decided we’re not going to live by raiding empty houses and killing everybody we meet. Sooner or later, either we’d make a mistake or meet up with a larger gang. So, Bill came up with the idea of getting a sailboat and hiding in the islands.”
“Smart,” he muttered. “You thirsty?”
“Yes,” we both said at the same time. I didn’t mention that the idea had been all hers. She was giving me far too much credit.
He pointed to the open doorway. I started to put my gun on the bike seat. He said, “Better keep that with you.”
We entered, Sue carrying the shotgun in one hand and the rifle in her other. The basement was shallow, meant to hold up a house on a slope, but had been modified over time into a usable basement. The roof was low, with exposed beams. Across the rear, which faced the driveway, was a row of little windows I hadn’t noticed from outside. They were only about six inches tall, but two feet wide, and they slid open. Five were open now, providing a good view of the driveway. They were also good places to fire a gun from.
He saw me look. “Painted the inside and outside of the glass with spray paint so no light gets seen from the road. Open, they give me a good view of the driveway and work as rifle ports, but so far that hasn’t been needed. You’re the first visitors to come calling.”
He was older than I had thought. His left knee didn’t seem to work right, and he limped. The hoarse cough was probably from the overflowing ashtrays. His skin was pasty. I said, “Are you well?”
“Does it look like I am?”
“No, sir,” I said.
“That’s twice you called me, sir. The first time probably saved your life. Now you can quit.”
Sue said, “The drink?”
He went to a smaller refrigerator and pulled a soda for her. He looked at me and asked, “Beer or soda?”
I can’t stand warm beer. Warm soda isn’t much better, but beads of moisture were already forming on Sue’s can. “Hey, is that cold?”
“Course it is. What sort of man would drink warm beer?”
“Cold beer! I didn’t think there was any electricity left.”
“Propane,” he said. “Besides, I got a couple of solar panels and a small rack of car batteries.”
“Propane? Like what’s in cigarette lighters?”
He handed me a beer so cold it hurt to hold and popped the top of one for himself. I ignored that it was a lite beer. After chugging about half, he fell into a recliner and said, “Never did understand it myself. Camping trailers have fridges that work off propane. Sounds opposite, to me. You heat it to make things cold.”
“Why do you have one in here?” I asked.
“This was what you call a man-cave when my wife was alive, and a shelter when the power went out, which was regular. There was only the power from town on the poles set along the road out there for the next ten miles. Anybody driving drunk and hitting one took out our power for hours or days. Got tired of it and when a guy had an old camper that he wanted to sell cheap, I bought it.”
I looked around and noticed the cooking stove looked the same vintage as the fridge, and a heater was mounted to the wall near the stove, along with cabinets along the wall. “All of that came from the trailer?”
“And more. The lights down here in the basement are twelve volts. Dim, but enough. Say, if you’re going to live on a sailboat, you better get used to this stuff.”
“Why?” Sue asked.
“Damn, kid. You ever even been on a boat? This is how they’re set up, you know what I’m sayin’?”
I didn’t know. “Propane gas runs the fridge, stove, and heater? It makes some things cold and others hot.”