The Watcher (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “No—” I put my hand on his arm. “No, don’t taste it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s cocaine.”

  “Cocaine? No fooling?”

  “No fooling,” I answered. “That’s what was bothering them all along.” I pointed to the small packet. “There must be ten thousand dollars’ worth of cocaine there. Maybe more.”

  In the bunk above me, I heard Darrell shift in his sleeping bag, then sigh deeply. Was he still awake? I couldn’t be sure. Was he worried, frightened? Again, I couldn’t be sure. The time, I knew, was almost midnight. It had been ten o’clock before we’d eaten and cleaned the cabin and put our things away and finally arranged our sleeping bags. During that time, even though Darrell had questioned me about the cocaine and wondered worriedly aloud whether the intruders might come back for it, I’d deliberately avoided the subject. I’d probably made a mistake not taking him into my confidence—not admitting that, yes, I was worried, too. The discovery of the cocaine had changed everything. We were in danger now. I knew it, and so did Darrell. Because Billy Marsh would be back. He’d be back for the cocaine—and for me. And he’d bring the shotgun. All during the evening, eating and preparing for bed, I’d cautioned Darrell to stay away from the windows, even though I’d drawn the curtains. Until we’d finally blown out the kerosene lamps and slipped into our sleeping bags, I’d worn my gun at my belt—expecting, every second, that Billy would come crashing through a window.

  Yet I hadn’t expressed my fears to Darrell.

  I hadn’t confided to him that, logically, we should leave, pack up and escape. I’d been guilty of the same fault I’d found in Darrell. All day long, driving up from the city, I’d hoped that he would talk to me—really talk to me.

  Yet now, this evening, it was I who hadn’t talked—really talked. Was it because I didn’t want to admit that I felt frightened—isolated, unsure? I didn’t know, couldn’t be sure. For years, I’d dealt with psychopathic punks like Billy Marsh. They’d never frightened me, never beaten me.

  But I’d always had the advantage—in manpower and firepower and communications. I’d never been outnumbered and outgunned, cut off from all hope of help.

  Cut off, at least, as long as we stayed in the cabin.

  But, still, I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to admit to my son that we must run from Billy Marsh. Because the admission would be a defeat I couldn’t afford—a debasement of my life.

  “Are you still awake?” I asked softly.

  For a moment he didn’t answer. Then: “Yes.”

  “You’d better go to sleep. I’ll stay awake for a while. Just to make sure everything’s all right.”

  “Okay.” I heard him yawn. “Good night.”

  “Good night, Darrell.”

  “Good night,” he repeated.

  In less than a minute he was asleep, snoring lightly. I got out of my sleeping bag and stood for a moment beside the double bunk, looking down at Darrell. He lay with his head turned toward me. His lips were slightly parted, his eyes were moving beneath his eyelids. REM’s, the scientists called it—rapid eye movements. It meant that he was dreaming. In the dim light, I saw him swallow, saw his lips move. The contours of his face were softened by sleep. Awake, Darrell’s expression was normally closed. It was, I knew, a teen-age attempt at self-preservation, trying to mask the terrible vulnerabilities and aching fears of adolescence. But now, sleeping, his face was a boy’s: innocent, trusting.

  For a last long moment I stood looking at him. Then, slowly, I bent double, drawing on my shoes and taking my revolver from the floor beside my bunk. I walked into the kitchen and tested the back door. Next, I went to the front room, where I stood five feet behind the large front window, looking out over the top of the curtains. From this position, without being seen, I could command a view of the entire clearing in front of the cabin. If they came by car, I’d see them. If they came on foot, through the woods, I might hear them. I’d decided to stand guard until 2 A.M. If they hadn’t come by then, the odds might favor me. At two o’clock, I’d decided, I would go to sleep on the couch in the living room.

  At the thought, I yawned.

  I stepped to the window and cautiously drew back the muslin curtains. The clearing beyond the window was illuminated by light from a moon that was almost full. I placed a straightback chair so that I could look out through the gap in the curtain. Because of the angle, seated, I couldn’t see the ground nearer than a hundred feet from the cabin. So, conceivably, they could come through the woods from either side and then crawl the last hundred feet. If they did, they could get to the front porch without being seen. But it was an unlikely possibility. Billy Marsh wouldn’t crawl. Whatever else he did, he wouldn’t crawl.

  Again, I yawned. I was back on stakeout, doing what a cop hates most: endlessly watching and waiting, fighting boredom and loneliness while he wonders whether he’ll measure up during the final seconds, when it all comes down.

  I moved the chair a foot closer to the window—and momentarily tensed when a floorboard creaked under my weight. I’d raised the large window a few inches, and from outside I could clearly hear the sounds of the night: animals crying, insects chirping. Occasionally I heard cars passing on the county road. Most of the cars came from the south, the direction of the state highway and the nearest town. On a Friday night, the residents of Long Valley would be returning from movies, or bars, or country-style dances and parties. The deer hunters, on the first night of their weekend, would be returning from the nearest liquor store. Even though the county road was less than a quarter-mile away, I couldn’t see the cars’ passing headlights—probably because, approaching the cabin, we’d come up a low rise, then dropped down behind it. Cars traveling along the county road were concealed behind the rise.

  I shifted in the uncomfortable chair, yawned again and put my revolver on the floor beside me. I wore blue jeans and a short-sleeved sports shirt. Lying in the lower bunk, planning my strategy, I’d considered blackening my face and forearms. Because if they came, I must go outside and meet them; I couldn’t let them get as far as the house. I could still do it—still take some water outside, mix it with dirt, and blacken my skin. But somehow the precaution seemed undignified, or theatrical—or both. What had Ann said, describing the deer hunters so contemptuously? Boys, playing war, she’d said. That’s how it would feel, blackening myself—like a boy playing a foolish game.

  Had I ever done it—played at war when I was a boy? I could hardly remember. During the last few years of my life, I’d somehow lost contact with most of my memories from childhood. I could remember scenes from my earliest years, and something from my adolescence. But the years between five and fifteen were fading fast. I’d always remembered the time I’d gone to kindergarten with a sling on my arm, and the time my father had given me a dime for an ice-cream cone—provided I had the courage to go into the ice-cream parlor and ask for it. Other moments from my first years were vividly inscribed in memory: a fight with a boy named Carl, and my mother mixing cake batter, and the dying agony of a neighbor’s dog, hit by a car.

  But after those first years, the void began—and extended into my fourteenth year, when I’d come home from high school to find my mother sitting in the living room, staring down at a piece of paper she held crumpled in her lap. It was a letter from my father, scrawled in his untidy hand on a letterhead from his real estate office. Silently, with eyes streaming, my mother had handed me the letter. In just four short sentences, my father said that he was leaving her to be with a girl named Judith Winters. He hoped we’d be all right; he’d send us money—if he could. He loved both of us. He hoped we’d understand.

  Three years later, in my senior year of high school, I’d been summoned to the principal’s office. I’d been wearing my letter sweater with four stripes and two stars. My mother had been alone in the office. The day before, she said, my father had died of a heart attack in Dallas. He’d been driving, and the car had gone off the road, rolle
d over and burned. Identification had been difficult.

  In three years, we’d gotten three letters from him. Every Christmas, he sent me a check for twenty dollars. Sometimes he forgot my birthday.

  I shifted on the uncomfortable chair, blinking the night back into focus. From the county road, from the south, I heard a motorcycle coming, fast. It was a noisy two-cycle engine, probably a dirt bike. The moon was past the center of the sky, sinking toward the dark line of trees on the western horizon. When it dropped behind the trees, the cabin would grow darker. To whose advantage—mine, or theirs? How would …

  A car was coming, this one from the north, going toward town. In the silence, the engine was loud: a ragged, uneven clatter. I was leaning forward in the chair, straining to hear. Now the sound of the engine was slackening; the car was slowing, stopping—then starting again.

  Through the trees, I saw a glow of headlights, then nothing. They’d turned into the graveled road leading to Ann’s driveway, then switched off their headlights. Now they were coming slowly down the driveway toward the cabin. Even though the engine was idling, its characteristic clattering note was unmistakable. It was Cha Cha’s van. They’d come for the cocaine.

  I was at the front door, then outside, crouched on the porch. Quickly, I covered the distance to my own car, dropping to the ground behind it. I breathed deeply—then held my breath, listening. They were closer now, almost to the clearing. As I watched, the square shape of the van emerged from the shadows. With its loud engine and dim, boxlike shape, it could have been a combat vehicle, cautiously probing an enemy position. I left the shelter of my car and moved toward the line of trees that bordered the clearing. I was careful to keep my car between me and the van. In the moonlit clearing now, the van suddenly turned to the right, toward me. Crouching lower, I froze. I was still twenty feet from the trees. If they switched on the headlights, they’d discover me. And if I ran, even in darkness, they’d see the movement. I could only remain as I was: crouched down like an animal at bay. But now the van was backing up, turning sharply. Finally it moved forward again, this time heading back toward the road. Still with its engine idling, the van disappeared among the trees, going back down the driveway. But only for a few yards. I heard brakes squeak, heard the noisy engine die. Doors opened—and didn’t close. They’d positioned the van for a quick getaway. Now they were climbing out; I could hear hushed voices, and the sound of footsteps crunching on gravel.

  I covered the remaining distance to the trees in a few long, silent strides. Immediately, underbrush tore at my trousers; branches stung my face. My footsteps crackled on dry leaves and snapping twigs. In the silence, the sound was deadly. Backing away, I was again in the clearing, skirting the trees as I moved toward the intruders. I must be near the driveway when they entered the clearing. I must be able to step in behind them, close enough to kill them if they tried to kill me. On the walnut grip of my revolver, my palm was slick with sweat. Suddenly the gun felt light in my hand—light and ineffectual, with only four live cartridges in the chamber. Four bullets—four enemies. The odds were impossible.

  I stumbled over a fallen log—and touched off a sudden sharp, dry whirring: a vicious, deadly sound. I was frozen where I stood, held by a deep, primitive fear. It was a rattlesnake. I’d never before heard the sound. But I knew. Instinctively, I knew. Eyes staring in the darkness, I strained to see the snake. It was impossible; I didn’t know where to look. The sound of its rattling surrounded me. As I stood still, incapable of movement, I saw the four figures emerge from the driveway.

  Had they heard the rattling? Would they turn toward the sound—toward me?

  No. They were walking forward in an uneven line, making directly for the cabin. Angie was closest to me, a knife in her hand. Marsh was beside her, carrying a double-barreled shotgun. Cara was next, her hands not visible behind Marsh. The last one—Cha Cha—was on the far end. He carried a machete, or a bayonet. They’d spread out in a rough skirmish line. From Angie to Cha Cha, the distance was about twenty-five feet.

  Close beside me—still surrounding me—the lethal whirring continued. Was the snake coiled, ready to strike? Was it in front of me, or behind me—to the left, or the right? I didn’t know, couldn’t decide. I couldn’t make myself move.

  Don’t step on sticks, Ann had warned.

  Making no effort to conceal themselves, the four intruders were steadily advancing on the cabin. They were almost in the center of the clearing now, still four abreast. Over the noise of the snake, I could hear the scuffing of their footsteps on the gravel. They made no effort at concealment or stealth. With a courage that was either real or drug-induced, they were making a direct frontal assault.

  In another few moments they would be too far away, out of effective pistol range. I must move—must close the distance between us. Now.

  I stepped forward one pace—then another. My body ached, braced against the touch of my foot on the wild, writhing body of the snake. Another step—and another.

  And suddenly the whirring stopped. I was free.

  I was stalking them. Taking two strides for one of theirs, I was quickly closing the distance between us. Another few feet, and I’d be in range. I saw Marsh turn his head to the left, heard him speak. Cha Cha nodded. Walking between them, Cara giggled. In Cha Cha’s hand, the machete gleamed in the moonlight. Cara, I saw, carried a knife.

  I raised my pistol, aimed at the gravel between us—and fired.

  “Freeze.”

  The word sounded strange—hollow and desperate, lost in darkness and space.

  I had three shots left.

  “Freeze, goddammit! Don’t turn around. Freeze.”

  But Marsh was turning—swinging the shotgun toward me in a slow, deliberate arc. I’d known he would do it. His whole life was behind the smooth, inexorable movement of the shotgun. I raised my revolver. In the darkness, the sights were invisible. The revolver’s two-inch barrel was on line with his thighs. I squeezed the trigger. The kicking pistol momentarily blocked out the target. But I heard a soft, angry exhalation, saw the long double barrel falter. Marsh began to mutter low, earnest obscenities.

  I’d hit him. Thank God, I’d hit him.

  “Drop the goddam gun!” It was my voice, screaming. “Drop it, or the next one goes in your chest.”

  In agonizing slow motion, the shotgun’s muzzle began to lower. Less than half its deadly arc remained before I would have been its target—before I would have shot to kill.

  “All right, Marsh. I warned you. Now here it is—in the chest.”

  With a sudden movement, he hurled the gun away from him. It was a furiously petulant gesture—a child in a tantrum. Still softly muttering obscenities, he was holding his thigh with both hands. The bullet had struck muscle, not bone. He could walk. Limping, he could walk. My knees were shaking. My stomach heaved.

  “Now the knives,” I said. “And the goddam machete. Drop them. Then get in your van and get out of here. And don’t come back.” I heard my voice cracking, ineffectually shrill. It was the sudden, shrieking release after fear.

  Murmuring and swearing, they began their slow, ragged progress back to the van. The girls supported Marsh, one on either side. Cha Cha was ahead of them, almost to the border of trees. I moved to pick up the two knives and the machete.

  I heard Billy Marsh say, “The mistake you’re making, pig, is letting us go. Because we’re coming back. Sure as you’re breathing, we’re coming back.”

  Twelve

  IT WAS ONE-THIRTY in the morning when I returned to the cabin. For the next hour, with the shotgun across my knees, I sat in the chair before the window, on guard. Then, no longer able to keep my eyes open, I got into my sleeping bag. For the rest of the night I slept in fitful snatches. I didn’t think they’d return—not without the shotgun. And not without Billy Marsh, obviously their leader. During my periods of wakefulness, listening for alien sounds, I made my plans. Tomorrow, we’d drive into town. I’d go to the local sheriff, identify myself
and tell my story. I’d turn over the cocaine and get a receipt for it. Then I’d find a sporting goods store, where I’d buy a box of .38s and a box of twelve-gauge buckshot shells. After that, we would return to the cabin. If Darrell wanted to do it, we’d finish our vacation as planned. Except that now I’d be forced to take my revolver wherever I went. I’d take the shotgun in the trunk of the car. At night, I’d sleep with the shotgun on the floor beside my bed, cocked.

  When I looked through the bedroom window and saw dawn breaking the next morning, I felt we were safe. Immediately, I sank into a deep, exhausted sleep. I woke suddenly, overcome by a sense of suffocating disorientation. I didn’t know where I was or what threatened me. For an instant I lay helpless, terrified by a presence I couldn’t see—fearful of something I couldn’t define. In the next instant, memory returned. I flung my hand over the side of my bunk. My groping fingers found the cold metal of the shotgun.

  But something was still wrong. Terribly wrong. I looked up. Above me, there was no sag in Darrell’s bunk. My son was gone.

  “Darrell!” Clumsily I groped for my sleeping bag’s zipper.

  “Yeah?” From the kitchen, I heard the clink of crockery.

  I let my head sink back on the pillow, momentarily surrendering to the luxury of relief. I heard Darrell’s footsteps approaching. Dressed in jeans and a plaid cotton shirt, he stood in the bedroom doorway. Sunshine came through the window, falling in a bright rectangle at his feet. It would be a beautiful day.

  “Boy, you were sure sleeping. And snoring, too. You woke me up.”

  I smiled ironically. “I had a big night.”

  I said it without thinking—without having decided whether I should tell him what had happened last night. Then I realized that, having said it, I’d already made the decision. And, besides, the shotgun was in plain view.

  Apparently Darrell hadn’t noticed the gun when he first got out of bed. But now, his eyes widened as he looked down at it.