” ‘Murdered’ is word,” he said, turning away, his voice as cold as cemetery stone.
AFTER THE NOON MEAL, Jak went out back to repair a broken hinge on one of the barn doors. Dean did the washing-up, then drifted after the older boy.
The sky was clear of clouds. As he looked up, Dean spotted the familiar purple-silver streak of yet another piece of predark nuke space junk burning its way back through the atmosphere.
Though his back was turned, Jak seemed to sense the skyburst and looked up at it, shading his eyes, saying nothing.
“Want a hand?”
“Sure, Dean. Mebbe even two hands.”
The eleven-year-old carefully unholstered his Browning Hi-Power and placed the heavy 9 mm automatic on a chopping block.
“Blaster’s too much blaster for you,” Jak said.
“You greasing my wheels? You know I can use it well enough, don’t you?”
“Man doesn’t need hammer kill gnat.”
“But you need a tool big enough to do the job, Jak. Dad says a small blaster can be worse than no blaster at all. What do you say, huh?”
The teenager shook his head at the younger boy’s burst of enthusiasm. “Wouldn’t often argue Ryan. Knows most about most. More any man knew.”
Dean nodded. “So you admit a good blaster’s important, then, do you?”
“Sure. Times is. Times isn’t.”
“When isn’t it?” Dean asked, rolling up his sleeves and looking at the weather-scarred wood of the big doors.
“When need quiet.”
“Quiet?”
“Get wedge under door. Take weight. Hold steady while remove broke hinge.”
For a couple of minutes they were both fully occupied in wrestling with the stubborn door, fighting as it tried to twist and topple over sideways and rip all three of the rusting iron hinges from the frame.
Dean soon found that his dark-blue work shirt was soaked with sweat. But he was never one to give up as long as he had breath left in his body. Eventually they had the cross-framed door propped up in the right position for Jak to carry out the necessary repair work on it.
“Take five,” the teenager said.
Dean slumped down, feeling the muscles like strips of fire across his shoulders and chest. His fingers were sore, and he had two broken nails and a cluster of splinters that he would have to ask Mildred to remove for him later.
“Done good,” Jak said, making the boy flush with pride. Other than his father, Jak Lauren was the closest thing to a hero that Dean knew.
“Thanks. You were talking about blasters not being good all the time.”
“Sure. No good when need quiet.”
“Obvious. That when you use your knives?”
“Yeah.”
Despite the heat of the afternoon, Jak was still wearing his usual jacket, the one made from leather and canvas, with tiny strips of razored steel sewn into it. He sat and leaned against the wall of the outbuilding, closing his eyes, looking totally relaxed. Dean stared at him, seeing the three scars that seamed across Jak’s face. An ancient cicatrix sliced jaggedly across the left cheek, tugging the corner of the mouth up into something that might be mistaken for a smile. The other two scars, one along the jaw and the other close to the mouth, had been caused by a run-in with cuddlies.
“Don’t like being watched, kid,” he said suddenly, eyes blinking open.
“Don’t like being called ‘kid,’ Jak.” He waited a moment to make sure that the teenager wasn’t seriously angry with him. “Show me your knives?”
“Which ones?”
“Throwing knives.”
“No.”
“Please, Jak?”
“Point is knives are hid. Well hid. Show you and one day you tell someone else and I’m chilled.”
Dean was shocked. “I’d never betray you, Jak. I’d never betray anyone.”
The albino shook his mane of pure white hair. “Not so, kid. Sorry. Not so, Dean.”
“It is so!”
“Everyone has breaking point.”
“Not me. I’d rather die than betray anyone, Jak. You can’t be serious, man.”
“Nothing more serious, Dean.”
“I’d chill myself, if it came down to that.”
“Sure would. Me too. Not always real possible. Seen good menand good womenbreak down and cry. Give up daughters, sons, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters. Couldn’t take it.”