Off Season - Jack Ketchum [45]
“Okay,” he said again. “I’ll take our little bomb upstairs and drop it on their fucking faces. When you hear ‘em holler, get the door unlocked and get those pans of water.”
“What about you?” said Marjie. “How are you going to handle Laura and a pan of boiling water?”
“Leave the last pan on the burner in case we have to use it to get us back inside. I’ll have the poker. That I can deal with.” He folded a towel and draped it over the handle of the poker so that when he came downstairs he could grab it instantly.
“As soon as you see me,” he said, “get out the door. That’s presuming those guys on the hill move around back as fast as I think they will. If they don’t move, we don’t go. But I think we’re dealing with a little family here. I hope they’ll defend one another. Keep an eye on them through the peephole.”
“You take the peephole,” Nick said to Marjie. “I’ll get the door and watch for Dan.”
“Could we do it the other way around?” she said. She thought of Carla out there. “If I have to look at her . . .”
“Sure,” said Nick. “Fine. I understand.” He put his hand on her arm and she realized that he was trembling, too.
Dan took a towel off the table and moved quickly to the stove. He picked up the pot of oil and turned off the burner. The oil was dark and bubbling. He headed for the stairs. At the stairway he stopped and turned around and saw them watching him. “You guys?” he said softly. For a moment he said nothing. Then he said, “Good luck.” Marjie managed to raise a smile for him. Silently he climbed the stairs.
The attic was cold. He hesitated, waiting until he could make out the shape of the window across the room in the dark. He wanted the room dark. If he turned on the light those bastards below them might notice, and he didn’t want them looking up at him. Not until he was ready. He crossed slowly to the window, found the latch, and gently pushed it open. He looked outside. Two of the women and a few of the children were directly below. The window was small. There would barely be room, but he’d manage.
He moved the pan out the window. There was just enough space to extend his arm fully and get his head through there. He paused a moment, calculating, making sure. He had a sudden urge to laugh as he watched them down below. For chrissakes get yourself under control, he told himself. This has got to be good. Perfect. In another moment he felt fine again. He took a deep breath and turned over the pan. He moved his arm side to side so the oil would spread and at the same time said, “Hey assholes,” just loud enough for them to hear. He saw their heads turn upward and stare at him, stare up into the falling oil. He felt a moment of glee and triumph, and dropped the pan at the nearest woman.
As he pulled his head inside he could already hear them screaming.
1:15 A.M.
Four hours beating the bush with over twenty men and they didn’t have a thing. Peters had expected as much. He made a beeline for the coffee urn and drew himself a cup; black, no sugar. He shouldn’t even be drinking the stuff, he thought. This goddam diet was going to kill him. That is, if the winter didn’t do it first. Here it was only early September and he could already feel it in the air. Every winter for three years running now he’d caught himself a cold that had lasted straight through to February. Doc Linden told him it was the extra weight that made him susceptible, the weight and the bad food and the long hours. Bunch of bullshit. Doctors knew less about the common cold than he knew about these weird kids out there.
The coffee warmed him, though. The station house was going to be ice cold again this year, he thought. He’d dig that space heater out of the cellar and put it in his office—that would help some. He walked past the rows of desks and into the glass-enclosed office cubicle. Shearing was waiting for him with an old man in a dirty blue parka who smelled of cheap whiskey. Peters recognized him immediately.
“Danner or Donner?” he said.
“Donner,