Audie hears a car approaching, idling roughly as it rocks over the potholes. From the kitchen window, he spies an old Dodge pickup splashing through puddles left by the storm. It pulls up on the windward side of the house and reverses up to the door of the boatshed.
An old man gets out. He’s wearing overalls and work boots and a Houston Oilers cap, bleached of color. The Oilers left Houston in 1996, but for some the memory will never dim. He unlocks the shed and takes the cover off an aluminum dinghy, folding the tarpaulin neatly before hooking the trailer onto the tow ball of his pickup.
He’s a neighbor or friend, borrowing the boat. Maybe he won’t come up the stairs. He might not have a key. Where’s Max? He’s in the bedroom listening to music on his iPad.
The old man carries an outboard motor from the back of the pickup to the dinghy, where he hooks it over the stern and tightens the bolts. Next comes a fuel tank and tackle box. When everything is stowed, he gets back behind the wheel, but then glances up and notices the open shutter. Scratching his head, he gets out of the Dodge and walks across the lawn.
Audie picks up the shotgun and holds it against his side. It could still be OK. He’ll blame the storm for opening the shutter. As long as he doesn’t check the door…He’s at the top of the steps now. Wood creaks beneath his weight. He closes the shutter and checks the hinges. Nothing appears broken or bent. He moves along the deck to the door. Still four paces away, he sees the shattered square of glass.
“Bloody kids,” he mutters, reaching through the broken pane and slipping the bolt. “How much damage did you little bastards do?”
Pushing open the door, he steps inside and looks into the twin black holes of a shotgun about an inch from his forehead. He staggers on rubbery legs, the color draining from his face.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” says Audie.
The old man tries to respond, but his mouth opens and closes like he’s talking in a language a goldfish might understand. At the same time his hand slaps against his chest above his heart, making a hollow thudding sound.
Audie lowers the gun. “Are you OK?”
The man shakes his head.
“Your heart?”
He nods.
“Do you have pills?”
Another nod.
“Where?”
“Pickup.”
“Dashboard? Glove box? Bag?”
“Bag.”
Max comes out of the bedroom, still bashing the tambourine between his knees. He sees the old man and stops jangling.
“He’s got a heart problem,” says Audie. “There are pills in his pickup. I need you to get ’em right now.”
Max doesn’t question the order. The tambourine bashes all the way down the stairs and across the lawn, before going quiet. Audie can’t see the pickup because the shutter has been closed.
He gets a chair for the old man and makes him sit down. His face is sallow and wet with sweat and he’s staring at Audie like he’s looking at the ghost of Christmas Past.
“What’s your name?”
“Tony,” he croaks.
“Is it a heart attack?”
“Angina.”
Max opens the door of the pickup and searches until he finds an old sports bag. The keys are hanging in the ignition. This could be his chance. He could take the rig and be long gone before Audie got down the stairs. He could flag someone or find a phone. He could rescue himself and be a hero. Maybe Sophia Robbins would go out with him.
He’s contemplating these things as he searches through the bag and his fingers close around a cell phone. Next to it is a plastic bottle of pills. Glancing back at the house, Max opens the phone and keys a text message to his father’s cell:
This is Max. I’m OK. Beach house. East of Sargent, between Gulf and a canal. Blue house. Shingle roof. Deck. Boat shed.
He turns the phone off and tucks it into the crotch of his underwear. He takes the pills and shuts the door, glancing along the beach. Half a mile west he can see a 4WD carving doughnuts in the sand.
“Did you find the pills?” yells Audie. He’s standing on the deck.
“Yeah, I found them.”
Max holds up the bottle, shaking it above his head.
“Bring me the whole bag.”
“OK.”
Audie gets Tony a glass of water. He opens the bottle.
“One or two?”
Tony raises two fingers. Audie puts the pills in his palm and watches them being swallowed and washed down.
“Is he going to be OK?” asks Max.
“I think so.”
“Maybe we should call an ambulance.”
“Let’s give him a minute.”
Tony opens his eyes and looks almost serene, loaded up on whatever drug keeps his heart beating regularly or stops the pain. He smiles at Max and asks for another glass of water.
“Heart disease,” he explains, still heavy lidded. “They say I need a bypass but I don’t have no insurance. My daughter’s been saving but it’s gonna cost $159,000. She’s doing two jobs now but I’ll still be dead twenty years before she can pay for it.”
He wipes his face with a handkerchief, which is little more than a rag. “That’s why I go fishing, to put a bit of food on the table. I borrow the Halligans’ boat, which they don’t know about.” He looks up at Audie. “Guess they don’t know about you neither.”
Audie doesn’t answer.
“So who are you and what’re you doing here?”
He studies Max and Audie, his eyes traveling south until he spies the tambourine between Max’s knees. An idea occurs to him and his eyebrows jump. “You’re that boy they looking for. It’s all over the news.” He frowns at Audie. “And they say you’re a killer.”
“They’re wrong.”
“So what are you going to do with me?”
“I’m thinking.”
“I won’t be going fishing.”
“Not today. When was your daughter expecting you home?”
“Around dusk.”
“Do you have a cell?”
Max interrupts. “There’s none in the bag.” He glances at Tony and something passes between them.
“My daughter keeps wanting me to carry one,” says Tony, “but I never got the hang of them.”
“You feeling better?” asks Audie.
“I’ll be fine.”
“You should take him to the hospital,” says Max.
“If he gets worse,” says Audie, checking the windows and flipping the safety on the shotgun.
“What about my daughter?” Tony asks. “She’ll be worried ’bout me.”
Audie looks at his watch. “Not until dusk.”