Instead of taking that first step, he went over to the plywood, picked up one of the four-by-eight sheets, and muscled it over to the busted slider. Leaning the thing against the house, he returned for the nails and the hammer.
It took him about a half hour to cover the hole, and when he stepped back to inspect the effort, he thought it looked like shit. The rest of the place was pristine in spite of the fact that it hadn't been lived in since. . . Wellsie's murder: Everything was battened down, and his former staff were good enough to look after the landscaping and to check the indoors once a month--even though they'd moved on to serve another family out of town.
Funny, he'd tried to pay them for what they still did here now that he was back in the land of the living, but they'd refused the money. Just returned it with a kindly note.
Guess everyone mourned in their own way.
Tohr put the hammer and remaining nails on top of the one sheet of board he hadn't used and then he forced himself to walk around the outside of the house. As he went along, from time to time he peered into the windows. The drapes had all been pulled, but nonetheless, his vision penetrated through the folds of cloth to readily view all the ghosts that lived within the walls.
In the back, he saw himself sitting at the kitchen table, with Wellsie cooking at the stove, the two of them arguing over the fact that he'd left his weapons out the night before. Again.
God, she'd turned him on when she handed him his own ass.
And when he came around to the living room, he remembered taking her into his arms and making her dance with him as he hummed a waltz in her ear. Badly.
She'd always been so fluid against him, her body built for him and his for her.
And at the front door. . . he recalled walking in with flowers. Every anniversary.
Her favorite had been white roses.
As he got to the driveway and faced the garage, he focused on the one on the left, the one closest to the house.
The one Wellsie had backed that Range Rover out of for the last time.
After the shooting, the Brotherhood had taken the SUV and disposed of it, and Tohr didn't even want to know what had become of the thing. Never had asked. Never would.
The scent of both her perfume and her blood was too much for him to handle even in the hypothetical.
He shook his head as he stared at the closed door. You never knew the last time you were seeing someone. You didn't know when the last argument happened, or the last time you had sex, or the last time you looked into their eyes and thanked God they were in your life.
After they were gone? That was all you thought about.
Day and night.
Heading around the side of the garage, he found the door he was looking for and had to force it open with his shoulder.
Shit. . . it still smelled the same: the dry breath of concrete and the sweet oil from the 'Vette and the lingering gas from the mower and the Weedwacker. He flicked a switch. Christ, the place was like a museum of an era long, long ago; he recognized the objects from that kind of life, could extrapolate their uses. . . but damned if they had a place in his existence now.
Focus.
He went over toward the house and found the stairwell to the second floor. The attic over the garage was f
ully finished and heated and filled with an eclectic combination of trunks from the 1800s and wooden boxes from the twentieth century and plastic Rubbermaid containers from the twenty- first.
He didn't actually look at what he'd come to get, but he got what it had always been stored in and humped the old LV wardrobe down the stairs.
No dematerializing with it, though, damn it.
He was going to need a ride. Why hadn't he thought of that?
Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the 1964 Sting Ray he'd rehabbed himself. He'd spent hours on the engine and the body, even during the day sometimes--which had made Wellsie mental.
Come on, honey, like the roof is going to blow off?
Tohr, I'm telling you, you're pushing it.
Mmm, how 'bout I push something else, too. . . .