Reckoning Page 0,58
expected to see Dad in front of me, walking soft and easy like he was heading into enemy territory, gun drawn but down. He never approached a cache without gun in hand.
Because if you’re coming back to a cache, things might be bad, and if things are bad, the chance of someone waiting there for you had to be seriously considered. Still, he and I were the only people who knew about this place, right? And two can keep a secret if one is . . .
. . . dead.
Don’t think about that. Get in, get the cache, get out.
I supposed I should be grateful we’d spent so much time below the Mason-Dixon. At least I knew what I was about down here, and I would be in comfortable territory even over into Texas.
Of course, I’d been in comfortable territory at Gran’s, too, and still managed to screw that up hardcore. I didn’t even know how I’d messed up so bad. It’d just happened way too fast to take back.
I toed the door open, a malaika in one hand. A razor-sharp wooden sword was hardly the worst weapon to have around, I guess, but I would’ve preferred a gun. I’d had to unbuckle the leather harness before I got out to pump gas, for God’s sake, and my back wasn’t too happy even under the aspect’s smoothing heat. Driving with a pair of malaika strapped to your back is one way to end up feeling like an arthritic old lady.
The door creaked. The floor rolled in rotting humps, and the white noise of the ocean filled my head. Come here’n take a look at this, Dru-girl. Dad’s voice, calling through the shaky halls. Sharp rotting tang of mildew, each inch of wood swelling, drifts of paper trash in the corners. Looked like nobody had crashed here for long, thank God.
Even normal people can sometimes feel the creepy-chill. And stay away.
I cased the entire house, moving ghost-quiet, working the sightangles like Dad had taught me. Sometimes he had me sweep a house with him, sometimes on my own while he timed me and offered pointers afterward. I’d never really considered it not normal. I mean, I knew other kids didn’t do what I did, but no kid ever thinks their home life is weird. It’s just . . . there. Like your breathing, your heartbeat.
Like gravity. Only all my gravity was gone and I was spinning.
You’re a disease, Dru. You’re bad luck.
My sneakers tracked in the sand, and when I finally made it up the tottering stairs a second time memory filled my head like gasoline fumes. Dad showing me again how to move quietly on steps, how to test each board, how to walk only where he did and the signals to use when I felt something weird. Of course, he could usually tell just by looking at me—I guess I got that look, the one that gave him the singing willies, a lot. You go white as a sheet and your eyes . . . well, they look like your ma’s, he’d told me once. I think he’d had a little too much Beam that night.
He generally had to have a little sauce before he would talk about Mom.
Upstairs in the smaller bedroom, the closet was propped open. The carpet in here was rotten clear through, probably black with mildew underneath, but the day was hot enough that it didn’t soak my knees with yuck when I went down cautiously and felt around inside the closet. It smelled truly ferocious in there, and by the time I found the notch I was halfway to throwing up again. I was glad I hadn’t eaten anything.
The slice of flooring was swollen from the morning damp, but I got it worked up. And hallelujah, the ammo boxes were still there. Four in a row, neat as you please. Which meant I was now armed, had some extra cash, and probably had some ID, ammo, and MREs in there too.
“Oh, thank you,” I whispered, not sure who I was thanking. God, maybe, or Dad for laying down the cache in the first place. There was another cache on my way to Houston, but this one meant I could breathe and I wouldn’t have to stop to gather liquid resources. “Thank you. Holy . . .”
I stopped, my head coming up. Was that a soft footstep? The touch unfolded, swept out in concentric ripples, little waving fingers combing the air, searching for danger.
Nothing. The