That short devil outside shot Fred.
I can’t breathe. My eyes is on fire.
I push up on the slope door. Rock solid. I gag out a breath and suck in a new lungful but it’s hot and burns like acid.
If I stick my face in the shotgun hole, it’s liable to get blowed off.
I go flat against the floor and slither with my nose agin the cement. I got spit coming out my eyes, grime in my teeth. That beam of light from the shotgun hole cuts through the smoke and halts at the center of the cement floor, at a drain hole.
Clear air eddies up through.
I crawl. Blink. Scrape, and I’m there. I stick my mouth on the drain and suck in the sweetest outside air, cool like five feet underground. I pant. The inferno is above me. I’m dead center in the basement, where the whole shebang’ll drop in a couple minute.
I breathe while the clean air lasts.
Chapter Thirty Four
Ernie and Burly stood with their shotguns at the slope doored basement exit. The upper house was flames through and through. If Creighton was alive, he was in the basement, and if he tried to escape, it would be through this door.
“Point there,” Burly said. “Don’t wave that damn thing around all the time. Or put it in the Suburban if you don’t know what to do with it. He’s dead by now anyway.”
Ernie aimed at the basement door. “He’s not dead yet. Wait until the whole house falls in, then he’s dead.”
“Look at the smoke pouring out that hole. He’s dead.”
“It doesn’t hurt to be cautious.”
Burly stared a long while across the road at Creighton’s woods.
Ernie had watched the idea take hold of Burly as they discussed setting up a stilling operation. Stipe would gladly include them in his distribution scheme. The only tense moment came when Ernie suggested they would need to keep their wealth and ambitions secret. Stipe’s success resulted from exploiting the little guys, keeping them locked in meager stations. As far as Stipe needed to know, scraping together enough money to rebuild Creighton’s business would almost bankrupt them. They would secretly use their windfall to expand, develop their own distribution channels, enter new territories and buy out existing operators—or take them out the old-fashioned way. Once they’d grown to a position of strength, they’d dictate terms to Stipe.
Burly’s caveman brow had crumpled at the thought. “If I’m anything, it’s loyal,” he said.
“You think Stipe was loyal to the people he shoved aside or outright killed to get where he is now? You can’t build something big without being loyal to yourself first. And if that’s a problem, we better rethink this partnership.”
Burly had frowned at Ernie’s brazenness, but coming to accord on the long-term vision was paramount. They had to want the same end.
They would not merely do business with Stipe. They would exploit him and then supplant him. Burly’s brow did overtime, but by the time they stood beside the basement exit, watching smoke pour from the shotgun blast hole, Burly was unambiguously on board.
“Two minutes. It’s enough smoke that he can’t breathe. So we give him two more minutes,” Ernie said. “Then we’ll get the gold.”
Burly looked at his watch.
*
I gulp one big final lungful of air and I’m ready for battle. Strength’s back in my arms and legs and Smith’s ready to bark. I lead with my shoulder. Hold my breath and hit that door with all I got. It flies open.
I’m in daylight, looking, spinning, gagging in smoke and the heat’s a furnace door. Damn grass on fire! My legs.
I scoot. Run and dive and roll. The ground twists Smith out my hand. I come up on my feet and Burly and his taco dog is gone. The Suburban’s gone.
I grab Smith and point. Turn a full circle. A blast of flame lashes out like a fist and it’s gone before I can duck. This whole place is going to come down, and maybe the barn off’n the side. It ain’t lit, but they’s nothing but dry grass ’tween here and there.
Sirens come from down the road, big-assed fire trucks leaving a half-mile plume. I beat the flames off my legs. No way I can get across the road to my side before they get here. They’ll want water from the crick, maybe? Nah, they’ll watch this place burn; try and make sure the fields don’t catch, or the woods across the road.
I trot back into the orchard and hunker in the brush. I’m fifty yards off and when the wind comes this way it carries the heat.
Lot of supplies going up in smoke.
I got to get my mind around all this.
It wasn’t no accident, me being inside. Stipe knows I pick apples and whatnot out of Brown’s place. Stipe burned my place to the ground; sicced the law on me, destroyed my still; went after my customers, and just so I couldn’t get em back, he burned the Brown place. Maybe me being inside was just his good luck, but it seems Stipe wants me out the picture, and he’s got a wagonload of assholes dying to help.
*
Cory stepped three paces and stopped. The Mauser in his hands was an extension of his body, of his mind.
He had shot three full boxes of ammunition the night before. He’d placed a single cartridge in the chamber, assumed a supported position with the barrel wedged between sandbags, similar to what he would experience at the blind—took aim, and fired. Then he ejected the shell and went through the entire process again, loading each shell individually so he would learn to find the same posture and sight picture every time.
After every third shot he checked his target and adjusted his sights. His groups had started out scattered all over the target. Some didn’t hit at all. With sober precision he relearned what he had forgotten. He held his breathing steady and fired on an exhalation. He kept his eyes open. He squeezed the trigger slowly. But he also reawakened the talent side of the skill. As he became comfortable with the rifle he developed an intuition for how it would fire. He knew beforehand whether a shot would be good or bad. He learned to hold off on a bad, reacquire the target, and wait until the mechanical orchestration was perfect. After shooting three boxes of ammunition, he hit a three-inch group every time.
He was lethal.
He disassembled the weapon that night, staying up late to punch the tube and make it shine. Using a section of coat hanger hammered flat on one end, a device he found in his father’s old Army rifle cleaning kit, he picked carbon from the bolt. He scrubbed the innards with a toothbrush and coated everything that moved with a light layer of oil. He relished the bolt’s crisp action. When he was done the weapon was mesmerizing.
He slept with the Mauser in his bed, under the covers, and when he got up, he held the Mauser in one hand while the other aimed his morning whiz into the toilet. He scrambled eggs with it slung over his shoulder. He drove with the rifle across his lap. Nothing was more comfortable than the worn stock or the metal-oil smell. He understood why soldiers gave their rifles women’s names.
After all this was done he’d find another woman.
Wearing camouflage and hunting boots, with a camo net over his face, he approached the rocky lair two hundred yards removed from Baer Creighton’s camp. He stopped and scanned the trees for movement, colors, anything. But the trees were motionless and the silence replete. He stepped forward again and waited. Again and waited. Nothing could break his concentration. He’d learned the first lesson: that remaining meditatively in control of every desire, every thought, every action, was the highest high. It unlocked his unlimited potential.
Cory considered sneaking across the top of the rock for a better vantage, but decided he couldn’t afford such a careless risk. Baer was wily and might detect movement, and certainly he would be on his guard.
Cory halted. Implications…
Baer lived and breathed in the forest, maybe with an animal-like sixth sense for the movements and pulse of his environment. Would Baer be waiting for him, perhaps in that copse off to the left, decked out in camouflage and hidden behind a fallen log?
In practice, Cory had assumed he’d be shooting
at a fully exposed body. He squeezed the Mauser stock. If presented with a concealed target, would he be capable of a head shot? What if only the top half of Creighton’s head was exposed?
Would he take the shot?
He should anticipate every potential situation and know the appropriate response beforehand. Standing motionless, Cory evaluated the risk. He was excited, nervous. Facing a skilled adversary and presented with only a head shot, Cory had to admit the possibility that he could miss. It would be a game changer, turning a simple murder into a shootout for which he was unprepared. Disabling his quarry on the first trigger pull was imperative.
Given a less-than-perfect target, Cory would not take the shot. He would wait all day and night if he had to.
He scanned the terrain again and approaching the rock from the rear, took three steps at a rightward angle. He waited. Stepped. Waited. He proceeded at a glacial pace for a half-hour until he saw movement ahead.
Cory stopped midstride and eased the Mauser stock to his cheek.
*
Two fire trucks in the drive and six men standing around spitting and jawing. They’ve hosed the grass but the house and barn is doomed.
I’ve low-crawled through tall golden grass. I slip across the road and duck in the woods a hundred yards closer to town than I usually do. My nerves is in a jamble. I trek slow, like I’m stalking deer. Normal man’d go inside his house and trust the walls to keep the world where it belongs. Me? I’d have to crawl into the back seat of the Nova on blocks. They didn’t burn that.
I got a chill on my arms though I’m plenty warm and realize I been hearing voices a second or two. I ease behind an oak and peer out.
Ahead is Burly Worley and his friend. Jawing and jabbering all excited.
Nothing down that way but a tree fulla gold.
I pull Smith. Knock out a chunk of dirt wedged in the hammer. I got a lot of wrath inside, a lot of burned-lung, busted-shoulder, fear-in-my-soul anger. I got a dead dog, a burned house, a smashed livelihood.
They won’t pass me by fifty yards. Too far for pistol work. I wait a second for a good line of sight. Burly’s got a bucket in his hand and he tips to the right on account the weight.
One bucket.
I let Smith hand hang at my side but my trigger finger twitches like the tail on a cat stalking a bird. I could leave Burly go. I could give up one bucket of gold. What’s that? Fifty pound? Six, seven hundred grand? They’s double that left in the tree.
But that short fuck killed Fred. I know it.
My heart thuds. They walk toward my burned house. Prob’ly walk right over Fred’s grave.
That night I found Fred I thought on impunity, on men doing as they please to other men, no compass save they own wants and wishes, and no victim ever coming back to say you can’t do shit like that so long as I’m around. All this back and forth with Stipe—him fighting Fred, and one of his cronies leaving him for dead; me shooting Stipe’s champion in the eyeball on accident; him burning my house, calling the law on my stilling operation, killing Fred. Landing me in jail. And now burning Brown’s house on top of me. All that’s him fighting back, saying, “I’ll fight dirtier to take what I want than you will to keep it.”
Men like that got no law. Society got no hold on ’em, and seems like even God turned his back and said it ain’t worth the fight. Only thing ever make em quit is some sorry bastard like me finally meets em at the edge and says, “No matter how far you go, you’ll find me one step farther. And if we both fall off the cliff, then so fucking be it.”
I swallow. So fucking be it.
I skitter across the ground. I’m stooped, got my arms out like a hawk gliding low. Rapid as I can. My eyes feel like crystals seeing everything in harsh lines and sharp colors. Fingers tingle.
Burly holds both shotguns in his left hand for balance. I come in from his back right. Thirty yards out, he pauses. I cover ten yards quick. He turns. That short man spins, got a fighting stance. Burly’s eyes flash wide.
Ten yards out I swing Smith up and parallel. Squeeze off a shot. Burly drops the bucket and the guns. Mouth wide, he slaps his hand to his chest. I’m five yards out and point at the taco dog man. He’s stooped to his ankle. I pull the trigger and the shot catches him in the low neck. Sets him back a foot. He starts to stand and I put another in his chest. Burly’s on his knees, reaching for a shotgun. He falls on top of both, and his buddy collapses across his legs like to keep him in place.
I grab my bucket and take the shotguns too.
Chapter Thirty Five
Cory watched the forest beyond his front sight post. He’d seen motion just seconds before but now was unable to detect anything other than subtle changes in the autumn forest colors. The Mauser grew heavy and he eased it downward. He stared at the exact place where he’d seen motion but the longer he looked the less certain he was that he’d seen anything.
He could have imagined it.
Movement again.
Cory shifted behind a tree. His hands were sweaty and he exhaled in bursts. He leaned until he could see around the tree into the thick forest ahead.
A whitetail deer bounded away, flashing its tail high in the air. Two more deer followed. Cory fell against the tree and inhaled deep; he held the breath in his lungs as if it was marijuana smoke and when he released it his nerves had settled. The deer hadn’t seen him—so what had spooked them?
About to step forward, Cory heard a pistol shot. In the quiet of the woods it was abrupt and loud. Cory scanned the trees but couldn’t tell where the sound originated. Another shot followed, and another. He guessed the distance to be at least a hundred yards. Cory locked his gaze on a narrow aperture of forest, a slight angle from Baer Creighton’s camp.
As abruptly as it started the shooting ended. It had to be Creighton. Warning shots? Cory looked across his shoulder at the openness of the forest and longed for the protection of the cave.
His next steps would reveal the crag’s face. Cory hesitated. Everything to this point had been preparation. Moving forward would carry him deep into the execution stage of his operation. The risk grew higher and his performance had to be flawless.
Cory inhaled. Exhaled.
He stepped forward and stopped. He leaned until he saw the rock face. That shooting he’d just heard—it could have been anyone. Cory’s heart raced and the sweat was cool on his brow. Was Baer in the cavern? Behind the hemlock next to the trail? Something was out of place.
He surveyed the terrain again. He lifted his leg to step forward. The nagging unknown gave him pause. He planted both feet side by side. He would wait until he knew what was wrong. He would ignore the creepy feeling at the back of his neck, the feeling that another man with a gun lurked somewhere behind him. He had no margin for error. He had to master his fear and identify what had changed since the last time he was here.
Cory studied every protuberance of the timeless rock. A rope hung over the edge, but he remembered it from before. His gaze drifted to the right. He studied the trail in front of the rock, rustled leaves that could have been disturbed by deer as easily as a man. He squinted at the hemlock to the right of the path, and after a moment he grinned. It was different. The shape was wrong—a branch had fallen across the path.
Cory exhaled. It was good to have been cautious. He did one more visual sweep, pausing to stare in the direction of the recent pistol shots, and stepped forward.
The discovery of the fallen tree branch confirmed Cory’s newfound powers. His confidence surged. He stepped five paces, twisted right and searched the forest. He stepped another four. He would avoid the fallen branch and leave no evidence of his passing. He’d already thought through that aspect of the operation. No note, like Stipe had made him leave; no brass abandoned on the cave floor. He’d considered the ramifications of having left brass the last time and had concluded that using a different rifle and picking up spent shell casings would sever any link between this shooting and the last.
Besides, they would have a har
d time proving a murder without a body.
Cory pressed close to the rock wall. He looked to the cave entrance ten feet above and then, partly supported by the rock, lunged for the trail cutting back up the rock face. His boot struck off the edge. Teetering, Cory saw on the trail below a rusted strand of barbed wire that he hadn’t noticed before—but he’d been stoned and the rust color didn’t stand out—
Cory swiped at the rope strung from above. He barely reached it with his fingertips. He bucked out his ass and clutched the rope.
It held a brief moment—enough to restore Cory’s balance. Then it went limp in his hand. From above he heard a rumble that reverberated through the air and the rock face he clung to. He looked upward to the sound and a cascade of round rocks dropped upon him. Cory looked to the side and back to the ledge. He raised an arm above his head and stones smashed against his elbow and shoulder. He batted one aside and another glanced his head. His rifle clanged against the rock wall. Another rock struck his shoulder and another his head, then his forehead, leaving him dazed. He leaned into he wall but still the rocks fell, now striking his shoulders and glancing his back. Finally, when the noise ceased he leaned out and looked skyward—and the last crashed into his forehead.
Cory fell. He regained awareness mid-fall and saw the strand of barbed wire and the out-of-place hemlock branch. He twisted, threw his free arm to cushion his landing. He saw pegs hammered into the side of the tree holding the branch in place.
He hit the branch full on. It popped from the tree, loosing a great whooshing sound. Ahead, a bent-over tree snapped from the ground. The barbed wire tossed leaves into the air. The barbs shredded his pants and Cory felt the wire teeth rip through the muscle next to his groin, each metal tooth seeming to tear a completely new path, deeper and deeper.
Cory gasped. He struck his elbow on a root as the last stone hurtled from the ledge and gouged his ankle.
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