What Would Satan Do_ - Anthony Miller [87]
Liam turned away from the window, and strode back into the living room. He pointed to Preston and Ramón. “You two. Go.” He waved one hand dismissively toward the rear of the house. “Hide somewhere.”
“What? What’s the matter?” asked Preston.
“There’s a man with a gun,” said Liam, “and you need to go hide yourselves right now.”
“Oh, then. Come along Ramón.” The odd couple disappeared down a hallway.
“What about me?” asked Festus.
“You can hide, too.” He gave Festus an encouraging shove, and Festus scampered off to try to catch up with Preston and Ramón. “Lola, sit over there.” He pointed at one of the fancy couches.
“What?” asked Lola.
“Sit. There.” He pointed at the couch again.
Lola shrugged, squinted, and shook her head.
“Sit on the couch. Act surprised when he comes in. Don’t let him know I’m here.” Liam stepped back toward the entryway, and crouched down behind a tall plant in the corner.
If the man had come inside at that instant, he would have found Lola, sitting on a couch, making nasty, sullen faces at a house plant. But the man didn’t come in. Instead he knocked.
The knock was polite – a tiny bit timid, even. It was certainly not the knock of a man carrying a shotgun. Unless, of course, the man carrying the shotgun was just a neighbor who was returning the weapon after borrowing it to do some spring cleaning or something. But then it would be unusual for a well-meaning neighbor to show up with the weapon actually aimed at the front door, or to load a shell into the chamber prior to knocking, making that “chig-chig” sound that, in movies, so often precedes a lot of noisy, unpleasant carnage.
Liam and Lola waited for the man to bust down the door. But then there was another polite knock. A little firmer this time, but still fairly dainty, as if the knocker had just wanted to make sure that the knockee had actually heard the knocking – without being too obtrusive or anything.
Lola shrugged, gesturing at the door, and mouthed, “Should I answer?” Liam leaned out from behind the plant briefly and shook his head. Lola glared at the plant some more.
There followed a moment of silence, during which Liam and Lola exchanged confused, slightly worried looks through the foliage. Then the door knob rattled a bit, indicating that the man with the shotgun was quietly checking to see if the door was unlocked.
Lola dropped her head into her hands and sighed. She looked up at the house plant, her palm and fingers splayed across her face, and rolled her eyes. She pulled her hand away, however, at the sound of smashing glass.
The butt of the shotgun appeared briefly where just before there had been a pane of glass in the window next to the door. It caught on the gauzy curtains, which tore as the gun was pulled back through the window. A hand appeared, and began groping around near the door knob.
“Ow! God damnit, sumbitch!” The hand withdrew quickly, and after a short spell during which Liam and Lola could hear further swearing, the butt of the gun reappeared to knock out the remaining shards of glass from the window pane. Then the hand came back, groping around some more until it found the deadbolt and unlocked the door. It was another, eternally-long twenty seconds before the door finally creaked open.
The man poked his head into the room. He wore faded jeans that had a yellowish-brownish hue and were covered with mud splatters. His flannel shirt had probably been red once upon a time, but now it was a pale, brownish-pink. And of course, he had the obligatory red-neck mullet. (Why anyone – even a stupid redneck – still sports this universally-derided hair style is one of the great, ineffable mysteries of life.)
The man stepped all the way into the room, and pushed the door closed – with a light “click” – behind him. He moved slowly, the shotgun dangling in one of his hands, as if it were just a stick he’d found and had liked the look of. He kept his body very still as he