“Gotta hand it to you, Uncle Eddie.” Tony handed the sheet over for Ray to see. “Always one step ahead.”

“Twenty-four seven,” Eddie Tice said, leaning forward and grinding his knuckles into his eyes.

14

Worth trudged down John Pospisil’s driveway, back through the narrow corridor he’d cut across the unplowed street. Curtis Modell climbed out from the passenger side of the Blazer.

“Hey, there’s a tree in your house.”

“And a couple guys stuck in my driveway.”

“Man, I told him not to punch it.” Curtis wore surplus army pants, a Property of UNO Wrestling hoodie, and a wool cap with ear flaps that made him look a little bit like a World War II tail-gunner. “Guy doesn’t know how to drive in snow.”

Worth heard Ricky’s voice, muffled inside the truck. It sounded like Eat me.

“What are you guys up to?”

“Just cruising around,” Curtis said. “Dug out our mom’s.”

“Good boys.”

“That’s us.” Curtis planted his gloves on his hips and surveyed the street like a polar explorer. “Can you believe this shit? We passed, like, three big National Guard trucks coming down Dodge.”

Worth wasn’t surprised. Given the extent of the damage he’d seen so far, he’d bet money the governor would declare a state of emergency before the day was out.

All around, it was as if the normal sounds of the city had been muffled under mattresses of snow, overridden by a buzzing chorus of chain saws and snowblowers. You could hear the growl of the city plows, the occasional ambulance or rescue truck in the distance. All punctuated by random, meaningless blasts from one of the municipal air sirens downtown. Half the city was out of power, and trees stood in ruins up and down the street. It was like they’d been bombed.

“Anyway, we went by Sorensen’s place, helped him scoop,” Curtis said. “He said you got creamed.”

“Yeah, he called earlier.” Sorensen had wanted to know if anybody had arrested Russell James yet.

“Figured we’d swing by.” Curtis shrugged.

“I appreciate that, guys.”

“No prob.”

“How did you know where I live?”

“Sorensen.”

“Ah.”

For some reason, Ricky decided it was time to give it another go. He gunned the engine; the Blazer rocked in place, wet clumps of snow hitting Worth in the legs.

He thought about leaning in and pushing, but there wasn’t much footing, and he didn’t think they were going anywhere anyway. Before heading across to John’s, he’d cleared an area from the garage to a point about three feet beyond Ricky’s front bumper. But there was a deep pothole that ran along the edge of the street, about the same width as the mouth of the driveway, and they’d dug themselves pretty well into it.

Curtis pounded on the side window and yelled. “Dude, you’re just making it worse.”

When Ricky finally gave up, Worth patted the back fender. “Hang tight. I’ll get the truck and a chain.”

Vince got good and drunk before taking the snowmobile to check the incinerator.

It was only 6:45 in the morning, but Rita was in Phoenix, and he didn’t know what kind of job he’d find waiting for him. No matter what, it wasn’t a job he planned on doing sober.

There were bones, just like he’d suspected. About six feet of them, resting there on the ash grate like parts laid out for assembly. Some of them had buckled, but they hadn’t burned.

Vince shoveled the pieces into an old canvas freight sack, trying not to look. He tried to pretend they were animal bones. A coyote or a deer.

He was doing fine until the girl-beater’s skull rolled off the end of the shovel and broke apart on the blackened grate. Vince saw a scatter of teeth in a smooth gray bowl and about lost his stomach.

No mistaking that shit for a deer.

He stepped out of the shed and took some air. Some air and a long pull from the flask. The sun hung bright in the sky, throwing white glare off the snow, forcing him to squint his eyes. His breath puffed out in a cloud. The whiskers around his mouth began to freeze.

Rita would be home tomorrow. She’d probably call to say good morning soon.

Vince hit the flask again.

In another minute, he went back inside and got back to it, shovel blade scraping against iron, loud and ugly in the quiet cold.

It took an hour just to clear a path to the tree limb that had punched in through the front window.

Worth thanked the Modells for the offer of help, which he actually did appreciate, and tried to send them on their way. It was his last day off, and he wanted to spend it alone. He wasn’t in the mood for company.

But by late morning, he’d grown thankful for the extra manpower. Ricky volunteered to go finish John’s driveway while Curtis and Worth went to work on the debris, dragging the manageable branches away from the house, sawing the bigger ones down. The Modells had brought a chain saw of their own, and between the two of them, Worth and Curtis kept a steady stream of wood chips flying.

It felt good to work. It felt good to clear his mind, smell the sawdust and bar oil, to physically overwhelm the disarray a little at a time.

By the time Ricky came back with the snowblower, having cleared the walks along both boulevards all the way to the stop signs on either corner, Worth and Curtis had reduced the rubble of downed branches to three big piles.

They all went to work on the main offender then, Worth running the saw, Curtis and Ricky stabilizing the limb. They finally heaved together, pulling the leafy end from the demolished window with a screech of metal and the clatter of falling glass. They stood in the bushes and looked into the house through the opening.

“Damn,” Curtis said.

Worth couldn’t think of much to add.

The living room was a mess: a carpet of twigs and leaves, scatters of broken glass, puddles of melted snow. The lamp from the table at the end of the couch lay on the floor, shade mangled, bulb shattered, cord pulled out from the wall.

A chain saw ripped to life behind them, tearing through the silence.

Worth and Curtis both jumped and spun at the same time. Worth actually felt his hand move for the service weapon he wasn’t wearing.

Ricky had returned to the middle of the yard, where they’d tossed the cut sections of the big limb from the window. He stood there in his snow bibs and lug boots, safety glasses on, the saw belching blue smoke as he adjusted the throttle.

“Jesus H, dude,” Curtis yelled.

Ricky nodded at Worth, then toward the chimney of the house. Over the idling saw, he yelled back, “How big is your fireplace?”

Worth took a deep breath, allowed his pulse to settle a bit, and held up his palms about eighteen inches apart. Firewood dimensions. Ricky nodded, turned his back, and goosed the saw into a high whine.

As wood began to spray and the tang of fresh sawdust filled the air, Worth leaned over to Curtis and said, “Is your brother okay?”

Curtis sighed. “Man, don’t worry about him. He’s been on the rag all weekend.”

“Something wrong?”

“Just a moody sonofabitch, that’s all that’s wrong with him.” A shrug. “Probably still stewing about what happened to Gwen.”

“I was thinking he didn’t seem like himself.”

Curtis waved it off. “Let him mess some shit up with the chain saw. He’ll be fine.”