A Dead Issue (2 page)

At the top of Jonah's lane, Dusty had to wait for Morgan's fuel truck to pull out. The driver gave us a thumbs-up and we turned into his cloud of dust. The narrow road was a quarter mile downhill run into a little valley where Jonah's stone farmhouse sat on the right just beyond a wooden bridge. The dirt track looped around an oval of crabgrass before heading back toward the main road.

When we got to the bridge, I saw that Jonah's banged-up F150 wasn't in its usual place next to the house. At lunch he had talked about an appointment. He was gone—to the dentist, maybe the bank—out on the road somewhere, squinting through lenses that looked like shot glasses in frames. Dusty parked next to the empty patch of dead grass.

We got out of my car and climbed three wooden steps to his back porch and I knocked on the door without any real hope that he was home. Unless Jonah came back within the next few minutes, I'd have to give it up for the day—go without money and a license until Monday. Christ.

Dusty checked his watch. “You know where your wallet is?”

“On the counter by the sink. I tossed it there when we sat down for lunch.”

Dusty reached around me and twisted the knob. “The door's open. Go get it.”

I hesitated—unsure.

He placed the toe of his shoe at the base of the door and gave it a push. It swung open, and we looked down the narrow mudroom, a hallway where Jonah shucked off his boots before entering his kitchen. Technically, this was little more than a closed-in porch, so entering did not seem like trespassing. That feeling kicked in when we got to the door to the kitchen. I knocked.

“He's not home,” Dusty said with some annoyance.

I poked my head into the kitchen. “Jonah?” I called. “Anyone home?” I caught Dusty rolling his eyes.

“I'll get it for you . . . Christ,” he said, nudging me aside. With a few quick steps he was by the sink looking down at the counter, feeling his way around the shadows near the breadbox.

It was my turn to roll my eyes, and I joined him, looking down at the spot where my wallet should have been. Jonah must have found it.

A door closed somewhere above us.

Dusty's eyes grew wide. “Somebody's home.”

“Hey, Jonah,” I called and stepped into the den with two stuffed chairs angled at the fireplace.

A roar cascaded down the stairwell. “Who's down there?”

It was not a question, but an accusation. The voice, tight with anger, was barely recognizable as Jonah's. “Who's down there?” he bellowed again, louder this time, with more ferocity.

We turned toward the stairwell with its sharply curved spiral of steps spilling into the den.

“Jonah, it's us,” I called.

A footfall, heavy and deliberate, clomped down the first step, followed by a grunt and a gunshot like a grenade at the top of the stairs. Plaster exploded from the wall at the bottom of the steps, and a thumping avalanche of noise came rumbling down the stairwell as if someone had pushed a refrigerator from the top landing. Jonah tumbled into the pale shaft of light from the front door, landing with his feet still on the stairs and his arms splayed out. His pistol landed next to him and spun once on its side before coming to a halt a few feet from his outstretched hand.

CHAPTER 2

We ran, banging into each other, shoving one another aside, pulling on sleeves and collars trying to be first in our panic-stricken flight. Dusty pushed past me in the kitchen and burst out of the house. He headed straight for my car and dove into the passenger seat. I jumped behind the wheel, started the engine, and dropped it into first. We bounced across the rough lawn in a tight circle that brought me back to the lane and toward the bridge. The car lurched over the bridge like a horse jumping a low fence, and our heads snapped forward upon landing.

A glance in the rearview mirror showed a column of dust spiraling behind us like the contrail of a fighter jet—I lifted my foot from the gas pedal. Dusty looked over at me, confusion written on his face. I found the break in the stone row where Jonah drove his tractor into the fields, and maneuvered around the piles of brush we had made earlier in the day. I stopped the car, both hands gripping the wheel.

“We have to go back.”

“He shot at us!” Dusty said.

“There was a shot,” I explained. “He didn't know it was us.”

Dusty raked his fingers through his hair and looked toward the stone row on his right. Shadows deepened and spread from under the trees. The sky was a dark blue, minutes from the blackness of a moonless October night. He bit his lip and nodded.

“OK . . . OK. You're right,” he said like he was trying to convince himself.

I settled back in the driver's seat and turned the key. The car emitted a series of little clicks.

“You really need to do something about that.”

I climbed out of the car and headed toward the farmhouse on foot. Dusty sat in the car for a moment and then caught up. As we crossed the field to the lane, I took note of the ground, trying to determine if there was enough slope to clutch-start my car. It looked possible.

“What if he's dead?” Dusty asked.

“Don't know,” I answered and kept moving. Dusty had to take a running step every so often to keep up to my pace.

“If he's alive he must be hurt bad—a guy that old falling down the stairs.”

Darkness settled down hard on Jonah's valley. As we crossed the little wooden bridge, we paused to survey the scene and contemplate what might lie ahead. Wind rustled through the dying leaves, bringing with it a chill and the promise of approaching winter. Shadows strangled Jonah's house. A flutter of leaves fell around us. The house itself was completely dark, its rustic warmth gone, replaced now by a forbidding shroud.

“He's got a gun,” Dusty whispered. “What if he's waiting?” His eyes were locked on the house beyond the bridge.

“We call to him. Let him know it's us.”

“Didn't we try that?”

I gave him a nod and headed toward the house anyway. Dusty held back a moment and then caught up to me.

“It's getting darker by the minute,” he said, “He can't hardly see in the daylight. What if he starts blasting away?”

My chest tightened and I swallowed. Somewhere in the distant night a dog barked.

“Come on,” I urged. “Let's get this over with.”

We walked cautiously, slowed by uncertainty and the uneven path. The roof of the house was outlined against the last remnants of light left in the sky. As we neared the porch, details took dim shape and we could see the three wooden steps. We paused before going farther, listening—straining for any sound from within.

We heard nothing. Jonah was either dead or dying. I didn't think he'd be waiting for us with his gun. I took a deep breath and started to tiptoe up to the porch, Dusty at my side. My foot landed noiselessly on the porch, and from somewhere deep in the house, a light went on.

CHAPTER 3

We dropped to a crouch as if the light had been a pistol shot. Scrambling off the steps, we ducked around the corner and squatted. For an absurd moment, I felt like it was Halloween and I had been caught soaping windows. The illusion quickly faded to reality as Dusty blew out his breath. “Well, he's alive.”

“And moving about,” I added. “That's good—I guess.”

I paused for a moment and then stood up. Dusty stayed low, almost behind me. My nerves had settled down to a steady flutter. I came out from our hiding place and marched to Jonah's back porch, positioning myself about four feet from the first step.

“Jonah . . . ?”

I waited again, this time long enough for Dusty to join me. When I felt him next to me, I called again. “Jonah?”

“He's not sure it's us,” Dusty offered and then lifted his voice, “Hey, Jonah! It's me—Dusty. We came back for Mark's wallet.”

“I left it here this afternoon!” I added. We listened for a response but heard nothing but the whisper of wind.

“Let's try the front,” Dusty suggested.

We felt our way along the side of Jonah's house, skirting shrubbery and looking for light in a window, but Jonah's house was heavily curtained. We rounded the corner and approached the front door. It was made of sturdy wood and had in the upper panels identical cut-glass designs, elegant in their simplicity, glowing orange with the light from within.

We watched the light for a moment to see if there was any movement, and when it was apparent that all was still in the house, we inched forward and pressed our eyes against the glass. The interior of the house came into sharp focus. The foreground, the parlor, was dark with occasional patches of light revealing the arm of a chair, the
corner of a rug, and the polished wooden floor. At the far
end of the parlor, the doorway to the den framed a softly lit room with a small table next to a padded chair, which I knew faced the fireplace. The only feature that marred the charm and warmth of the scene was Jonah's outstretched hand in the rectangle of pine floor beyond the doorway. As we watched, the hand slowly closed and flexed like it was squeezing an invisible tennis ball.

“Jesus!” Dusty said. “Let's go!”

Dusty streaked into the lawn. I tugged and rattled at the door. Locked. Dusty stood in the lane ready to run back to the car and called after me when I raced around the side of the house.

“Mark!” he called in a whisper. “What are you doing?”

“Come on,” I shouted and ran toward the back door.

He caught up to me as I climbed the stairs and grabbed me by the belt.

“Are you nuts?” he asked in a tone that sounded like he thought I was about to leap into a volcano.

“We've got to get help—call 911.”

“Stop,” he commanded. “Just stop.”

I paused and turned back to him.

“Before you rush in there—think.” He allowed time for me to settle down. “Who turned the light on?”

I didn't have an answer.

“You don't think he jumped up, turned the light on and then got back on the floor at the bottom of the steps do you? Somebody's in there!”

“There can't be,” I argued. “We'd have heard them.” I paused.

“But somebody turned the light on!” he persisted. “A burglar. Maybe he's the one Jonah was shooting at. Maybe he's in there now with the gun!”

I stared at Dusty for a moment, weighing his words. What he said might have been possible, but it didn't feel right.

“Timer!” I said and Dusty gaped at me blankly. “He has a light on a timer!”

I pushed open the door and ran through the mudroom with my hands sliding down the walls of the hallway. The
light from the den filtered into the kitchen with enough intensity that I managed to get across the room without
plowing through his table and chairs. Dusty thumped after me, whispering, “Mark! Mark!” He caught up to me at the archway to the den. I was frozen to the spot, mouth open in shock and disbelief. Jonah was gone.

CHAPTER 4

Dusty bumped up behind me and peered over my shoulder. “Where is he?” he whispered into my ear.

I stood listening to my heart thumping against my chest as I tried to figure out what had just happened. Jonah had regained consciousness. We watched his hand come to life through the front door. While we argued about what to do, he had risen—and was gone. I scanned the floor, picturing his pistol spinning to a stop inches from his hand—the hand that had flexed. The gun was missing, too.

“Jonah!” I shouted toward the stairway. For some inexplicable reason I felt that he had gone back upstairs, seeking the high ground to fend off home invaders.

“Shh!” Dusty whispered through clenched teeth. “What the fuck's the matter with you? He has a gun!”

“I know,” I said, taking a few steps into the den toward the stairway, “and I want him to know it's me before he uses it.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dusty muttered. Nevertheless, he came with me, step-by-step, deeper into the den.

“Jonah? It's us. We just . . .”

A sound floated from the parlor—the slow and deliberate scraping of furniture being moved across a wooden floor. It startled us and we froze in the silence that followed.

“Jonah?”

There was another scrape and we stared into the cave-like arched doorway of the parlor. With the third scrape, a chair appeared out of the shadows and paused in a pool of light. We stared at it, waiting for it to move again. Ten seconds passed and the chair inched forward again, revealing a meaty hand on the oak backrest. Jonah slid into view, using the chair as a crutch, the gun held limply at his side. He shuffled forward a few steps into the den, pigeon-toed and unsteady. His glasses were gone—eyes
squinted as if sand had been thrown into his face. He lifted
the chair and tossed it effortlessly aside where it tumbled into the corner. Dusty and I flinched and stepped backward. Jonah lurched forward like a drunk on the verge of collapse, taking baby steps, swaying and rocking—barely able to keep upright. He raised the gun and held it out in front of him, swinging it back and forth like a man watering his lawn.

“Holy shit,” Dusty whispered. The gun sought the source of the voice. Dusty dove to the floor and a roaring explosion filled the room, drowning out Dusty's scream. I crouched behind one of the padded chairs and Jonah fired again, blowing a gigantic hole in the padding next to my ear. As a shield, the chair was no better than a party balloon. I dropped to the floor as another explosion rocked the room and puffs of stuffing filled the air like snowflakes. Another blast followed. Jonah swung the pistol back and forth, squeezing off shots at regular intervals, each shot filling the room as the previous explosion faded. Shattering glass, falling plaster, and splintering wood added to the din, and he kept shooting, and shooting. It didn't seem possible for a gun to hold that many bullets—and then it stopped.