Bitch Creek

by Tapply, William

  After an hour, he poured some coffee. Ralph lifted his head, verified that nothing interesting had happened, and dropped it back onto his paws.

  After another hour or so—Calhoun checked his mental clock and guessed it was around two o’clock—he reached down for the thermos to pour himself a refill. As he did, he heard a soft shuffling sound down toward the place where the dirt driveway opened into the clearing.

  He stared hard in the direction of the noise.

  Deer again, probably. Or coyote or porcupine. During the past couple of nights, he’d heard many sounds.

  Then he heard it again, and he identified it as a new sound. Not a deer. Not any of the animal sounds he’d been hearing in the woods at night.

  In his imagination, at least, it was the sound of a man’s boot sliding over damp leaves, a man trying very hard to walk silently, a man who lifted a foot and placed it in front of him carefully, feeling the ground with that front foot before transferring his weight to it, and then slowly lifting his back foot, sliding it across the ground before swinging it forward.

  It was the sound of that back foot scraping across the top of last year’s fallen leaves that Calhoun had heard.

  Ralph sat up quickly. His ears were cocked forward and a low whine came from his throat. He stopped whining when Calhoun put a hand on his back. Calhoun could feel the dog trembling.

  Then he spotted the shadow edging through the bushes, approaching his house, moving so slowly that it seemed almost motionless. This was an upright shadow, not the horizontal shape of a deer.

  It was the shadow of a man, bent forward, moving carefully, keeping himself screened in the shadows of the undergrowth along the edge of the clearing.

  Calhoun touched Ralph’s head. “Lie down,” he whispered.

  Ralph lay down.

  He tapped his muzzle. “Stay.”

  He slowly pushed the blanket off his legs. He held his Remington in both hands and eased himself to his feet, bent forward, crouching, never taking his eyes off that moving shadow that was creeping toward his house.

  He began to move to his left. He’d swing a circle around the back of the house and intercept the man on the other side. He had studied this route in the daytime, planned it for the time when he’d need it, and the path was imprinted on his brain. There were rocks and rotten stumps and patches of briar, but Calhoun knew where they were and how to skirt them. He kept to the thick screen of hemlocks, where the shadows were black and a century of fallen needles made a soft soundless cushion under his feet.

  Just before he passed behind the house, he stopped and peered out into the clearing.

  He could not see the man, who was making his approach from the opposite side, moving as stealthily as Calhoun.

  He tried to figure the man’s plan. Slip in through the front door? Look in the windows, locate his quarry asleep in the bedroom, and shoot from there?

  The only people who had been in his house, who knew the location of his bedroom, were Kate and Lyle and Sheriff Dickman and the Man in the Suit.

  He slipped out of the woods and up to the rear of the house. He stopped, leaned his back against the outside wall, and listened.

  A footstep, then another, soft but distinct. Close. Right around the corner. He heard the man blow out a quick, soft breath, as if he were winded, or nervous.

  Calhoun slipped along the back wall until he reached the corner of the house. Holding the shotgun at port arms, he eased his head around the corner.

  The man was there beside the house, bent over with his back to Calhoun. It looked as if he might be tying his shoe.

  As Calhoun moved around the corner, the man stood up, and Calhoun knew it was not Lawrence Potter. This was a big man, taller than Calhoun, with bulky shoulders, heavy chest, thick waist. Calhoun saw that he was holding a container of some kind in his left hand and a rifle in his right. If he turned, he’d see Calhoun.

  Calhoun had his shotgun at his hip. The safety was off. He was fully prepared to blast the sonofabitch, no questions asked.

  As he moved closer, the man bent over and carefully laid his rifle on the ground. Then he straightened, gripped the container in both hands, lifted it shoulder-high, tilted it, and in the pale light of the stars, Calhoun could see liquid pouring from its spout onto the side of his house.

  Then he smelled it. Gasoline.

  Calhoun took three quick steps forward, raised his shotgun, and jammed the barrel against the man’s neck.

  “Don’t move,” he whispered.

  The man froze.

  “Throw the can down in front of you.”

  The man hesitated, then suddenly pivoted and swung the can backward, aiming at Calhoun’s head.

  Calhoun leaned backward, and the heavy gasoline can missed his face by inches. The momentum of his violent effort caused the big man to lurch and stumble to his hands and knees.

  Calhoun stepped forward, raised his shotgun, and smashed the butt end hard into the man’s kidneys.

  The man grunted, sprawled onto the ground, and lay there on his belly, groaning and gasping.

  Calhoun jammed the business end of the shotgun between the man’s legs. “Roll over,” he said. “Move slow or I’ll blow your balls off.”

  “Okay, okay,” grunted the man.

  He rolled onto his back.

  “Christ,” said Calhoun.

  It was Marcus Dillman, Jacob Barnes’s grandson.

  Calhoun took one step back. “Stand up, Marcus,” he said. “Go slow and easy. I got double-ought buckshot in this gun, and I won’t hesitate to blow a hole in you. In fact, I’d welcome the excuse to do it.”

  Marcus pushed himself to his hands and knees, took a deep breath, and climbed to his feet.

  “Grab the back of your head with both hands,” said Calhoun, “and don’t let go.”

  Marcus laced his fingers behind his neck. “Lemme explain, Mr. Calhoun.”

  “Right now, I really don’t give a shit,” said Calhoun. “We’re going inside and we’re going to call the sheriff, and you just better pray that I don’t change my mind and blow your nuts away. Because I’m extremely pissed, Marcus, and I really wouldn’t mind shooting you. Now move. Real slow and careful.”

  Marcus, with his hands clasped behind his head, started for the front of the house, and Calhoun kept two paces behind him with the bore of his Remington centered on Marcus’s back.

  As they approached the corner to the front of the house, something hard and sharp rammed Calhoun between the shoulder blades, causing him to stagger forward. Then it jabbed against his back a second time, forcing him forward onto his knees.

  A man’s voice behind him said, “Throw the gun away, Mr. Calhoun.”

  Calhoun tossed his Remington aside. He recognized that voice.

  He turned to face David Ross.

  Ross was holding a bolt-action .22 rifle. He held it lightly in his left hand, like a pistol, bracing the stock against his side with his forearm. “Marcus,” said Ross, “for Christ’s sake, you can stop hanging onto your head. Pick up that gas can and finish what you started.”

  “You going to tell me what this is all about?” said Calhoun.

  “Don’t see why I should,” said Ross. “It ain’t gonna matter to you one way or the other.”

  “I don’t understand why you had to go after Millie.”

  “Felt real bad about it,” said Ross. “Always liked Millie.”

  “And Lyle,” said Calhoun. “He never hurt anyone.”

  “That’s the truth,” said Ross. He looked at Calhoun and shook his head. “Ain’t no sense explaining it to you. But for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. Couldn’t be helped.”

  “You’re a disturbed man, Mr. Ross.”

  Ross nodded. “I suppose I am.”

  Marcus had retrieved the gas can. It looked like a ten-gallon can. He finished emptying it against the side of the house. “All set, Mr. Ross,” he said.

  “Hang onto that can, son,” said Ross. “We don’t want to forget
to bring it with us when we’re done. Pick up your rifle and keep it leveled at Mr. Calhoun, here. Marcus has got a thirty-ought-six there, Mr. Calhoun, and he’s damn quick with it, for a slow-witted boy. He’s loaded up with hollowpoints that’ll make a hole in a man you could drive that old truck of yours through. Okay, now, fellas. Let’s go inside and finish this up.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-NINE

  THEY FORMED A LITTLE PROCESSION as they moved along the side of the house. David Ross, carrying his .22 bolt-action rifle lightly in the crook of his arm, led the way. Calhoun was behind him, followed by Marcus Dillman with his deer rifle.

  Calhoun considered his options. He could lunge forward, knock Ross down, perhaps grab his .22. Marcus might hesitate before firing a .30-caliber hollowpoint into his back, and in the confusion, he might miss altogether.

  More likely, Marcus would shoot him dead.

  Or he could make a backward move directly at Marcus, knock his gun away, and run for the dark woods.

  He figured both men were hunters, comfortable and accurate and quick with their weapons. He tried to calculate his chances coldly and rationally. The odds of escaping without getting shot were slim. Too slim.

  Part of him was observing his reactions. He was calm. He was thinking, weighing his options, problem solving. He realized that he trusted himself to make a good decision.

  Right now, the best decision was to go along. He’d wait for his opportunity.

  They were just turning the corner to the front of the house when suddenly Ross yelled, “Ow! Shit!” and staggered sideways.

  Calhoun stopped and felt the barrel of Marcus’s .30-06 jab into the small of his back.

  Calhoun heard a low, throaty growl. Then he saw Ralph with his teeth clamped onto Ross’s calf.

  Ross swung his rifle like a club, smashing the barrel across Ralph’s back. Ralph held tight. Ross hit him again, this time on Ralph’s shoulder, and Ralph rolled onto the ground. He lay there on his side, panting.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” muttered Ross. He kicked Ralph in the ribs. The dog whimpered but did not move.

  “Now, you just set still, there, Mr. Calhoun,” said Marcus from behind him.

  “Like hell,” said Calhoun. He went over and knelt beside Ralph, who was breathing rapidly. His tongue lolled out of his mouth, and his eyes rolled wildly. Calhoun stroked his head, then moved his hand across his back and ribs. Ralph’s little stub tail flickered a couple of times, a feeble effort at a wag.

  Calhoun lifted the dog’s head onto his lap and stroked it. “I thought I told you to stay,” he told Ralph.

  “Get him the hell away from the dog,” said Ross, speaking to Marcus.

  Calhoun felt Marcus’s gun barrel on his back. “Come on, Mr. Calhoun,” said Marcus.

  Calhoun looked up at Ross. “If you killed my dog . . .”

  “What?” said Ross. “What’re you gonna do?”

  “I’ll kill you.”

  Ross nodded. “Guess I wouldn’t blame you. ’Course, managing it might be a problem.” He gestured with his rifle. “Git over there, Mr. Calhoun.”

  Calhoun stood up and moved aside.

  Ralph lay sprawled on the ground, motionless except for the rapid heaving of his chest.

  “Shoot him,” said Ross to Marcus.

  Marcus frowned. “Huh?”

  “Shoot the damn dog.”

  “Aw, Mr. Ross. I can’t shoot no dog. This ain’t a bad dog.”

  “Imbecile,” Ross grumbled. He stepped close to Ralph and pointed his .22 at Ralph’s head. “Gotta do everything myself if I want it done right.”

  Marcus moved quickly. He grabbed Ross’s rifle and pulled it from his hands. “Don’t, Mr. Ross. Please. Don’t shoot the dog.”

  By the time Calhoun realized he could have made his move, it was too late. He’d been thinking about Ralph. Hell, he wouldn’t leave Ralph there with those two anyway, not even if it meant he himself could get away.

  Ross was holding his .22 again. He glared up at Marcus. “Don’t ever do anything like that again,” he said.

  Marcus hung his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ross.”

  Ross nodded. “Okay. Pick up the damn dog and bring him inside, then.”

  Marcus laid his rifle on the ground, squatted down, and murmured, “I ain’t gonna hurt you, boy.” He picked up Ralph and cradled him against his chest. Ralph let out a little yelp, then lay still in Marcus’s big arms.

  “Move,” said Ross to Calhoun, leveling his rifle at him. “Git into the house.”

  Calhoun went first, followed by Ross, with Marcus in the rear carrying Ralph.

  At the doorway, Ross said to Calhoun, “Go real slow. Open the door, reach in, and turn on the lights.”

  Calhoun obeyed.

  They all went in. Ross told Calhoun to sit in one of the kitchen chairs. Marcus laid Ralph on the floor, then went to the sink.

  “What the hell are you doing?” said Ross.

  “Gittin’ the poor dog some water,” said Marcus.

  “Forget the dog,” said Ross.

  Marcus ignored him. He found a bowl, filled it with water, and took it to where Ralph lay. Marcus knelt beside the dog, lifted his head, and moved the water dish close to him. Ralph took a couple of slow licks, then let his head fall back to the floor.

  Marcus stroked Ralph’s back for a moment, then turned. “What now, Mr. Ross?”

  Ross had pulled a chair to the middle of the kitchen. He was sitting there rubbing his calf with his right hand and holding his rifle on Calhoun with his left. “Go on back out there and fetch your rifle,” he said to Marcus. “I want to git this done.”

  Marcus went out the front door, and Calhoun sat there facing David Ross, the man who had killed Lyle and burned down Millie’s house and kicked Ralph.

  He figured he had about two minutes before Marcus returned.

  Ross was holding his .22 at his hip. His finger was curled around the trigger. The little bore was a black hole aimed directly at Calhoun’s sternum.

  There was no way Ross wouldn’t get off one shot. But it was a bolt-action rifle, and before he could shoot a second time, he’d have to take his finger off the trigger, reach up to the bolt, eject the spent cartridge, and jack another one into the chamber.

  So he’d have to give him that one shot.

  Ross was staring at him. His pale eyes were alert and intelligent and calm.

  Calhoun stared back at him, holding the man’s eyes, controlling them with his own. Then he suddenly turned and shouted, “Ralph, no!”

  Ross’s head twitched, and in that instant Calhoun threw himself sideways off his chair and rolled onto his feet. He heard the pop of the .22 and felt a hot dart of pain in his left ear an instant before he slammed into Ross.

  They both toppled backward and became entangled in the chair where Ross had been sitting. Calhoun grabbed the rifle by the barrel, wrenched it from Ross’s hands, and smashed the butt against Ross’s head. Then he rolled away and jacked a new cartridge into the chamber.

  “Hold it, Mr. Calhoun.”

  Marcus was standing in the doorway holding his deer rifle at his hip. He wouldn’t shoot a dog. But Calhoun wasn’t at all sure he wouldn’t shoot a man.

  He didn’t wait to find out. He shot Marcus in the right thigh.

  Marcus’s eyes opened wide. He looked down at his leg, where a spot of blood was blooming on the front of his jeans. Then he shook his head and looked up at Calhoun with wide, disbelieving eyes. “You shot me,” he said.

  Before Calhoun could work the bolt of Ross’s .22 again, Marcus turned and disappeared out the front door.

  Calhoun sat there on the floor for a moment, vaguely aware of a burning sensation in his left ear. He put up his hand and it came away wet with blood.

  David Ross was in a half-sitting position against the wall, staring dully at him, holding his hand against the side of his head.

  Calhoun wiped his bloody hand on his pants and stood up. He jacked another round into the ch
amber of the .22, went over to Ross, pressed the bore of the gun against the man’s knee, and pulled the trigger.

  Ross howled and curled up fetally on the floor.

  “You stay here,” said Calhoun.

  He went to the screen door, then paused. Marcus could be standing outside with his rifle leveled on the doorway. Calhoun would make a big target, standing there backlit from the inside lights. On the other hand, Calhoun figured Marcus was more likely to try to get away. He’d refused to let Ross shoot Ralph, and he had not shot Calhoun when he’d had the chance. Calhoun didn’t figure Marcus was a killer.

  He slipped quickly through the door and onto the porch, and then he heard the distant sound of heavy, shuffling footsteps heading out the driveway to the road. By the sound of it, Marcus had maybe fifty yards on him. Even with a bullet in his leg, the man was managing to move.

  If he got to his truck, he’d get away. All Calhoun could think about was catching Marcus.

  He leaped off the porch and began running. He didn’t remember the last time he’d tried to run flat out. He was sprinting, moving fast.

  His driveway was a quarter of a mile long, and his feet flew over the bumps and ruts. He could hear Marcus ahead of him, and he pictured the man trying to run, a fast hobble, a big dumb man with a bullet in his leg, single-mindedly intent on reaching his truck and getting away.

  It seemed as if Calhoun’s feet barely touched the ground. He felt as if he could run forever to catch the man who, he figured, had been David Ross’s tool, the man who’d whacked Millie on the head and torched her house and who was prepared to do the same to Calhoun.

  The end of the driveway was only about fifty yards ahead of him, over the rise and around the corner, when he heard the sound of a truck engine starting up.

  Then he heard a loud crash, the sound of heavy steel smashing into metal. Calhoun heard the truck’s engine whining, gears grinding, tires spinning and spitting up gravel. And then came that crash again. Headlights flickered and flashed wildly through the trees up ahead.