Paco’s house at night was more ominous than in daylight. No lights on inside or outside, which made it look more abandoned and derelict. Like a lonely house where a killer once lived just before he shot his whole family then turned the gun on himself. Or a serial killer’s humble abode, where every pebble and leaf on the lawn, and every nail holding the clapboards together, had a spot of someone’s blood on it and would tell a hellish story if any of it could talk.
Gord told me to pull into the driveway, but not right up to the house. Kill the remaining headlight fast. Stop and wait and listen and watch. Just because it didn’t look like anyone was home didn’t mean Paco wasn’t watching us, about to creep up behind us and press a cold barrel behind one of our ears. Been there.
I whispered as quietly as I could, keeping my lips from moving. “I’m following your lead. You tell me what to do, I do it. But please don’t get me killed. If you can help it.”
“I’ll try” was the response, not encouraging. “We don’t go in the front, don’t knock on the door—Paco wouldn’t answer anyway. Safe bet that the place is locked up, all booby traps in place, and he won’t be happy to see us.”
Gord had the revolver in hand, re-loaded, the box of bullets sitting on the seat between us. He shoved the gun down the back of his pants, flipped his shirt over its bulge.
“He can only shoot one of us at a time.”
“You really know how to make me feel better, Gord, you fuck,” I whispered.
“Just stating facts.”
“He has an arsenal. Automatic fire can kill two birds with some pretty quick stones. And we can’t fly away.”
“We’re not going to give him that chance,” Gord vowed.
“You have a gun, I don’t. What do you think the chances are of me wrestling any gun out of his hands—and living—after he kills you?”
“Not good.” At least Gord was honest, the bastard.
“I hate you, Gord.”
“I love you, Chris.”
I followed his lead and squeaked open my door as quietly as possible. But with the kind of silence only heard—felt—in the depths of a dark forest, a squeak sounds like a banshee wail. I winced with every inch that the door opened. Like pulling off a bandage, I chose to just push the door open in one shot. If the sound woke up the ogre, so be it.
Leaving our doors open, Gord and I stepped to the front of the truck. I followed behind as we made our way over and through the labyrinth of litter on the lawn. Slow steps, like walking across a minefield, feeling with the soles of our shoes where we were stepping before putting weight down on each foot. This wasn’t a comedy, so thankfully we didn’t kick a hubcap and send it rattling into a pyramid of scrap metal, bringing it crashing down.