“Maybe it’s a hobby farm,” he said, and wasn’t sure he even convinced himself. Turning from the barn, he stared back at the house for a long moment, listening to the dull slap of snow on his helmet. “Whatever it is, we can’t stay out here.”
“I know.” Huffing out a breath, she shook snow from Tony’s space blanket. “I guess we knock.”
He didn’t want to, though he didn’t see a choice. “Stick close, okay? People in Wisconsin can be pretty strange.”
“Ed Gein,” she said.
“Lived on a farm,” he said.
“Jeffrey Dahmer didn’t.”
“But he should’ve.” He felt his mouth quirk into a lopsided grin. “Gein, Dahmer, Taliesin … it must be the water.”
“Yeah.” She gave him a strange look. “Must be.”
“Are you all right?”
“Just a headache.” Closing her eyes, she pinched the bridge of her nose. “Bad.”
“You hit your head pretty hard.”
She shook her head. “I’ve had headaches for a long time. I’m supposed to take medicine, but …” Her voice dribbled away.
The tug of his attraction—that insane urge to hold her—was so strong it hurt. He imagined removing that helmet, cupping her face in his hands, and then … “We need to get you inside. Hold up a sec.” Wading back to the Skandic, he lifted the seat, dug around in the storage box, and came up with Big Earl’s Glock. He felt her stare as he jammed the muzzle into the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back. “When we go up there …”
“I know. Stay close.”
“I’m not kidding around. I mean it,” he said, almost angrily. “I don’t want you getting hurt worse than you already are.”
“Too late for that,” she said.
2
NO STORM DOOR, which was weird. No peephole and no doorbell either, just an old-fashioned brass knocker. Eric gave a couple quick raps. Waited a few seconds. Hammered the door with his fist. “Hello?”
“That did something,” Emma said, nodding toward the door.
Eric saw a swarm of darkening shadows in the pebbled sidelights as someone approached. A moment later, the knob rattled and the door swung open on a balloon of warm air scented with the unmistakable aroma of macaroni and cheese.
“Yeah?” The guy was maybe just a year or two older than Eric: not tall but compact, wiry, and lean as a whippet. Like the truck, his clothes were vintage, olive drab BDUs, although it looked like the kid had taken pretty good care of them. BODE was embroidered in dark blue letters on a subdued ribbon over his left breast pocket. Over the right was another ribbon: U.S. ARMY. From the SSI on the left shoulder, whoever had owned them back in the day had been Airborne, and 7th Cav. He recognized the subdued badge: that distinctive shield with its black diagonal stripe and silhouette of a horse’s head. The kid’s gaze flicked from Eric to linger on Emma. “What happened to you?”
“My friend and I were in a wreck,” Emma said, and then her voice wobbled a little. “Eric and his brother and two other people stopped to help, only their car’s stuck, so we followed your tracks and—”
“Whoa, you guys crashed?”
“Yeah.” Eric studied the guy another long second. Those BDUs were way out of regs. Pockets were a little strange, too. Slanted and a little big. The whole getup was like something a guy might wear in a chop shop, but the way the kid carried himself was … military. On the other hand,
“What, the uniform give it away?”
He pushed past the sarcasm. “Seventh Cav?”
“C Company, Second Battalion, yeah.” The kid’s sky blue eyes narrowed. “So? You got a brother over there or something?”
“No. Just me … I mean, soon.” Eric stuck out his hand. “I’m Eric. Just finished basic at Parris.”
“Yeah? A devil dog? Hey, that’s cool.” Something in the guy’s face unknotted, and he grabbed Eric’s hand. “Bode. You got orders?”
“Where’s that?”
“Um … Helmand Province, I think.” At the kid’s puzzled expression, Eric said, “You know, Afghanistan.”
“Afghanistan.” Bode still looked mystified.
“Bode?” Another voice, drifting up from behind. “Who is it?”
“Got us a devil dog,” Bode said, and now Eric saw another kid, also military and in the same olive drab, about five feet back. A paper napkin was tucked at his neck. Bode said, “That’s Chad. We’re on leave. Chad, this is Eric and that’s—”
“Emma,” she said.
“Hey,” Chad said around macaroni and cheese. His face was narrow, his nose no more than a blade, and he was pretty twitchy, kind of wired. To Eric, he looked a bit like a small and very anxious rat. Chad swallowed, said, “So what’s going on? You guys broke down?” His nose wrinkled. “Man, what’d you guys do, take a bath in gas or something?” To Emma: “What are you wearing? You look like a baked potato.”
“Space blanket,” she said.
“What?” Bode and Chad tossed a glance, and then Bode said to Emma, “You mean, like one of those souvenir Apollo things? From Cape Kennedy?”
