“What was it like out there?” she asked me suddenly.
I looked at her as I pulled my shirt on. “Out where?”
“You know. In Syria.”
I shook my head. “It was hard.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“Don’t be sorry. It’s just hard to talk about.”
“Why? Painful memories?”
“Painful memories, sure. But more that civilians can’t really understand anything I’m saying, not really. Not unless you’ve been in a war zone.”
“I see. I’d have to experience it.”
“Right, but that’s the last thing you’d want to do.”
She smiled. “Good point.”
“Just be happy I’m here with you.”
“I am happy about that. I don’t know where I’d be without you.”
Just then, I heard a noise outside. I froze and Piper cocked her head at me.
“What?” she asked.
I held up my hand for silence and she looked concerned. I heard the noise again and quickly moved to the counter where I had left my gun. I grabbed it and moved to the front window, looking outside.
There, coming up the long drive, was a pickup truck. It was red and rusting, the sort of beat-up old thing that guys kept running for years and years out in places like this. It was coming up slow, and I could only see one man in the cab.
“Truck’s coming,” I said.
“Who is it?” I could hear the fear in her voice.
“Can’t tell. It’s one man, but I don’t recognize him.”
“Could it be the mob?”
“Maybe,” I said. “But I doubt it. Mobsters don’t usually drive beat-up trucks like this.”
She came up next to me and peered out. “I don’t recognize it, either. Looks like a farmer’s truck from a movie or something.”
“Stay inside. There’s a back door straight down that hall. If something happens, you go out that door and you run as fast as you can into the woods. Understand?”
“And then what? I’ll get lost.”
“There’s a town east of here, maybe ten miles off. You can cover that in a day if you try. Just look up at the sun and make sure it’s setting at your back.”
“Okay,” she said softly. “But I don’t want to leave you.”
“Do as I ask you,” I said sternly.
She nodded as I stepped to the door. The sound of the approaching pickup got louder. I gave her one more look before turning the knob and stepping out onto the porch.
The truck stopped about twenty feet away. The man that stepped out was in his sixties with a round belly and a thick bushy white beard. He looked like Santa Claus, except harder and meaner. He wore rumpled jeans and a dirty flannel shirt, despite the heat.
He didn’t look like a mobster, not one bit. But the mob didn’t always do its own dirty work.
“That’s far enough,” I called out. I held my gun loosely at my side, finger off the trigger, but in plain view.
He took note of the gun but didn’t seem phased. “Who are you?” he asked.
“I was about to ask you that.”
“I’m Randy. I live around here.”
“I’m Gates. This is my cabin.”
Randy shook his head. “Ain’t your cabin. Last I heard, Ron King owned this place.”
“Ron died a long time ago.”
“Hmm. I guess he did.” Randy grinned at me. “Said your name was Gates?”
“I’m Ron’s son.”
“So you’re little Gatesy, eh?”
“Just Gates.”
“Your daddy used to talk about you. Used to say you were the smartest little kid he ever met in his life.”
“How did you know him?”
“Your father used to come out here all the time. I live not three miles away. We used to fish together, do a little hunting, play a little poker, get into trouble. That sort of thing, you know.”
I nodded. My father knew all about getting into trouble. He was a bookie among many other professions, including a stevedore down at the docks and the owner of a very shady bar. I was pretty sure that he used to collect bribes for the Democratic Party back in the day, too. My father was not a stand-up guy, but trouble was something he always seemed to find easily enough.
“Why are you here?” I asked Randy.
“I been taking care of this place for years. I saw you pull up here, wondered who the hell you were.”
“What took you so long getting up here?”
“I’m fuckin’ old,” he said. “Besides, the game was on the TV. I figured there’s nothin’ worth stealin’ in there, anyways.”
“That’s true,” I said.