Free Levon's Night by Chuck Dixon Page B

DVDs.
    “Whatever you’d like to watch,” Jessie said, wrapped in a down quilt by the fire he’d built for them in the river stone hearth. The sweet smell of apple wood filled the room. Nick prided himself on the fires he could build.
    “We have the last season of that show with the high school teacher cooking drugs on the side.” He’d long ago stopped using titles for movies and shows since Jessie could never remember them. Instead he had to give her one-sentence plot summaries.
    “Oh, that show’s awful.” She winced.
    He sighed.
    “Pick something else,” she said.
    “We haven’t watched that one with Pierce Brosnan in a while.”
    “Is he James Bond in it?” She made a face.
    “It’s the one you like where he’s not James Bond. He steals a famous painting. You liked the actress’s purse.”
    “A Hermès bag! Okay, we’ll watch that if you want to.” She beamed.
    He’d watch anything as long as he could snuggle up to the hot toddy steaming in a mug on the coffee table.
    They were forty minutes in. Jessie was enjoying the movie. Pierce Brosnan was enjoying Rene Russo. Nick was enjoying his second hot toddy, a warm buzz enveloping him just like the quilt his wife was wearing like a womb.
    Lights flashed across the walls of the room. Nick muted the TV. Headlights came through the windows at the front of the house. Someone pulling up the drive. A burring sound rose to overpower the voices from the television speakers.
    “Who the hell’s out in this?” Nick said.
    “You’d better go see,” Jessie said, taking the remote from his hand as he rose from the sofa.
    A pair of snow mobiles were pulled up on the drive. Their engines rumbled and popped as they idled. Two men in black snowsuits and helmets. One dismounted and was crunching toward the front door.
    “Can I help you guys?” Nick said from the open front door, eyes squinted against the pelting snow.
    The dismounted man strode up the walk raising his arm, raising something in it to point at Nick Esposito.
    A blinding flash wiped away the world. Nick was on the ground. He didn’t remember falling. It was getting hard to breath. He tried to speak. Something warm and thick bubbled in his mouth.
    The man in the black snow suit stepped over him to walk in through the open door.
    Nick tried to call out to Jessie. No sound came out. He was drowning in his own blood.

 
    20
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    “Coffee or tea?” Lily said, poking her head into the utility room.
    “Coffee would be great,” Nate said. He was down on his knees working in the hatch at the bottom of the fat water heater tank.
    “Decaf or regular?” Lily said.
    “Regular black. Between this beast and the sleepover at home I’m not getting any sleep tonight anyway.” He smiled and stood.
    “Sleepover?” Lily said tilting her head. She had an accent. German, maybe?
    “It’s like a party,” Nate said.
    She nodded, pulling her head back and closing the door behind her.
    Lily and Sascha. No last name. Funny couple. They were artists. Or at least they said they were. They never offered to show their work. Nate never saw any evidence of paints or sculpture anywhere in the house either tonight or when he was here back in the fall to introduce himself. That’s when he arrived at his snap opinion that the pair were hippies. Sascha had a pony tail and a hipster goatee. Lily’s kinky red hair always looked like she just got out of a wind tunnel. They both wore sandals with thick socks no matter what the weather was. They dressed in layers of ‘natural’ clothing. As the temps dropped they looked like they were wearing every stitch they owned. Hippies through and through. No evidence of what kind of art they worked on though. He asked just to be polite. They told him they didn’t like talking about their ‘process.’ Fine with Nate. He didn’t really want to hear about it anyway.
    Nate pulled the heating elements from the floor of the tank. As he’d suspected, one of them was shot. A crack in