Dead Harvest

The house was a shabby old duplex, white with blue trim. A length of narrow pipe, painted white, jutted from the concrete of the lowest porch-step and led upward to the covered porch above. The porch itself was chipped and weathered and littered with cigarette butts and empty beer cans. Two doors, side by side, allowed entry to the house, and they were flanked by two mailboxes, each numbered by hand in black marker. One screen door sat crooked across its frame, its top hinge torn free of the jamb. It swayed lazily in the early morning breeze, creaking all the while.

  Just above the rooftop hung a sky of navy blue, streaked with the dusky hues of an overripe peach – the beginnings of a beautiful sunrise. Truth be told, I barely noticed. I was mostly focused on the house – well, that and staying conscious – while the knife wound in my leg seemed content to spend its time bleeding through the towel I'd wrapped around it, throbbing like a son of a bitch all the while.

  We were sitting on the darkened stoop of a pawnshop across the street, its barred windows chock-full of guitars, electronics, and the sundry other crap people'd seen fit to part with for a little quick cash. No gold, though, I noticed – just a patch of black velvet where I supposed it ought to go. I guess they kept that stuff in back. Made sense. Any neighborhood with a pawnshop probably ain't the kind of place you want to leave your jewelry unattended.

  I'd been resting my head against the pawnshop door, and I suppose I must've dozed off, because my eyes flew open at the sound of Kate's voice. Startled, I jerked upright. The sudden muscle tension sent waves of searing pain down my leg, and up into my gut. A cold sweat broke out across my face, and I thought I was gonna puke. At least it did a number on the cobwebs.

  "Jesus, Sam, are you all right? I thought I might've lost you there."

  "I'm fine," I replied. "What'd you say?"

  "I said we've got movement," Kate replied. "Second floor. Bedroom, it looks like."

  "Left side or right?"

  "Left," she said.

  "Huh. Looks like I owe you a buck."

  We sat in silence for a while as lights came on and off inside. After maybe fifteen minutes, the lights went out, and the left-hand door clanged open. A heavyset dude in a pair of dusky blue coveralls and a good week's worth of scruff stepped out onto the porch, shuffled down the stairs, and hopped into the rusted-out Chevy pickup that sat in the driveway. It was the pickup that had tipped me off, or rather the Department of Sanitation sticker that adorned its rear window. Good thing I'd spotted it, too – I'd barely managed the six or so blocks from the hospital parking lot on this bum leg of mine, and it was only a matter of time before the cops fanned out looking for us. All of which meant we needed to get the hell off the street, and fast. The way I figured it, a garbage man is the first guy out the door in the morning, which meant we'd just scored ourselves an empty apartment, and the luxury of busting in while the rest of the neighborhood was fast asleep. Hell, it was practically Christmas. All we had to do was wait, and cross our fingers it wasn't our guy's day off.

  Lucky for us, it wasn't. We watched him pull away, and as soon as his tail lights disappeared around the corner, we made our move. It was a slow, gimpy move, I'll admit – Kate helping me to my feet and supporting my weight as we crossed the street and scaled the porch steps – but it was the best that we could manage under the circumstances. Near as I could tell, there wasn't anyone awake for blocks to see us, anyway.

  When we reached the door, I grabbed the jamb for support, and took a long, hard look at the lock. Just your garden-variety deal, damn near as old as the house itself, and no deadbolt, which was a relief. Still, I didn't have anything to pick it with, which meant we were gonna have to do this the hard way. I'm not sure which I relished less: the idea of trying to kick this thing in with a bum leg, or the attention the racket of doing so would attract. Still, it's not like we had a lot of options.

  "Listen, Kate – here's what's gonna happen. I need you to grab hold of my left arm. I'm gonna give the door a swift kick with my good leg, and you've got to support my weight, you got me? It might take a couple kicks, so you've got to keep me up, OK? If I don't get the thing down quick, we're gonna wake half the neighborhood, and somebody's bound to call the cops. C'mon – we go on three."

  But she just stood there, grinning at me. "What?" I snapped.

  "You're really all about the hard way, aren't you?" Kate lifted the lid on the mailbox and reached a hand inside. After a moment of fishing, she pulled out a key. "I mean, seriously, were you even going to look?"

  I mentally scrolled through a couple dozen witty rejoinders before settling on: "Just open the damned door."