“And I …” There was a long, separate silence. Then: “I’ve got some pictures of you, too. A lot of them. I’ve got them all in a big scrapbook.”
Helplessly, I shook my head. Suddenly I felt exhausted, incapable of speaking or thinking or even feeling anything more. He’d done it: reached out with words.
“Oh, Jesus,” I murmured indistinctly. “That’s great. That’s—great.”
We sat together for long, silent moments. But now it was a shared silence, not a separate one. When I felt I could trust myself to speak, still without looking at Darrell, I said, “I’m pooped. Why don’t we go home and clean the fish?”
“Okay,” he answered. “I’m pooped, too.”
Fifteen
AS I SLOWED FOR the small graveled road that led to Ann’s driveway, I saw a four-wheel-drive Scout coming toward us. Four deer hunters were crowded together inside, and a deer was tied across the car’s roof. A rivulet of blood ran down the Scout’s dusty windshield. I pulled to the shoulder of the road and stopped to let them pass. As they crept by, two of the hunters saluted us with beer cans, gleefully grinning.
“They sure look happy about it,” Darrell said.
“About what?” I put the car in gear.
“About killing that deer.”
Contemptuously, I grunted. Then I asked, “Have you ever done any shooting?”
“No. I told you Mom hates guns. She even made Don sell his gun.”
This ritual of manhood would be mine—Darrell’s, and mine.
“Would you like to do some shooting?” I asked.
“Oh, boy. Sure.”
We’d reached Ann’s gate. Darrell got out of the car and held the gate while I drove through. I’d gotten a large spike in town, which Darrell used to secure the gate, according to Ann’s instructions. I parked the car where I’d parked last night, and we began unloading the food and supplies we’d bought in town. We put the brown paper sacks on the ground beside the car, and I propped the shotgun against the bumper. I locked the car, and slipped the box of .38s into my hip pocket.
A large supply of firewood, more than five feet high, was stacked at the edge of the clearing, midway between the car and the cabin.
“Leave the groceries where they are,” I said. “Let’s do some shooting.”
“Okay.” He’d tried to sound casual. But excitement was plain in his voice—and in his eyes.
I walked to the woodpile, selected a wrist-size log and propped it against the wood. Then I paced off twenty-five feet, turned to face the woodpile and motioned for Darrell to join me. As he approached, I drew my revolver.
“Did Canelli tell you how a revolver operates, when the two of you went to the police range?”
“No, not really.”
“Then we’ll take it from the beginning.” I swung the cylinder out, and showed him the loaded cartridges. Then I pushed the plunger, ejecting the shells into my palm. I handed him the empty gun. “Hold that in your left hand, with the cylinder out.”
Awkwardly, he took the gun.
“Now take these in your right hand.” I handed him the cartridges. “Those are .38s, which is the standard bullet for self-defense. There’re five of them. Put them in the gun.”
Carefully, he slipped the cartridges into the cylinder.
“Now give me the gun. With the cylinder out.” I held it for him to see. “There are six chambers, but you only load five cartridges. That’s so the hammer will always rest on either an empty chamber or an expended shell.” I pointed to the hammer.
“But you waste a bullet that way.”
“True. But you might save yourself a leg. Even if you hit the hammer with a rock, there’s no way the gun can fire accidentally. See?”
“Oh, yeah.” He nodded.
I showed him how to close the gun so that the empty chamber was aligned with the hammer. Then I extended the gun toward the woodpile, chest high. “Now it’s ready to fire. There are two ways to fire a revolver—either single action, or double action. Single action, you draw back the hammer with your thumb. That cocks the piece. Then you pull the trigger. That’s the more accurate way to shoot. Double action, you just pull the trigger. I’ll show you.” I ejected the shells, then demonstrated five clicks single action and five clicks double action. With every click I aimed at the woodpile.
“You’ll notice,” I said, “that I’m not pointing this gun anywhere but in the direction in which I want to fire. Whether or not a gun is loaded, you always treat it like it’s loaded. Right?”
“Right.”
I handed him the revolver. He did as I’d done, aiming at the woodpile while I told him how to align the sights on the target. Finally I gave him the five cartridges. I told him to fire the five shots, single action, at a small piece of wood.
“And remember,” I said, “you don’t point the muzzle anywhere but at the target. Even when you’re loading it.”
With painstaking care he loaded the gun, closed the cylinder and sighted on the target. He drew back the hammer, held his breath—and fired.
“Wow,” he breathed.
“Don’t lower the gun,” I ordered. “Keep it in firing position while you cock it. Shoot five times. Then take a sixth shot, to make sure all rounds are expended. Don’t lower the gun until you hear a click.”
The fifth shot struck the log.
“Hey. Wow!”
“Take the last click before you lower the piece,” I said. “Then unload it. Then, carrying the gun open, with the cylinder out, you can inspect the target.” Unconsciously, I was speaking like a shooting instructor, teaching a class of rookies.
Excited, but elaborately cautious, he did as he was told. With the empty revolver in his hand, he walked quickly to the woodpile. He bent over the log he’d hit—and then sprang back, almost tripping himself.
“Dad!”
In the same instant, I heard the sound that had terrified me last night: the dry, malevolent whirring.
“Dad! It’s a snake. Right there—” With the revolver clutched in his left hand, still with the cylinder open, Darrell pointed with his right hand toward the far end of the woodpile.
And then I saw it: an evil grey-and-brown body lying uncoiled beside a fallen limb. The large, flat head was raised from the ground, facing Darrell. The tail was also raised. The tip of the tail was a blur.
The snake looked like the limb it lay beside—the markings were almost identical.
“Back up,” I said quietly. “But keep your eye on him. Don’t panic. He’s six feet away from you, and he can’t hurt you unless he’s coiled. I’ll get the shotgun.” Keeping my eyes on the snake I got the shotgun, released the safety and walked cautiously toward Darrell, until finally I stood beside him. During the whole time, except for swinging his head constantly between Darrell and me, the snake hadn’t moved. The rattling had continued at the same high, nerve-shredding pitch.
“Let’s move back a foot or so,” I said, making my voice level and calm. “I’ll get a better shot pattern.” I stepped back, raised the long-barreled shotgun, sighted at the snake’s head—and fired.
The head disappeared, replaced by a dusty, blood-spattered crater in the ground. The hole was about six inches in diameter, approximately the spread I’d calculated. The body was wildly writhing. But the rattling, thank God, had stopped.
And, thank God, I wouldn’t have to cut off the head and bury it.
“Wheew—eee!” It was an exuberant sound of pure boyish glee. As I set the safety and lowered the shotgun, I realized that the snake had provided Darrell with a moment he’d never forget. And one I’d never forget, either.
“We gotta skin him,” Darrell was chortling. “We gotta skin him, and I’m going to take the skin home and hang it up in my room. Right over my bed. I’m going to do just like Billy Haywood did.”
I blew out the kerosene lamp and slipped into my sleeping bag.
“I hope there’s enough salt on that snakeskin,” Darrell said.
“It’ll be
all right in the refrigerator till morning. Then we’ll drive into town and get some tacks—and some more salt. Then we’ll find a board, and we’ll stretch the skin on the board and tack it down. Then we’ll salt it again, and put it in the sun to dry.”
“How’d you find out so much about drying skins?”
“I was a Boy Scout.”
“No fooling? You learned it in the Boy Scouts?”
“No fooling.”
In the short silence that followed, I heard him yawn. Then: “We’ve got to see about those horses tomorrow, too.”
“We’ll go into town first, and get the tacks and the salt. After that we’ll see about the horses.”
“Yeah. Right.” Another yawn.
“We’d better go to sleep. It’s almost eleven.”
“Can I shoot again tomorrow?”
“Sure. As a matter of fact, I’ll get some more shells in town. Maybe we can make a marksman out of you.”
“I don’t think you should tell Mom, though. She’d be mad.”
“It’s a deal. Good night, Darrell.”
“Can I try shooting the shotgun, too?”
“You’ll have a black-and-blue shoulder.” As I spoke, I touched my own shoulder. It had already been aching from the torn muscle. The kick of the shotgun hadn’t helped.
“That’s okay, I don’t mind. Can I?”
“If you want to, sure. Maybe we can find some tin cans. I’ll throw them up for you.”
“I’ll throw them up for you, too.”
To myself, I smiled. “All right. But I’ll tell you right now, I’m a terrible wing shot. And, besides, we’ll be using buckshot. That makes it harder.”
“Is that what you call it when you shoot birds? A wing shot?”
“Birds or clay pigeons.” I yawned. “Listen, I’ve got to go to sleep. I’m dead tired.”
“Okay. I’ll let you sleep in the morning.” He paused, then added: “I’ll keep a lookout in the morning, too. In case those creeps come back.”
Again, as I let my eyes close, I smiled. He was anxious to play the role of our guard, my protector.
The two experiences—Billy Marsh and the rattlesnake—had served a purpose. They had forged something new in our relationship.
I awoke to the same feeling of terrified disassociation that had stifled me that morning. Wildly, I searched the darkened room with wide eyes until I recognized my surroundings.
I allowed my eyes to close—then slowly come open. Had I heard a sound?
Had something creaked—scratched—softly scuffed across the hallway floor outside the bedroom door?
As I reached for my revolver, I looked at my wristwatch. The time was eleven-thirty. I’d only been asleep for a half-hour. From the upper bunk, I could hear Darrell’s breathing: heavy, regular, sleep-slowed.
Cautiously, I unzipped my sleeping bag and swung my legs to the floor. With the revolver ready, I faced the door, listening. In town, I’d bought three ordinary screen-door hooks: one for the bedroom door, two for the window screen. If anyone tried to enter the bedroom, the hooks would rattle and wake me. It was all the edge I’d needed. Three hooks had made me feel secure enough to sleep.
But why, then, was I awake?
Was it nerves—or something else?
I got to my feet and padded noiselessly to the door. Now the hook worked against me: I might not be able to free the door without making a noise. Placing my ear against the door panel I held my breath, listening. Was someone moving in the hallway? I couldn’t be sure.
Exhaling, I crossed to the window. Standing well back in the room, I strained to see something moving in the darkness outside. Nothing stirred. Except for the distant lament of an animal, there was no sound.
Quickly, I slipped on my jeans and shoes. I stepped to the window, placed my revolver on the sill and unlatched the two hooks. Earlier in the evening I’d made sure that the window screen was free in its frame. I tapped the screen, caught it as it fell and lowered it to the ground. A moment later I was outside, crouched in the deep shadows beside the cabin. I remained motionless while I slowly scanned the perimeter of the clearing for a sign of movement.
Cautiously, one slow step at a time, I began moving to my right, toward the front of the cabin. Keeping close to the walls, I would make a circle. If I discovered nothing, I’d go back through the window. It was possible that the intruders had made a noise, hopeful of drawing me outside—so they could get inside. It was a chance I must take.
Almost to the front corner, I thought of the shotgun, propped in a corner of the bedroom—and of Darrell, asleep. I looked back at the bedroom window—and saw a flicker of movement in the clearing behind the kitchen. Bending double, I retraced my steps. At the rear corner of the cabin I straightened, holding my revolver ready. Then, moving my head an inch at a time, I looked around the corner.
At first, I could see nothing. But a moment later I saw a figure standing motionless, just at the edge of the clearing. The pump was on a line between us, almost concealing the form. Instinctively, I knew it was a man. He was in the shadow of a large pine tree. Across his chest, at the port arms position, he carried a gun—a rifle, or a shotgun.
It couldn’t be Billy Marsh—not with his wound. So it must be Cha Cha.
He’d bought a gun—or stolen one from a careless hunter. Did the girls, too, have guns? Were they deployed around the cabin, hidden among the trees?
Now I felt vulnerable, exposed. Bitterly, I realized that I’d made a terrible error in judgment. I’d assumed that Billy Marsh, the brawler, was their leader. My tactics were aimed at countering Billy’s straight-ahead style.
But Cha Cha, all along, could have been the leader—cool, calm, calculating. Deadly.
Because this figure, still standing perfectly motionless, was clearly acting on calculation. He was watching—waiting.
Waiting for what?
With my back pressed flat against the cabin wall, I again scanned the fringe of trees surrounding the clearing, forcing myself to take the time necessary to methodically search each tree, each bush, each shadow. I could see as far as my car, but not as far as the spot where their van had entered the clearing last night. If the girls were in the woods, they, too, were watching—waiting.
Suddenly I felt that the girls weren’t there. Not Angie, the giggling, unpredictable, half-psychotic knife fighter. Not Cara, susceptible to pressure, erratic.
Now I felt that Cha Cha was my only antagonist. I turned back to him—just in time to see him moving slowly, cautiously to his right, toward the front of the cabin. He was keeping just clear of the trees that bordered the clearing. He’d discovered what I’d discovered last night: that stealth was impossible walking among the fallen branches that littered the ground under the trees. I waited until he was almost cut off from my sight by the rear cabin wall. Then I ran lightly along the back wall, to the far corner. I stopped and stuck my head out just far enough to see him.
He was still walking stealthily but steadily, making for the front of the clearing, and the driveway.
Was he leaving—giving it up?
He—or they—hadn’t tried to enter the cabin, hadn’t tried to get the cocaine, hidden in the bedroom. Tonight, their tactics were different. The movements of this silent figure were different, too: more controlled, more purposeful, yet …
It was then I realized that the figure was limping.
Billy Marsh would limp.
Billy Marsh, or Charles Keller.
I stepped away from the cabin wall, straining for a better look. I watched the intruder walk to the driveway, stop, then briefly turn back toward the cabin. Still with the long barrel of his weapon held across his chest, he stood for a final moment, staring back at the cabin. Then he turned and disappeared into the deep shadows of the driveway.
I stood motionless, still listening, still straining to see into the darkness. If it was Billy or Cha Cha, I’d soon hear the unmistakable clatter of the van’s engine. Forcing myself, I slowly, deliberat
ely counted off the seconds. It was a fundamental of police procedure. Under stress, time couldn’t be accurately estimated. Seconds became minutes, and a minute was an eternity.
When I’d counted to a hundred forty-five, I heard the faint sound of an engine starting. But it was a quiet, smooth-running engine—not the engine I’d heard last night.
When I added it up—the single figure, the improbability of Billy or Cha Cha possessing a long weapon, the different-sounding engine—I realized that the intruder probably wasn’t one of last night’s four.
Which left Charles Keller.
Keller, or a random stranger: a man who limped slightly when he walked and risked the woods at night and moved with slow, ominous purpose.
Sixteen
I FELT MY BED move, felt a touch on my shoulder. I stiffened, opened my eyes—then relaxed. Fully dressed, Darrell was standing beside my bunk. His toes almost touched my holstered revolver, lying on the floor.
“You said you’d let me sleep,” I groaned. “Besides, it’s Sunday.”
“Well, I was thinking about that snakeskin, and the salt and everything. And the horses. And maybe fishing, too. Besides, it’s nine o’clock.”
“All right.” I let my eyes close. “Just a couple more minutes.”
“Was everything … you know, all right, last night?”
I’d already decided what I was going to say: “No problems. I slept straight through.”
“Want me to make the eggs?” he asked. “So we can get going?”
“All right, that’s fair.” I opened my eyes just in time to see him turn away, headed for the kitchen. His movements were animated, his eyes were alive. I smiled.
Before we’d gone a half-mile down the country road, driving into town, I saw Virgil Cassiday’s orange pickup in my rearview mirror. I heard a succession of bleats from his horn.
Deliberately, I drove for another hundred yards before I pulled to the side of the road and stopped. In the mirror, I watched Cassiday swing down from his truck and come toward me. As he walked, stiff-legged in his high-heeled boots, he tipped the broad brim of his hat lower over his eyes.
The Watcher (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 12
