a team. She’s a part of your career. She’s happy with what you got. She never puts any pressure on you.”
“Well, Ted, you know that appearances can be deceiving.”
“Not yours, Bud.”
“Ted … look, we’re going to have to have a talk.”
“A talk?”
“About some things you think I am that I am not. And about some other stuff as well.”
“What?”
But they had arrived in the barnyard of the Stepford farm. The house was white clapboard, an assemblage of structures added as the farm prospered. The lawn was neat,and someone had planted a bright bed of flowers by the sidewalk. A huge oak tree towered over the house.
Bud and Ted climbed out. Bud adjusted his Ray-Bans and removed his Smokey hat from the wire rack behind his seat and pulled it on. He looked about. There was a fallow field, where the spring wheat had already been harvested and the earth turned. Copses of scrub oak showed here and there among the gentle rolls of the land, and far off, a blazing bright green field signaled the presence of alfalfa. There was a blue-stem pasture off to the right, and a few cattle grazed amid the barrels of hay.
“Looks okay to me,” said Ted. “The goddamned phone is probably off the hook.”
“Hello?” cried Bud. And then again.
There was no answer.
“Let’s go up and knock and see what happens.”
Richard ran downstairs. He knew he shouldn’t scream but he wanted to. The panic billowed through him brightly. He wanted to crap again. His stomach ached as he raced thumpingly along.
“Lamar,” he sobbed, “Lamar, Lamar, oh Lamar.”
He plunged down the steps.
In the darkness of the basement, Odell was over by the workbench, sawing with a hacksaw. Richard looked and saw three long metal poles on the floor and three wooden boots or something.
Lamar looked over at him.
“Lamar,” he gasped, “cops. State police.”
Lamar just looked at him blankly. Then he said, “How many? A goddamned team? SWAT, what? Or just a one car?”
“I only saw one,” said Richard. “Halfway up the driveway. Be here in a minute.”
Lamar nodded. He turned and looked at the Stepfords, who sat groggily on an old couch.
“You make a sound and you’re dead. I mean that, sir, and I ain’t a-fucking with you.” His voice was level but intense.
Odell, meanwhile, had risen from his position and was busy threading ammunition into the shotguns that Richard now saw had been sawed off so that they were short and handy.
Lamar took one, threw some sort of lever with an oily clang.
“We’re going upstairs. You tie these people up and I mean tight. Then you come up. You hear shooting, you come a-running, do you get that? And bring your gun.”
“Hootin’,” said Odell happily.
“Yes, Lamar,” said Richard.
“Okay, Odell,” said Lamar. “We goin’ fry us some Smokey.”
Lamar stuffed a dozen bright red-and-blue shells into his pockets and Odell followed. They raced up the steps.
Lamar watched them. A guy with some miles on him, and a kid. Standing in the sun, just looking the place over. The older one called out “Hello” and adjusted his duty belt. Then he got his Smokey hat out and set to fiddling with it. He wanted it just right, just set perfect on his head. Show-offy cocksucker. The kid looked somewhat grumpy, maybe tired. He wanted to get it over with.
Lamar knew they were cherry. He could smell it on them. They had no idea what they were walking into; if they had, they’d have had their pieces out and they’d be behind cover. He watched as they exchanged a few dry words, then made up their minds to come up to the house.
He could tell also that the young one had a vest on by theunnatural smoothness of the way the cotton of his shirt clung to the Kevlar; the older one, though barrel-chested and big, was apparently without body armor, for there was more give in the material as he moved.
“Odell, you go out the back, around the side of the house on the left. You ain’t gonna fire until I
“Well, Ted, you know that appearances can be deceiving.”
“Not yours, Bud.”
“Ted … look, we’re going to have to have a talk.”
“A talk?”
“About some things you think I am that I am not. And about some other stuff as well.”
“What?”
But they had arrived in the barnyard of the Stepford farm. The house was white clapboard, an assemblage of structures added as the farm prospered. The lawn was neat,and someone had planted a bright bed of flowers by the sidewalk. A huge oak tree towered over the house.
Bud and Ted climbed out. Bud adjusted his Ray-Bans and removed his Smokey hat from the wire rack behind his seat and pulled it on. He looked about. There was a fallow field, where the spring wheat had already been harvested and the earth turned. Copses of scrub oak showed here and there among the gentle rolls of the land, and far off, a blazing bright green field signaled the presence of alfalfa. There was a blue-stem pasture off to the right, and a few cattle grazed amid the barrels of hay.
“Looks okay to me,” said Ted. “The goddamned phone is probably off the hook.”
“Hello?” cried Bud. And then again.
There was no answer.
“Let’s go up and knock and see what happens.”
Richard ran downstairs. He knew he shouldn’t scream but he wanted to. The panic billowed through him brightly. He wanted to crap again. His stomach ached as he raced thumpingly along.
“Lamar,” he sobbed, “Lamar, Lamar, oh Lamar.”
He plunged down the steps.
In the darkness of the basement, Odell was over by the workbench, sawing with a hacksaw. Richard looked and saw three long metal poles on the floor and three wooden boots or something.
Lamar looked over at him.
“Lamar,” he gasped, “cops. State police.”
Lamar just looked at him blankly. Then he said, “How many? A goddamned team? SWAT, what? Or just a one car?”
“I only saw one,” said Richard. “Halfway up the driveway. Be here in a minute.”
Lamar nodded. He turned and looked at the Stepfords, who sat groggily on an old couch.
“You make a sound and you’re dead. I mean that, sir, and I ain’t a-fucking with you.” His voice was level but intense.
Odell, meanwhile, had risen from his position and was busy threading ammunition into the shotguns that Richard now saw had been sawed off so that they were short and handy.
Lamar took one, threw some sort of lever with an oily clang.
“We’re going upstairs. You tie these people up and I mean tight. Then you come up. You hear shooting, you come a-running, do you get that? And bring your gun.”
“Hootin’,” said Odell happily.
“Yes, Lamar,” said Richard.
“Okay, Odell,” said Lamar. “We goin’ fry us some Smokey.”
Lamar stuffed a dozen bright red-and-blue shells into his pockets and Odell followed. They raced up the steps.
Lamar watched them. A guy with some miles on him, and a kid. Standing in the sun, just looking the place over. The older one called out “Hello” and adjusted his duty belt. Then he got his Smokey hat out and set to fiddling with it. He wanted it just right, just set perfect on his head. Show-offy cocksucker. The kid looked somewhat grumpy, maybe tired. He wanted to get it over with.
Lamar knew they were cherry. He could smell it on them. They had no idea what they were walking into; if they had, they’d have had their pieces out and they’d be behind cover. He watched as they exchanged a few dry words, then made up their minds to come up to the house.
He could tell also that the young one had a vest on by theunnatural smoothness of the way the cotton of his shirt clung to the Kevlar; the older one, though barrel-chested and big, was apparently without body armor, for there was more give in the material as he moved.
“Odell, you go out the back, around the side of the house on the left. You ain’t gonna fire until I
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