I kicked the door shut behind me, half threw Kate onto the couch, and ran to the gun cabinet. As I fumbled for the key, I heard the roar of the Mercedes as it came into the yard. Oliver Underfoot and Velcro came out of the guest room, yawned, and asked what was going on. I told them to go hide, but they ignored me.
I found the key, opened the cabinet, and snatched my father’s twelve-gauge Remington. Its shells were in a box on the ammunition shelf. I dumped the box, slammed three shells into the magazine, and whirled toward the door, pumping a shell into the firing chamber as I turned.
Outside, I heard the sound of the Mercedes changing gears and moving. I peeked out the living room window and saw that Oakland had turned around and had parked in the driveway itself, blocking the only automobile exit. As I looked, he cut his ignition, opened the driver’s side door, and slipped out of my sight beyond his car.
I shut the bolt lock on my front door, ran to the back door that led from the kitchen and closed that bolt as well, then trotted back to the living room, where Kate, wrapped in my coat, was gingerly limping toward the gun cabinet.
I pointed toward our bedroom and said, “I’ll get you a gun; you go in there and get into some of Zee’s clothes. Make sure you get boots and a coat. Keep an eye out the windows in case he circles the house.”
She didn’t argue. As I went to the cabinet she hobbled toward the bedroom. I ducked as Oakland fired a shot and one of our two living room windows shattered.
“The next thing that comes through will be a grenade,” he shouted. “Just thought you’d like to know.”
I yanked opened the cabinet, stuffed shotgun shells inside my shirt, grabbed Zee’s competition Colt .45, found a loaded clip for the pistol, jammed it home, jacked a bullet into the firing chamber, flicked on the safety, and shoved the pistol in my belt.
Then, crouching, I ran to the front of the house, where I bobbed up and back down, snapping a look out the shattered window.
Nothing.
Where was Oakland?
I hurried to our other front window and peeked again.
Where was he, anyway?
Time to call the cops. I ran, bent, into the kitchen and picked up the phone. No dial tone. Oakland had cut the line. Even as this fact registered in my brain, the clock light on the microwave went out. He’d cut the power, too.
Kate limped out of the bedroom wearing Zee’s clothes and winter boots under a quilted coat.
I handed her the pistol. “There’s a full clip and one in the chamber. All you have to do is slip the safety.”
She took the gun in her bloody hands and gave it the quick look of a person who’s handled such a weapon before.
“He says he’s got grenades,” I said. “He’s cut the phone and electricity. He’s already set a bomb in one car, so he may really have grenades, too. He knows where we are, and we don’t know where he is, so he’s got that edge. Ours is that we can be in two places at once.”
“My brain isn’t working too well,” she said, holding the pistol in one bloody hand and rubbing her forehead with the other. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday. I need food.”
I pointed at the refrigerator. “Help yourself, but keep a watch out the windows here while you’re at it. If you see him, shoot him if you can. I’m going to circle through all the other rooms. Maybe I’ll spot him from one of them.”
But I didn’t spot him until I was back in the living room again. There, through the broken windowpane, I saw him look quickly over the hood of the Land Cruiser then rear back as if to throw something. Without time to take real aim, I jerked the shotgun to my shoulder and fired. The shot spattered the hood of the truck but caused Oakland to spin away and throw wildly. Instead of hitting the house, his grenade arced into trees and detonated, sending branches flying.
There was a skittering of cat feet behind me as Oliver and Velcro scrambled for shelter under a bed. That would teach them to ignore my advice to hide. I pumped a new shell into the firing chamber and reloaded the magazine.
“No damage done here or there,” called Oakland’s voice from behind the Land Cruiser, “but I’ve got another grenade and this time it won’t miss.”
I suspected he was right.
“I’m not interested in you, Jackson,” said the voice. “It’s the woman I’m after. She’s caused my family too much grief to live. Send her out and you get to keep your house and your life.”
He was lying, of course, and I lied in return. “I’ve seen what you did to her. She can’t even walk.” I peeked over the sill and flicked my eyes this way and that, hoping to spot him long enough to get a shot.
“Carry her out, then, and save your own life. I won’t shoot you, but I’ll not wait long.”
“Just hold your horses,” I shouted, having no trouble putting fear in my voice.
I turned and ran back into the kitchen.
Kate was gone.
26
The back door was unbolted. I jerked it open and looked for Kate, but she wasn’t to be seen.
Had she heard the exchange between Oakland and me? Did she really think that I’d turn her over to him?
I had no time to look for her. I went out the door, ran to the back corner of the house, paused, peeked around, saw no one, and ran to the front corner of the screened porch. There, I got down on my belly and snaked forward until I could take a fast look in the direction of the Land Cruiser, behind which I’d last seen Oakland.
I couldn’t see him. I tried to look under the truck, hoping to catch a glimpse of his legs, at least, so I could shoot them, but the tall brown stems of last summer’s flowers blocked my view. Damn! I knew I should have cleaned that flowerbed in the fall!
Was he still behind the truck? Or had he moved? Did he really have more grenades? I realized that somewhere deep inside me I was furious at the thought that he would blow up my house. I loved my house, and I especially didn’t want it destroyed this close to Christmas! My children would be miserable!
Odd thoughts. I was being hunted by a killer and I was fretting about gardening and Christmas! Keep your mind on your work, J.W.
I threw a look behind me, in case Oakland had decided to abandon the Land Cruiser and circle the house. He wasn’t there. Neither was Kate. Facing forward again, I wished I had more eyes, so I could look in every direction at once.
I took a deep breath, raised my head, and looked over the tops of the dead flowers.
Were those Oakland’s legs, there on the far side of the front tire? Was he kneeling there because I’d winged him with that shot through the living room window? In his throwing arm, maybe? That would be nice. Even if he had more grenades, he couldn’t throw them.
I pushed the shotgun carefully through the brown flower stems until I could get a sight on the legs. Were those really legs, or just shadows? If they were legs, I could damage him pretty severely, but if they weren’t I’d give away my position, which was not a good spot for defense, being open on three sides.
Where was Kate? Running away through the woods, I hoped. Not that she could run. Limping away, then, keeping the shed between her and the house. Go, Kate! Find a house with a phone and call the cops!
I let out half a breath and fired at the legs. The shotgun kicked hard against my collarbone, but the legs didn’t move. Damn! I jumped to my feet, put my back to the wall, jacked the old shell out and put a new one in, and ran, bending low, back toward the rear of the house.
I snapped a look around the corner and saw no one. Where the devil was Oakland? I looked at the shed. Did I see movement there? A shifting shadow? I flicked my eyes back and forth between the shed and the far back corner of the house, and shoved a new shell into the Remington’s magazine.
All around the house, the pale, barren trees flowed away above the bronze-leafed ground until the earth and trees blended into an impenetrable wood. Was Oakland out there taking careful sight from behind some ancient oak or pine, like a modern Wind of Death? Lew Wetzel reborn?
Keeping low, I move
d along the back of the house, passing the kitchen door, my head turning this way then that, fearing that moving shadow by the shed but at the same time suspecting it was more imagined than real, fearing, too, what lay around the corner I was approaching since Oakland, if he wasn’t behind the Land Cruiser anymore, was certainly somewhere, perhaps just beyond that corner, waiting, knowing that sooner or later I’d come around it.
I reached the corner, threw a last look at the shed, saw nothing certain, and snapped a glance around the corner, pulling my head back almost before I put it out, hoping that if Oakland was there, his pistol wasn’t pointing at the exact spot where my head appeared.
He wasn’t there at all. Where was he? I could see the Mercedes in the driveway, but there was no Oakland. I swept my eyes in a half circle, looking into the trees that surrounded that portion of our yard.
Nothing.
Then several things happened very fast. Behind me, the kitchen door made a sound as it opened and Oakland stepped out. I turned, swinging the shotgun into line far too late, and saw Oakland aiming his pistol at me with a firm hand, and knew I was dead. But even as his finger tightened on the trigger, Kate was stepping out from behind my shed and crying, “Here I am!” She was aiming Zee’s .45, held with a two-handed grip.
He was incredibly fast, spinning and firing at her even as she fired at him. His bullet rocked her and hers spun him around. She leaned forward and emptied the clip at him, staggering him as he fired back until, almost in slow motion, he lifted on his toes and pitched to the ground. At the same moment all her energy seemed to leave her and she, too, plunged to the earth.
My ears were full of noise. I had a feeling that wild activity was still going on although none was. I darted looks in every direction before I realized that nothing was moving or making sound.
I went to Oakland. His chest was moving slightly and blood was oozing out of him. His pistol was near a twitching hand. I kicked it away and went to Kate. She was lying on the brown leaves that covered the ground behind the shed. Her eyes were closed and her breath was shallow. I knelt beside her and opened Zee’s coat and shirt. There was a bullet hole in her chest.
I ran back to Oakland and, ignoring the small noises he made, went through his pockets and found the keys to the Mercedes. I also found a DIA ID card with his picture on it. Why wasn’t I surprised? I left it for the next guy to find then went back to Kate, picked her up, and carried her to the car, hoping I wasn’t killing her.
I drove fast to the hospital and carried her into the emergency ward, shouting for help. Zee and other nurses came running and took her from me as I told them what had happened to her. A doctor appeared and she was rushed away on a gurney.
Zee was cool and professional. Before following the gurney she looked at me and said, “You’ve got blood on your coat. Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Stay and help fill out forms. I’ll see you later.”
She trotted out of sight.
I found a phone and called 911. I said who I was, reported a double shooting at my house and that one victim was still there but that I’d brought the other to the hospital, where I could be found at least for a while. I warned that no one should touch my Land Cruiser because it might be booby-trapped.
Then I called Joe Begay’s cell phone. To my great relief he answered. He’d been in the woods and seen Oakland’s Mercedes on Lighthouse Road, driving toward Uncle Bill Vanderbeck’s house, but by the time he’d gotten to the house, Oakland was gone. I outlined what had happened before and after, and he said he’d drive down to Dom’s office.
I was explaining to a hospital secretary just how little I knew about Kate’s next of kin when Olive Otero arrived.
“You, of course,” she said.
“Who else?”
“You don’t look too good, but then you never do.” She pulled a tape recorder from her pocket. “Why don’t you give me the short version and we can get the long one later. Let’s find a room where we can talk.”
To my surprise she was attentive and patient. By the time I finished the short version, some Oak Bluffs cops, Sid Roebuck, and another DIA man were there, so I got to tell the whole story again. Dom, I learned, was with the Edgartown police and the other DIA men at my house, so I knew I had more storytelling ahead of me.
After a while, Zee walked into the room. I arched a questioning brow at her.
“Too early to tell,” she said. “They’ve got her stabilized and they’ll be taking her to Boston. Was the guy who tortured her the same one who shot her?”
“Yes.”
“Is he still on the loose?”
“No.”
“Good. Are you hurt at all?”
“No.”
Then she let herself go a little bit. Tears came to her eyes and she came to me so we could hug each other. “Oh, you scare me sometimes! I wish you wouldn’t!”
“It’s all over,” I said, holding her head against my chest and kissing her hair. “I love you. I’ll tell you everything later.”
“You’d better find yourself a lawyer,” said Olive, when Zee had gone back to work. “The DA is running for reelection next year, and he may not believe those two shot each other, especially since the forty-five is yours. He’d love to have a spectacular win under his belt. Ex-cop behind bars, and like that.”
“Thanks for waiting for my wife to leave before mentioning it.”
“You’re welcome,” said Olive. “You know any good lawyers, emphasis on good?”
“A couple.”
“If it happened the way you say it did, you should be okay, but if the woman doesn’t make it or can’t testify for some other reason, it’ll be your word. The DA might get a lot of mileage out of that.”
“It might not just be his word,” said one of the Oak Bluffs cops. “Irma Quackenbush came into the station about forty-five minutes ago and wanted to arrest Mr. Jackson, here. Said he almost killed her at the junction of County and the Vineyard Haven-Edgartown Road. Said she knows his truck because he’s one of those no-good hunters. Said she had to slam on her brakes so hard she stalled her pickup and that before she could get started again some other guy driving a hundred miles an hour almost hit her again. She was mad.”
“Tell your lawyer about that,” Olive advised me. She looked at the DIA men. “You two have anything to say or ask?”
The first shook his head, but Sid Roebuck was more talkative.
“The problem,” he said, “is that Oakland and Arbuckle were both DIA, just like us. If Mr. Jackson, here, is telling the truth, Oakland was a rogue who may have killed three people.”
“Did he and Arbuckle know one another?” I asked. “If they did, it would explain why Arbuckle let him get close.”
“Arbuckle was a friendly guy,” said Roebuck, “so it could have happened that way. A lot of people in the IC thought the Easter Bunny was the killer, so when Sam came up here to guard Kate he was expecting the Easter Bunny, not Oakland, and must have let his guard down. I probably would have done the same thing.”
In the distance a siren was coming closer, and I thought it might be bringing Oakland to the hospital. Too late, I hoped.
27
Oakland was dead when the police got to my backyard, and for two days it was touch and go with Kate, but then things began to improve for her. After a week, it seemed clear that she would recover, and not much after that she was able to be interviewed by law enforcement officers.
Her testimony wasn’t reported in the media, but from Zee’s medical contacts with friends in Boston and from talking with Dom Agannis and the Chief in Edgartown, I learned that what she had told her inquisitors supported what I had told mine. The upshot of this was that our DA was now doing his best to take credit for stopping Oakland before he could kill again, rather than considering me for jail time.
By then I’d fixed the broken living room window and had the phone and electrical wires repaired. After the explosives experts had extracted a wired grena
de from the Land Cruiser, thus showing that Oakland had had another one after all, I had replaced the truck’s windshield and rear window. As soon as house and truck were back to normal, I moved my family home, where they belonged. The cats were glad to see us all and told us cat tales about how brave they’d been during Oakland’s attack on the house.
* * *
On Friday, ten days before Christmas, it snowed. I’d been splitting wood until the first flakes began to fall, and had just finished stacking it when Joe Begay’s truck came down the whitening driveway.
“I’m about to sit in front of a fire and have a little glass of something,” I said. “Come in and join me.”
“I will,” he said, and sat while I put together mugs of tea improved with honey, lemon juice, cinnamon sticks, and rum. Delish.
“Toni and the kids home?” I asked, putting my feet on the coffee table, beside his.
He nodded. “Back from the rez. One of Toni’s Christmas presents will be a new car.”
“How’s Kate doing?”
“Kate is doing better every day. We’ll know she’s back to normal when she gets a doctor in bed with her. I don’t think it will be long.”
“Quite a girl.”
“She says she’s getting out of the business. Going to settle down and raise a family.”
“She mentioned getting married and giving up the wild life. Good luck to her husband, I say, whoever he may be.”
We stared at the flames behind the glass-fronted stove.
“I thought you might be interested in the news and guesswork out of Washington,” said Begay. “Jake Spitz called this morning and gave me the latest facts and speculation.”
I said nothing, and he went on: “Stephen Harkness has been persuaded to talk. I didn’t ask how, and your guesses turn out to have been pretty good. When Melanie Harkness jumped, both he and her brother blamed the whole mission crew. Oakland got friendly with Susan, drugged her, and then shot her full of enough dope to kill a horse. Then he tried for Kate in Bethesda, but missed her. It wasn’t hard for him to learn that I live on the Vineyard, so he came here to find me.” He gave me a humorless smile. “He even had you get his house ready for him.”
Vineyard Prey Page 16
