Tunnel Vision Read Free Page B

froze to my cheeks. I’m home.
    The house smells like it did when I left—there’s the acrid odor of marijuana still lingering like a skunk’s cousin. Not that the odor bothers me, of course—it’s just another cost of doing business. I still have a few bales in the basement, enough to make a quick sale, but that’s the last thing I’m worried about right now. I want to curl up in bed, dive onto the Internet, or sit on the kitchen floor and hug my fridge, but I do none of these things. Instead, I walk to the bedroom and slide a long storage container out from under my bed.
    My get-out-of-town box is exactly what it sounds like, the stuff that I would need to leave and never come back, and just like the stuff in the garage, it’s undisturbed. I look over the contents quickly, and settle on a fiberglass knuckle-duster. Flexing my fingers in it feels good and makes me wish Spider was still alive so I could give it a test run and deliver the sort of death a man that evil deserves. Spider’s dead, though—Spider, his friends, and Fillmore, all little more than ash by now. A good thing, for sure, though not, I know, some magical solution to the problems of all those kids in that awful camp. Even as I sit here on my bedroom floor, they’re undoubtedly already being sorted out by the system. All I can do is try to shrug off that knowledge.
    I distract myself from considering the meager stack of banded cash in the box by focusing on another interesting gadget, a little zip gun I made a few years earlier. The thing holds only a single .45 bullet, and is as likely to fail as it is to shoot, but it’s the only firearm in my arsenal and seems sufficient for the task. I’ve always stayed away from guns, but that’s another thing that’s changed since my trip north. I want to surround myself with iron of all types, but I’m not going to, not yet. Guns can attract too much attention, and the absolute last thing I need is any more of that.
    I close the box and slide it under the bed, and then clear out of the room. Comfort was calling to me, my bed looking inviting as hell, but my pockets are full of hate. Rest can come later. Right now, I have work to do.
    Back in front of the gas station, I sit and wait for Lou while the civilians roll back and forth in front of me on their way to lunch. Then his cab rolls up and I get in, rattling off the address of the farm where Gary and I were growing dope. Lou grunts and we’re off, my nervous energy playing games with my stomach.
    As much as I’ve been relishing this moment, savoring the thought of putting my hands on Gary, I know the reality will be nothing to look back on fondly. I slide my fingers through the knuckle-duster in my pocket, flex them, and let the thing go.
    Lou drops me off by the property without a word, and I hand him cash and tell him that I’ll be in touch. He grunts again, a talkative day for my cabbie, and I get to walking.
    The pole barn we grew in is visible, as is the little farmhouse next to it. I have a feeling Gary will be in the barn working, and the unnatural blue light coming through the window near the ceiling and the bass thumping through the walls confirm it for me. A shiver runs down my spine as I think about what led me here, about everything that happened at the camp. The image of Sam laid out on the snow is a tough thing to shake. It’s good, though. I’m furious, madder than hell at this idiot and what he did for money. I can see Spider all over again, leading boys from the building while I sight down at him over the freezing stock of an M-14. My fingers were cold then, frozen to the trigger guard, but that didn’t keep fire out of that barrel.
    I take a deep breath, and the knuckle-duster and zip gun appear in my hands as if by magic, and then I’m sliding open the door to the barn and walking in.
    Rap music blares from the chest-high speakers in the corner of the room, but other than the stupid, boastful lyrics and bone-vibrating bass,