Clout was way ahead, and he did not wait. His pistol cracked a trio of hasty shots directed toward Old Dog's diving body. Whatever the saddlebags held was clearly worth killing for.
Old Dog hit and rolled, long unpracticed combat skills coming into play. His tiny pistol finally came free, but it was clumsy in his gloved hand. A fourth bullet chewed earth at his ear, disclosing the meager protection offered by his tree. Dog heard the gunman's feet, moving to get a better shot, Old Dog figured.
Dog cocked the pistol's hammer, gathered his nerve, and stuck the gun and his head around the tree trunk. Clout was in the open and moving, for the instant glancing down at his footing. No shots had come his way, he might have believed his opponent unarmed.
Old Dog's front sight was only decoration. There was no rear sight. The derringer was meant for close-in, belly-touching work, but if held rock solid it would shoot. Dog aimed at the middle of Clout's body. He held like iron, letting his target blur, concentrating on aligning the single sight atop the pistol's backstrap. He was only vaguely aware of Clout's own hasty reaction and their shots blended.
Bark splinters plucked at Dog's shoulder, but he ignored the distraction. Clout had frozen in place, his pistol still extended, but studying his free hand that moved hesitantly to his body. Old Dog recocked and concentrated on placing his front sight just beneath the gunman's chin. His tiny pistol popped again, its report sounding puny and ineffective.
Clout staggered. Hit again, Old Dog expected. Clout cursed with vicious intensity. His gun steadied and erupted in a hail of bullets. Dirt flew and wood chips fell. Through the intimidating barrage, Old Dog fought to resight and get off a third shot.
When would it end? Clout's pistol seemed to have a bottomless magazine.
Finally Clout's fire ceased. Believing himself untouched, Old Dog squeezed again, and Clout flinched for the third time.
Clout lowered his pistol, seemingly undecided on what to do. They were close, perhaps ten yards apart. Old Dog hoped the thug did not charge. A wrestling match would surely go to Stailey's man.
Dog dumped his fourth. 22 magnum round into Clout's middle, wondering if he was doing any good and whether he should hold his last cartridge for nose to nose work or shoot now while he had a motionless target.
The man was still erect but acting confused. Old Dog scrambled to his feet, and Clout raised his empty pistol as though to shoot. Dog knew it was unloaded because the slide was locked back denoting an empty magazine.
His derringer aimed, Dog stepped nearer. Every foot closer improved his chances of hitting a vital spot.
Clout fell! He sagged to his knees, features unresponsive. His pistol's muzzle dug into the forest floor, and his finger jerked the empty gun's trigger.
Clout sat heavily back on his heels. His mouth fell open and his tongue protruded. Limp and silent, Clout slumped onto his side, his pistol falling from a suddenly nerveless hand.
Old Dog stood over the body. It was a body. Dog remembered the look. He saw no blood. The.22 magnums left no gaping entrance wounds. He doubted any had exited, but at least one had punctured something big inside Clout. A heart shot or a blown aorta could kill like this.
Old Dog did not check his group. He had been lucky as much as skilled. If the gunman had taken time to aim, it would almost certainly have been Clout looking down on Adam Carlisle's dead carcass.
Clout had shot and hoped. Men armed with large capacity, semi-automatic pistols did a lot of that. A single, well aimed bullet beat the hell out of fourteen or so jerked off "Hail Mary" shots, but the temptation to pour it on usually overcame the will and concentration required to aim carefully and shoot exactly. Old Dog was thankful Clout had never learned.
Dog shut down the still running Kawasaki and knelt to open a saddlebag. Clout's sightless eyes stared at him, but Dog Carlisle had been examined by the dead before. He knew they never interfered.
God, he hurt all over. His hands shook. His breathing was wretched, and he had to delay while he fumbled a Doc Klein inhaler from a pocket. Proventil—it opened tubes and let in air.
Simple leaping and rolling had exhausted him more than a mile race would have in his youth, but he had managed it.
In fact, Clout's attack and subsequent demise might add substance to his plan for jailing Bat Stailey.
Old Dog paid attention to possible approach. He wondered if his hearing was going. Hunch's cycle had been almost on him before he heard it, and he had not detected the thug's rush at all. If Clout had heard the motorcycle crash, anyone else in the house would surely have noticed the shooting. They could be coming.
He got the saddlebag open. There was a wrapped package, tightly compressed, as stiff as a book. Dog stabbed his pistol's muzzle through the plastic wrap. Marijuana! Good! His plan could still work out
To reach the second saddlebag, Dog had to flip the motorcycle. It was already partway over. He heaved with his puny strength, and the bike crashed over and slid away. A hell of a racket, but no one had come yet.
The packet from the second bag was more limp, but Old Dog did not have to wonder. It was money, as sure as he handled it. How much? This was not the time for counting, but enough to make the late head-knocker Clout start shooting for it.
Old Dog stuffed the money pack into his shirt front where it bulged like a concealed law book. He wondered idly if it would stop a bullet.
Despite Clout's unexpected arrival, Old Dog thought his plan for Bat Stailey still had a chance. That no one had investigated the shooting should indicate that the Stailey house was now unoccupied. Clout could have been left to meet Hunch's drop-off while Stailey and company went elsewhere. Old Dog hoped it was so.
To win, Dog had to again risk. His intention had been to plant Hunch's marijuana, if the late unlamented had any, in one of the lockers around Stailey's pool. Dog would then call 911 and anonymously report that Bat Stailey had just killed a biker, and that he had dope hidden at his swimming pool. The resulting furor could have jailed Stailey, but with Clout down, and the house possibly empty, Old Dog believed he could do better. Dog wanted to get into Bat Stailey's house.
His shaky legs took him downhill to the low stone wall bordering Stailey's pool. All was still. One screened door hung open, evidence of Clout's hurried investigation of the motorcycle crash.
Dog crossed the wall quickly and rounded the swimming pool. His pistol with its single remaining round held out of sight, he stuck his head inside the house. No one. Hot damn, he would go for it.
Old Dog gave the luxurious home a rapid walk through. Handsome, no question about it, deep rugs and rich furnishings. He looked into the front yard. Empty.
Stailey's bedroom would be the place. Dog found it on the second floor. Where to hide the dope? The money, of course, would go with him to Perry County.
There was luggage in a closet. Good enough, Stailey's personal suitcase ought to tie in nicely. He selected a smaller Samsonite that had stickers and showed use. There were odds and ends of clothing inside. The marijuana fit neatly.
Old Dog delayed his departure, wishing he could better set the scene. He smiled grimly, deciding to risk a clincher.
He had owned the .22 magnum derringer for a dozen years. He had picked it up at a yard sale in Indiana. The pistol could not be traced to him. Dog sat on Stailey's bed and pulled the pistol apart. There were only three pieces and the five cartridges. Using a corner of Stailey's bed sheet, he wiped clean the cartridge cases and replaced them in the cylinder. He wiped down the outside of the pistol so no fingerprints could remain there. The fouled bore and cylinder face would prove recent firing. The bullets in Clout's body would match any fired through the pistol. Old Dog's teeth showed. Get out of this one, Stailey.
When the police came, they would not miss the opportunity to legally search Stailey's home. The law wanted Bat, and who could tell what a diligent search might turn up. The search would be hungry and thorough. Top on their list would be the gun that shot Clout to death, and they would find it.
Not under Stailey's mattress or pillow. Even in haste, Stailey would not be that stupid. Old Dog went to the closet. An old bathrobe hung back among sport coats. Detectives would search every garment. Dog reached in and tried to jam the pistol into the furthest pocket. It snagged. Old Dog checked to see why. His searching fingers found a folded flat packet of bills. A quick thumb through showed all hundreds. This time Dog laughed aloud, Perry County luck—it really existed. He replaced the money with the pistol. When a gun turned up instead of his cash, Stailey would have to believe an inside job. Who would he suspect? Everyone probably, but howl frame-up as loud as he might, police would be hard to convince.
Old Dog moved downstairs and chose a chair that looked out the front window. He poured himself a glass of milk from Stailey's refrigerator and sat down to count money and wait.
Thirty thousand dollars! Whew! Significant money to any honest man. Dog wondered who handed the funds to Hunch the courier. Each and every month? Big money was changing hands. Perhaps the money was only chicken feed to Stailey, skimmings from one or another nefarious activity. Well, this particular bundle Stailey would never see. Dog returned the package to the safety of his shirt.
Before his milk was gone, the electric gate began to open, and Old Dog could see the limo waiting to enter. He hurried to the kitchen, quickly rinsed his glass and put it away. He snatched the kitchen phone. It was cordless, and he carried it out the pool door. Beyond the stone wall, where he had woods cover, he dialed 911. The answer was immediate.
Old Dog put panic into his voice. "He killed 'em both. Bat Stailey strangled the biker and shot the other guy with a pistol."
"May I have your name, sir?"
"Like hell, I'm gettin' the hell out of here. Both of 'em are layin' dead in the woods behind Stailey's house. I seen . . ."
"Sir, can you take it more slowly?"
"Slowly, hell, you don't believe me, you look in the wood's behind Stailey's pool. Both guys are layin' there. Hell, Stailey took one's head near off, and he shot the other guy in the guts about ten times."
"Sir . . . "
"Oh man, here he comes again. I'm out of here." Old Dog shut down.
A voice called from inside. "Clout, hey Clout?" A head peered outside, then disappeared. "He isn't out there, Mister Stailey."
Old Dog flipped the phone into the middle of Stailey's pool. It sank as he began feeling his way through the dark woods.
The homicide Lieutenant said, "It sounds like someone's having fun. I'd like to catch the bastard."
"Yeah, it'd be a cold day in hell when Bat Stailey pulled a trigger himself."
"Wouldn't it be nice, though?"
The Lieutenant sighed in disgust. "Well, we've got to take a look. Can't just ignore it"
A patrolman rose. "I'll take it, Lieutenant. I'm going out to Dauphin anyway. I'll poke through the woods without disturbing citizen Stailey."
"Yeah, don't stir up anything. His attorney would be on the line before you could radio in."
"I'll call when I find the bodies. '"'
They laughed together. "Fine, I'll wait anxiously."
Old Dog could not hurry. He was too bushed. In the dark, the half mile of woods took forever. At the truck he sucked on the inhaler and decided he would have to swallow a pain pill. A pair of codeine would lighten his backache, and codeine did not make him sleepy, the way morphine did.
It felt good sitting in the truck cab, the night quiet around him. It was nice having his gloves off. He had worn them constantly, so no Carlisle fingerprints could show on anything. Modern forensic techniques could disclose all kinds of secrets so he planned on dumping his gloves and his boots. He had others that would not reveal gunpowder or recognizable sole prints. The remainder of the tripwire roll was long gone in the garbage. He could think of only one more precaution.
The codeine began to take hold, and although it induced a touch of lassitude, Dog thought it time to go. There was only one way out, back past Stailey's house. He doubted investigators would yet be taking passing vehicle numbers. He doubted they ever would. Bat Stailey was neatly boxed. The police would not look further.
The patrolman's voice was shocked.
"Lieutenant, they're there! The bodies are there, and Stailey is in the house. I saw him."
The Lieutenant's chair straightened with a crash. "Holy hell! You're sure?"
"Lieutenant . . ."
"All right! Where are you, now?"
"I'm using a fast-food phone. I didn't want this on the air."
"Good move. You get back. Sit on the crime scene. We'll come with everything."
The Lieutenant hung up and stood for an instant, still hardly believing. He said again, "Holy hell!" Then got busy.
With the codeine working, Old Dog felt up to one more move. He drove through Duncannon and took the back road toward Bloomfield. He passed Aqueduct and Delancy's old antique shop. Before Pine Grove he turned onto a side road. Later he turned up a lane and pushed in alongside an old farm house.
Tom Bell dealt in everything legal. He sold antiques, books, and paintings. You could buy a motorcycle from Tom, and he might have a Corvette on hand. Bell was also a gun and knife trader.
Bell said, "Hell, Dog, I'm heading for Florida in two hours. Everything I own is packed."
Dog said, "You'd need six semi-trailers to move the top layer, Bell. What I want is small, anyway."
"What'd that be?"
"You've got a couple of those five-shot derringers they make out in Utah, right?"
"I've got one or two. What kind do you want?"
"A .22 magnum."
"I've got one. Like new. Cost you one hundred and fifty."
"Tom . . ."
"Well, how much do you figure it's worth?"
"A hundred to a friend."
"We'll split. One hundred and twenty-five."
"Sold."
Bell grumbled, "I ought to get ten dollars for digging it out." His van was full.
"You're going south?"
"Yep, I'm going to hit the knife shows for a month. I'll be back in May or maybe June."
"You'll miss the spring auctions, man."
"Can't buy anything at auction anymore, anyway."
Bell produced the pistol. As far as Dog could tell it was identical to his own.
"Where'd you get this gun?"
"How in hell would I remember? They come and they go. Down south somewhere, I suppose."
"You got any cartridges?"
"I got some in the house, but they're old."
"I only want five. An empty gun isn't much use."
"That kind of gun isn't much use anytime."
"I like it."
Old Dog dropped the pistol into his pocket. It felt natural. He was pleased that Bell's cartridges were a different brand than his own had been. Every bit of cover could help—if anyone ever came looking.
Tom Bell headed for Florida. Old Dog went home. By the time Bell got back, the Bat Stailey killings would be old hat—not that a trader like Bell would remember peddling the gun anyway. Too many items came and went to recall a lone pistol sale. It was perfect.
Chapter 17
It was nearly noon before Larry Carlisle saw Old Dog settle into a porch rocker. A warming sun struck the front of Dog's shanty further heating the dregs of another unseasonably warm night.
Many wondered at the consistency of the season's high temperatures, and although reassured by TV weathermen that hot spring weather was not unprecedented, some believed the long predicted greenhouse effect was now measurable. If spring was like summer, what would July and August be like?
Larry said, "Dog's finally up, Arlis. I'm going over and tell him the news."
His wife crossed her kitchen to look out her back window. "Adam hasn't gotten dressed. That's a first, Larry. He is not feeling good." Despite her attempt to sound disinterested, Larry could hear concern in her voice.
Old Dog, with his outwardly carefree ways, challenged almost everything Arlis believed im
portant. His wife might sniff and hotly deny it, but she still had a spot in her heart for her adventuring, good-for-nothing, roamer-of-a-wastrel brother-in-law.
Arlis had used those descriptions and harsher ones over the years, but the words only demonstrated her exasperation. If asked, Arlis Carlisle would likely deny giving a serious hoot about Old Dog, but Larry knew better. Perhaps she exclaimed too often or too loudly. Arlis too was pained by Dog's rapid decline.
As if reading her husband's thoughts, Arlis said, "He ought to be in a hospital where he could be taken care of."
Larry noted she did not suggest moving Old Dog into their home. His wife's concern would not extend that far.
"We'll keep an eye on him." Larry hesitated then decided to go ahead.
"You do understand what Dog intends doing, don't you, Arlis?"
"Of course I do. He's been talking about it for years, hasn't he?"
"Yes, he has. He wanted us to know that he was serious."
"Well, it's wrong. Suicide is against God's will. It's unchristian."
Larry rarely opposed his wife's views. Unless they caused difficulty, he was inclined to let Arlis's stern opinions float unacknowledged.
At the moment, equally disturbed by Old Dog's illness, he chose to respond.
"Adam's thought it through a thousand times, Arlis. He is at peace with himself, and it seems to me we should be thankful for him. A lot of folks will go to their maker more uncertain than Old Dog."
"The Bible says . . ."
"Dang it, I know what the Bible says. It happens that Adam doesn't agree. It isn't our business to force our beliefs on him. Dog made up his mind years ago. He has never faltered. If he got terminal and was suffering, the way so many people we know have suffered, he would end his own life. Not in some disgusting way like shooting his head off or hanging himself in the barn, but going peaceful and with dignity. 'Sailing away with class,' he likes to say.
"Darn it, Arlis. Old Dog's self-deliverance takes at least as much courage as it does to lay around a hospital all doped up, just hanging on till the end. Most people haven't got the heart to do what they would actually prefer, so they suffer out their time. That's the difference between Adam's way and the usual."
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