Emergence (25 page)

Home.

That was a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away.

Who'd have thought then that he'd be the man he was now, smoking and watching the ocean throw a tantrum through the glass of a multi-million dollar house with a stolen baby bawling in the back bedroom and a couple of half-assed cowboys, with about the same moral sense God granted a pair of horny chimpanzees, sitting on his couch watching a
Dukes of Hazard
marathon.

But hell, this ridiculous house, the vintage Indian in his garage, the speedboat hanging in the shack down by his private beach, and that eight-thousand-dollar television on which Guff and Wally were ogling a cheeky Catherine Bach was all bought and built on stolen babies.

Sometimes he wished he could start his life over. Be a kid again in Nebraska. He used to know what was right then. He used to watch Errol Flynn in
The Adventures of Robin Hood
and
The Lone Ranger
on Sunday mornings, and then he'd go bouncing around the back field in his pajamas, alternately shooting the sword out of Guy of Gisbourne's hand or running some pesky bandits through with his flashing hickory stick.

He took a long drag on his Pall Mall and wished he could burn the whole damn thing down. Maybe his sins would burn away with it.

The baby was really belting it out now. Where the hell was Zita with the Pampers and the Similac? She’d been due with the supplies and the new kid twenty minutes ago. How the hell do you let a baby run out of the essentials like that? I mean, what the hell were they paying her for? No matter how desperate that couple from Vancouver was to adopt a healthy white baby, it was just bad business to deliver the kid with a full diaper and squawking ‘cause it hadn't been fed.

He shook his head. Bad business.

But the whole damn thing was the definition of bad business, wasn't it? The business of being bad. Frank had several nurses like Zita on his payroll in the hospitals across two counties. When some mother came in with plans to deliver and leave the kid there for adoption, Frank got a call. Zita or someone like her waltzed into the hospital in her rented nurse's uniform, plucked the little crib lizard out of the nursery, and brought it to Guff and Wally, his delivery boys. They waited for the nurse to call, then went bombing off in their tricked out Escalade (license plate DOH 437; the two screws meant it to be an acronym for
Dukes of Hazard
, but he liked to think of it as that sound Homer Simpson made whenever he fucked up). They brought the kids to Frank, because Frank knew the right people. People who knew sterile couples who had, or could raise, the cash to buy a baby and all the papers. Once the connection was made, off the kid went with Wally and Guff to meet its new parents or whatever.

Easy money. Easy money always seemed to go hand-in-hand with bad business out here on the best coast. Easy money was the foundation for the House That Frank Built.

"Damn, that kid is loud!" Guff said, reaching for another Heiney from the city of green glass bottles on the end table in front of them, like Kong reaching through skyscrapers for Fay Wray. He was a big bastard, Guff, and crazy.

"I think he's the loudest one yet," Wally agreed, peeling the label off his and smiling as Daisy Duke jumped into her Jeep and Roscoe started talking smack to that beleaguered-looking hound dog riding shotgun.

Frank waited to see if one of them would get up to check on the baby. Guff leaned forward in his seat, looking like he was going to get up, but he fished the remote out of the noisy pile of potato chip bags on the floor and turned the volume up on the TV. The baby's wailing merged with Roscoe's pursuit siren.

"Jesus," Frank said, and went past them, headed down the back hall.

"What's his problem?" Guff said to Wally.

Wally shrugged.

The lights were off in the hallway, casting the white walls in a blue glow from the skylight. He went into the back bedroom and flicked on the light. The kid was red in the face and squealing. Roscoe P. Coltrane could have tied this kid to the roof of his squad and got Luke and Bo to pull over.

He hated dealing with the kids. Hated handling them. He should have sent Guff or Wally to get the goddamned diapers. He tried shushing the baby, but he couldn't even hear himself over the bawling. He reached down gingerly and picked it up in his hands, holding it in front of him like a bag of plutonium. What the hell was the matter with him, anyway?

Against his better judgment, he put the kid against his shoulder and started patting its back and cooing to it, like he'd seen them do on TV. After a couple good pats the kid let out a belch that sounded like it came from Booger on
Revenge of the Nerds
.

In spite of himself, Frank chuckled slightly.

The kid threw up on his shoulder.

"Shit," said Frank.

A few minutes later he was back in the living room, mopping at his shirt with a paper towel from the kitchen island. Roscoe was cackling into his CB to an excited Cletus, both of them oblivious to the fact that they were headed right for each other.

Sure enough, Cletus was flipping his patrol car three seconds later, and the din on the surround sound was tremendous, coupled with Guff and Wally's appreciative hooting and laughing. They never got tired of this show, though only Wally had been alive long enough to have ever seen the original run.

"Will you turn that shit down?" Frank barked in frustration.

Guff pursed his lips and picked up the remote. The noise of the crashing car was still too loud.

"I said turn it down!" Frank yelled. "Gimme the remote, you dumb hillbilly," he hissed, snatching the clicker away, pressing mute, and flinging it down on the couch.

The sound of rending metal continued. It sounded like it was coming from outside.

What the hell?

The three of them stood listening for a moment, then Guff unmuted the TV and Wally slapped his arm.

“The goddamned Escalade, man!”

In five minutes they were out on the front porch. Wally had his gun, a big .44 Magnum with an unbelievably long barrel he'd bought after OD'ing on Dirty Harry movies (“It's the most powerful handgun in the world,” he told everybody, though nobody cared and it probably wasn’t anymore). Frank grabbed his arm as soon as they flicked on the driveway lights.

Their red Escalade was sitting right where they'd parked it, only it was utterly trashed. It was flat on the pavement, the axle snapped in two, and the rear tires broken off. The windshield was spider webbed and the top mashed down almost to the steering wheel. The hood was lying in the trendy Zen garden and the engine block was torn open, as though it had just given birth to a terminator. The truck's vital fluids were being washed down the drive by the rain, and the DOH 437 license tag had been shoved halfway into the grill so only the DOH showed, mockingly, like a stamped word balloon trickling out of the lips of an anthropomorphized vehicle in a Sunday comic.

Oblivious of the rain, Guff and Wally ran to their beloved vehicle, shouting a flurry of curses and touching the twisted chassis lovingly, as though it were their passing grandmother.

"What the hell happened?" Frank called from the dryness of the porch.

"Jesus, there are goddamned fist marks in the frame!" Guff said.

"What?" Frank and Wally said at the same time.

Frank stepped off the porch and ran out into the downpour. Sure enough, beat into the sides of the truck were fist marks; little ones, about the size of baseballs. He could even see the indentations of the knuckles.

Suddenly Wally was shooting into the dark, the gun sounding like a pirate cannon in his ear. Frank slapped him on the shoulder.

"What're you doin’, you asshole? You wanna bring the fuckin' cops down on us?"

"I seen something!" Wally shrieked. "Somethin' over there, runnin' through the bushes."

They went to investigate. Frank fingered the pancake-sized holes in the side of his house. He took out his keys and picked one of the hot, flattened bullets out of the hole and tossed it at Wally, making him flinch.

"Nice job, asshole," he said. “My goddamned house’ll never bother
you
again.”

"Frank, what the hell's goin' on?" Guff whined.

"Damned if I know, but we're just getting wet standing out here," he said.

They went back into the house.

"I cain't see how the Duke Boys are
ever
gonna get outta this one," said Waylon ‘the Balladeer’ Jennings.

Frank flicked off the big television.

"Hey!" said Guff.

"Shut up. I need to think," Frank said, running his hand over his mouth.

"Yeah, but…," Guff tried again, gesturing to the TV.

"Shut the fuck
up
, Guff!" Wally almost shrieked. He was jumpy, and he still had his gun.

Frank went to the glass wall again. Lightning danced across the wave tops down below for an instant. It was the first time he'd ever heard thunder in the eight years he'd lived here.

Then the lights winked out.

"Shit," he muttered. Great time for the power to shit the bed.

Wally gasped. Frank could see the outline of his gun.

"Put that damn thing away. So help me if that thing goes off in my house I'm gonna stick it up your ass, Wally," Frank snarled.

"Hey!" said Guff.

"What?" Frank almost yelled. "What what what? What's so goddamned important?"

"I thought I saw something go by the window just now."

Frank whirled. Nothing but nothing and more of the same.

"I don't see anything." He went to the sliding door and opened it, poking his head through. The wind whipped his wet hair and he could smell the ocean. Nobody on the patio.

"It wasn't there," Guff said. "It went by like something falling or flying."

"Oh Christ," Frank said, whisking the door shut. "Probably just a freakin' gull."

"No, it was too big," Guff said.

"Hell, man," Wally broke, unable to keep the anxiety from his voice. "What the fuck's out there? What happened to the Escalade?"

“Maybe we should call the cops?” Guff suggested.

“You dumb fuck,” Wally muttered.

"Chill out," Frank said, going to the kitchen. But he didn't know what had happened to the Escalade. He rummaged through one of the drawers and got out the flashlight. He tossed it to Wally, not letting either of them see that he had taken out a steak knife too.

"Get down and take a look at the fuse box."

Wally caught the flashlight and shined it all over the place as anyone who picks one up for the first time does.

Frank blinked as the light shined in his face like the sun. He didn't know why people felt the need to do that.

"Come with me, Frank," Wally said.

"It don't take three."

"Whaddaya mean three?" Wally stuttered.

"You, me, and that goddamned hand-cannon. Don't tell me you're afraid with that pocket howitzer you got."

Wally snickered.

"Yeah. Alright. Be right back."

The light moved off down the hallway like a will ‘o wisp and was gone. He heard the basement door open. Wally's steps tumbled down the unfinished plywood stair. The house was half on a hill, and the architect had gotten cute and sunk a basement into the hill. It wasn’t a proper sized basement, so he hardly ever went down there.

Lightning flashed, and the shadow of the rain cascaded up the wall for a minute like drops of oil. For a half an instant, a small, quick shape, like the profile of a bird, flitted across the wall.

"Didja see that?" Guff stammered.

There was a thumping as Wally came jogging back up the stairs. The will ‘o wisp reappeared. Wally's stocky silhouette, like a man pointing the ass of a big firefly.

"Man, the fusebox is fucked!"

"What?"

"All the wires and shit are hangin' out!"

"Oh jeez," Guff began repeating it like a mantra, "
oh jeezohjeezohjeezohejeez
."

In a minute they were all shouting back and forth.

"Wally!" Frank yelled.

They were quiet. The baby was crying again.

"Go get the kid."

"What for?"

"Just do it!"

Wally hesitated. The spotlight of his flash swung around the room and stopped.

"Jeez," said Guff.

Standing in the kitchen, just a little more than shoulder high to the counter, was what looked like a kid in a Halloween costume. All green, with a pointed hat. Like Robin Hood.

"What the fu—," Wally began, the hammer clicking back on his .44.

He never finished it. The slight form in the kitchen moved out of the light, and Frank noticed a glitter of something bright flash across the room. There was a sound like a leaky tire followed by a gurgle from Wally. He fell back, choking. The flashlight rolled in a circle on the floor and stopped next to his face, so close his right ear glowed red. There was the handle of a knife stuck up under his chin, and blood was pouring, red as a melting Christmas candle.

"Wally?" said Frank.

Guff had his gun out then. He didn't advertise it the way Wally did, but he kept an old snub nosed .38 tucked into his sock. Frank didn't know why they insisted on carrying those guns around. Didn't want to know.

Frank heard something running across the room, and saw a low, fast shadow streak past the doorway to the dining room.

Guff saw it too and was shooting, the report inside as loud as Wally's gun had been outside.

Frank ducked behind the couch, clutching the measly steak knife, suddenly wishing he had a gun himself.

Two more shots from Guff's gun, and he saw the light flashing yellow on the ceiling. There was a pane rattling roll of thunder, and Guff shouted, "Come on out, you little son of a bitch!"

Bang!
Another shot, and Frank could smell it now. That smell like the Fourth of July back home.

Then there was a sound like bones cracking.

Guff screamed.

Frank dared to peer over the edge of the couch, and saw Guff go flying across the room end over end. He struck the TV and there was a smash as it came off the wall mount. He lay there in a heap. Heineken bottles rolled across the floor.

Frank looked around, backing away from the couch. The door to the garage was just off the kitchen. If he could reach it, he could get to the motorcycle. But the baby. What would happen to the baby if he left?