Without Warning (73 page)

“Well, I do, but that’s hardly going to make a damn bit of difference, is it?”

The policeman didn’t bother replying to that, but he at least waited until Kip opened the door properly, rather forcing his way in. His partner followed and the soldiers moved up the path, but Barb held up a hand.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mind the police looking around, but you boys have the filthiest shoes I’ve ever seen. Would you mind awfully just waiting for the police to do what they have to? You can stand on the porch if you want to get out of that drizzle. I could make you some cocoa if you’d like. It’s powdered milk, though, I’m afraid.”

A corporal raised one eyebrow at the cops, who shrugged it all off.

“Yeah, whatever. If you don’t mind us poking around, Mrs. Kipper?”

Barb smiled sweetly, firing up her long-dormant Homecoming Queen charm.

“Well, if you could try not to wake my daughter. I’ve just put her down, and her sleep’s been very disturbed since … you know.”

When Kipper’s wife felt like it she could be all eyes, tits, and teeth, and even the older cop was taken in by all the display.

“We’ll try not to disturb her, ma’am,” said Banks.

They padded through the kitchen, and Kip watched them head toward
the cellar door with a lurching heart. Curlewis, the younger one, flicked on lights as he went, and both Kip and Barbara flinched and squinted at the fierce glow. They hadn’t had the place lit up in a month.

“So, would you boys like that cocoa?” she asked brightly.

Kip’s heart was racing and he felt like his guilt must be writ large on his face, but the corporal only smiled and nodded enthusiastically at the offer of a hot drink.

“That’d be awesome, ma’am.”

“Will you be out all night?” his wife asked as she set about fixing up their cocoa. “It’s going to be terribly cold, I think. It’s been so chilly and awful, hasn’t it? Since the Wave came.”

Kip tried not to look concerned as the police disappeared down into his cellar. He tried to imagine where Barney might have hidden himself away at such short notice. The place was a mess, with dozens of packing crates from their original move to Seattle still stored down there. But really, there weren’t many places a grown man could hide himself.

“Who’d like a marshmallow?” trilled Barb.

His nuts felt like they were retracting inside his body as he heard the cops shifting boxes and talking to each other downstairs.

“Mr. Kipper? Sir? Could you come here?” called Banks.

Giddy and shaking ever so slightly Kip excused himself and walked down the hallway. He stopped at the head of the staircase. They hadn’t been able to find the light switch, and the cellar was lit by two flashlight beams.

“Something I can help you with?” he asked, forcing the fear from his voice.

“Yeah. There is. Could you come down here, sir?”

He trod carefully, descending the steps.

“Something up?”

“Yeah,” said Banks. “You know there’s an emergency ordnance against hoarding, don’t you, sir?”

Kipper almost stammered in reply.

“What?”

“You’ve got a lot of rations stowed down here, sir,” said Banks. “I hope you didn’t stock up recently.”

“I … uh … I … no. I didn’t, Sergeant. I’m a hiker. I got those supplies at least six months ago, in Spokane, when a camping warehouse closed down.”

“Got receipts, Mr. Kipper?”

Completely flummoxed now, Kip could only shake his head.

“Uh. No … No, wait, I paid for them with my Visa. It’ll be on the statement if you need to see them.”

He felt like he was trapped in some absurdist East European play, one of those fuck-awful theater-of-pain things he’d seen with Barb when they first started dating.

Man, the things you do to get laid.

“Okay,” said Banks. “That’ll be fine then, if you could fax that through to me on this number.”

He handed Kipper a card.

“I’m afraid I do have to report it, sir. But if you’ve got that statement you’ll be okay.”

“Great,” said Kip.

The cops gave the room another once-over but seemed satisfied and picked their way through the clutter back toward the stairs. Kipper moved back and aside to let them up. He could smell the heady aroma of cocoa wafting in from the kitchen and hear the muffled voices of the troops as they thanked his wife. Banks and Curlewis checked every room downstairs before heading up to the second floor.

“My daughter’s first room on the right,” said Kip softly. “If you could just, you know, be quiet up there.”

They stepped lightly up the stairs and pushed Suzie’s door ajar carefully. She was wrapped up in her Barbie quilt, with just a tuft of hair poking out. He could see that her room, normally quite neat, was a shambles, with toys all over the floor and clothes strewn everywhere. Banks gestured to his younger, more agile partner to get down and check under the bed, which Curlewis did by shining a light under there.

He shook his head.

“No bogeymen. No terrorists.”

The room had no cupboards, which had always been a source of frustration to Barb. Every drawer in Suzie’s dresser was open, with items of clothing hanging out, and her jumbo toy box was open, but crammed full of furry friends, dress-up costumes, and an inflatable Barney the Dinosaur.

“Sorry about the mess,” said Kip. “Kids, you know.”

Banks rolled his eyes.

“I got three.”

He searched the other bedrooms, and the bathroom, but without success. At last, with Kip’s heart fit to burst out of his rib cage, the sergeant flicked off his flashlight.

“Think your wife has any cocoa left?” he asked.

“There’s always some to spare,” said Kipper.

They weren’t long in staying. Just another five minutes, long enough to throw down a hot drink before heading out into the hard chill of the night. Barb smiled and waved them all the way down the drive and kept her mask in place. Then her act fell apart and she rushed to the sink and vomited up a stomach full of warm cocoa.

Kipper quickly flicked off the lights so they couldn’t be seen from outside.

“Holy shit,” he breathed. “Where the fuck is Barney?”

“Toy box, in Suzie’s bedroom. I stashed him there. Covered in Barbies and fairy wings. God, he’s so fucking big, I didn’t think he was going to fit in. Oh man, I have never been so fucking glad we got the monster-size toy box,” she grunted before hurling again.

Barb took a few seconds to gather herself.

“I told Suzie it was a game. That she had to pretend to be asleep. Oh, my God, Kip. What the hell was that about?”

“I’d better go get the Scarlet Pimpernel and let him tell you himself,” he said.

“Better wait a while first, honey,” she replied, wiping flecks of brown drool from her chin. “In case they come back.”

But they didn’t. Kipper peeked out once and saw them knocking on the door at Mrs. Heinemann’s place. They seemed to be working the whole street, which gave him some confidence that he hadn’t been specifically targeted. He gave it fifteen excruciating minutes before hurrying upstairs to rescue Barney. Suzie had fallen asleep for real while Barney hid in her toy stash. His legs had cramped painfully, and he’d had a lot of trouble breathing in there. He emerged with a flushed purple complexion and a plastic tiara on his head.

“You see, Kip. You see what we’re reduced to,” he said.

Kip put one finger to his lips to quiet him down.

“Come on. Don’t wake Suzie. We have to get you out of here.”

“I’m sorry, Kip. I’m real sorry. I shouldn’t have come. I’m gonna get you in trouble.”

“Just shut up, Barney, and come out of Suzie’s room.”

Barb was waiting outside in the hallway, looking terrified but angry with it.

“What the hell was that about?” she demanded to know.

“They were looking for me,” Barney admitted, shamefacedly.

“No shit, Sherlock. What the fuck’s going on, Kip? Barney?”

“Just what I said would happen,” said Barney.

He grabbed Kip by the elbow.

“I’m … I can’t thank you enough for helping me back there, Kip. But it’s
not just me. More people need help. They need
your
help, buddy. What d’you think now?”

Kip didn’t answer.

He was looking at his wife’s eyes.

Her frightened, haunted eyes.

His mother tucking him into bed. Patting down the blanket and making sure that Thumper, his stuffed corduroy kangaroo, was snuggled in tight. A fire crackling in the potbellied stove. Bret’s head hanging over the edge of the bed as he stared into the flames. Heat. Smoke.

Rough hands. Cursing.

He came to in the wreck of the Land Rover, American Dave’s caved-in head on his lap, as heavy as a medicine ball, spilling its glutinous contents over his legs. A dark man, without a face, leaning in over Dave rummaging in his jacket, looting his

(body)

No. He was alive. He stirred and the figure jumped and swore in Arabic. Hands closed around his throat and tightened. He gagged and tried to gulp down air, but could not. A struggle he couldn’t hope to win ensued as Melton shot a hand out, reaching for the man’s throat notch. He missed and struck a bristled cheekbone.

Flames licked at the back of his neck, and smoke poured out the rear of the wreckage. His hand, scrabbling like a giant fleshy spider, quickly felt its way up his would-be killer’s face, finding an eye socket into which he dug his
thumb, gritting his teeth against the inescapable revulsion as he felt it push in between the eyelid and socket.

The man screamed, rearing back and hitting his head on something. Melton could see his hands pawing at the injury. He lifted a leg and lashed out with one boot as best he could. Not a great kick, but enough to drive the man back another foot. The former ranger twisted, attempting to pull out his pistol, but pain, white fire, in his shoulder prevented him. Dark spots bloomed before his eyes, but he turned the other way and reached around with his good hand, reaching across his body and finding the weapon at his hip. Dave’s ruined head turned up to stare at him. One side of his skull had been jellied by the impact of the rocket blast. Trying not to let the gnawing, twisting rat of panic get control of his mind, he drew the pistol as quickly as he could, thumbed off the safety, and fired two shots into the center mass of the looter. The man flew backward and down, hitting the pavement with a heavy thud.

Melton scrabbled at his seat belt, only to find that it was already disengaged. He had no idea how. Perhaps the guy he’d just killed. He couldn’t get out the driver’s-side door. American Dave was blocking the way. With his one good hand he attempted his own door, but it was buckled and jammed. Ammunition began to cook off in the rear of the vehicle. Or was that shooting from outside?

The heat was unbearable, and his eyes stung with acrid smoke. He levered himself around, drew up both legs, and piston-kicked the door. He was unbalanced by how easily it flew open, and suffered a painful blow on his shins as the door bounced back and struck him heavily just below the knee. Swearing loudly, he butt-shuffled across the seat and fell onto the cobblestone road.

Instantly the air cleared, at least compared with the smoke-choked interior of the Land Rover. Left arm dangling uselessly, Melton quickly checked for the other passengers. One was obviously dead, shredded by the RPG. The other was missing. He hurried away, making for the nearest doorway. With no idea where they were, disoriented by the blast and probably suffering a concussion, he took in his surroundings as a dizzy, discontinuous swirl of images. Burned vehicles. Gutted buildings. At least four bodies in the street. A wall of four-and five-story terrace buildings in front of him. Old but well maintained until recently. They were now pockmarked with bullet holes and disfigured by scorch marks. He was still in the old city. Somewhere near the BBC offices, he thought, but deep inside that jigsaw puzzle of irregularly shaped city blocks to which neither the Loyalists nor Sarkozy could lay claim.

Bullets spattered and caromed off the wreckage of the Land Rover, just as
the fuel tank went up with a dense, hot
whumpl
Melton hobbled as fast as he could for cover. A doorway, hanging from its hinges, just in front of him.