Abducted

by David R Lewis

  When Crockett’s tears started, Zeb made an excuse and headed out the door. Stitch busied himself making a fresh pot.

  Mazy surfaced a little after noon, walking stiffly out of the bedroom, rumpled and tiny. Crockett was waiting at the counter. She slid into his arms and clung to him, seeking shelter from the storm. He rocked her gently back and forth for a moment before she spoke.

  “I feel like shit, Crockett.”

  “Drug abuse’ll do that to ya.”

  “Is it gone?”

  “Yep. Stitch and Zeb took care of everything. I’m really sorry, sweetheart.”

  “Got that dog almost fifteen years ago. Maggie was a friend to a lot of people that came through here. She didn’t deserve that. She was family.”

  “I know.”

  “He’s responsible, isn’t he? That Johnny April.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  Mazy pulled back and collected herself. “So what do we do? Go to the police?”

  Crockett moved behind the counter and poured a cup of coffee. “No. Got no proof of anything. Besides, killing your dog would probably wind up being a civil matter. The law wouldn’t begin to see this for what it really is.”

  Mazy accepted the cup. “What is it?”

  “As far as I’m concerned it’s homicide,” Crockett said. “The deliberate planning, with malice and forethought, to kill Maggie and frighten us. Conspiracy to commit murder, the commission of murder, and intimidation through the threat of, or action of, violence.”

  Mazy sipped her coffee and stared blankly into the near distance for a moment. Crockett lit a Sherman before she spoke.

  “You’re gonna do something, aren’t you?”

  “Sure.”

  “What?”

  “What the law can’t.”

  Mazy looked at him and swallowed. “And that would be?”

  Crockett’s smile chilled her. “Administer justice,” he said.

  Mazy went back to bed in the middle of the afternoon. Crockett wandered out to the bus. Stitch was kicked back on the couch reading a technical manual on some kind of helicopter. He raised an eyebrow.

  “Mazy asleep again?”

  “That or she just needed to be alone,” Crockett said. Nudge murrphed at him from the driver’s seat. Crockett crossed to him and scratched his neck.

  Stitch grimaced. “Hell of a thing, man, her findin’ ol’ Maggie’s head on the step like that. Major fuckin’ freak-out.”

  “You got that right. Is the stuff Goody sent me in here someplace?”

  Stitch sat up and swung his feet to the floor. “Under the front dinette seat, man. Got somethin’ on your tiny mind?”

  Crockett’s jaw flexed. “Yep,” he said.

  “Mission?”

  “Yep.”

  “Both of us?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Stitch grinned. “Far out.”

  Crockett spent the next two hours keeping Nudge at bay while he went over the big .338 rifle, re-cleaning, re-adjusting, re-working everything that Goody had undoubtedly done before he sent the weapon with Stitch. It was unnecessary busy-work, but he took pleasure in it. The slide of beautifully machined steel, the scent of lightly oiled metal, the artful precision of tolerances crafted to a thousandth of an inch brought order to a world so recently plunged into chaos by the beheading of a smiling, grey-muzzled old dog.

  The rifle was exactly like the one he carried into Coleman’s camp and left there the night he managed to get Inez’s son Zeke away from the idiots in the separatist enclave. It fell into his hands like an awkward old friend. He took five rounds of ammunition out of the case, rounds that Goody would have hand-loaded himself to weights and tolerances unattainable by any machine, and wandered outside. Dusk wasn’t far away and the evening was a little chilly, a reminder that summer was over. Zebulon and Stitch sat on the small deck.

  “Good God, boy!” Zeb said. “What the hell you got there?”

  Crockett handed him the weapon. “That is an Accuracy International Super Magnum rifle,” he said. “It is the most battle proven weapon of its kind on the planet and is issued to every Royal Marine sniper. This particular one is considerably better than the standard Super Magnum, modified by an exceptional man named Goody.”

  “Neat old dude,” Stitch said.

  “Man killer, ain’t it?” Zeb asked.

  “Yessir,” Crockett said.

  Zeb handed the rifle back. “Jesus,” he said. “Gotta test it?”

  “Like to.”

  “Whacha need?”

  “Got any empty milk jugs?”

  “Couple in the trash, I guess.”

  “Good,” Crockett said. “Take ‘em over to the other side of the lake and set ‘em out on that gravel bar a couple of hundred yards to the south.” He pointed out over the water.

  “What?” Zeb asked. “Hell, boy, it’s over a half mile to the other side, let alone down to that point a land.”

  “You’re right,” Crockett said. “If you would, take ‘em on back to the bluff behind the point and put ‘em up on a rock shelf or something. Just make sure I can see ‘em from here.”

  “Yer nuts! By the time I git the durn things over there, it’ll be damn near dark. That whole bluff’ll be in shadow anyway. You won’t be able to see shit.”

  “You’re right again,” Crockett said. “Get ‘em about half full of lake water before you set ‘em out, okay?”

  “What the hell’s that got to do with anything?”

  Crockett grinned. “Trust me,” he said.

  “Trust me,” Zeb mimicked, rising to his feet and stalking off down the slope toward the dock, his continued muttering drifting behind him in the nearly still air.

  “Oh, and Zeb?” Crockett said. “After you put out the jugs, hike about fifty yards back north. I’ll shoot while you’re close enough to see if I managed to hit anything.”

  Zeb waved over his shoulder without comment. Stitch chuckled.

  “Dude thinks you’re fulla shit.”

  “Maybe I am,” Crockett said. “Been a long time.”

  “Don’t make no difference, man. That thing’s just a bicycle with bullets.”

  Crockett carefully slipped the five rounds into the magazine, leaned the rifle against the deck railing and went inside. Mazy was making coffee in the kitchen.

  “I’m better,” she said, coming around the end of the counter and walking into his arms. Crockett rested his chin on top of her head and smiled.

  “You standing in a hole?” he asked.

  She pressed her face into his chest. “No height jokes, asshole,” Mazy said, her voice muffled by his shirt. “Thanks for taking care of me.”

  “My pleasure. Got a pillow I can borrow?”

  “There’s a couple on my bed. Wanna see?”

  “Later. Right now I gotta shoot.”

  Mazy pulled back and looked up at him. “You got a problem I don’t know about, or are ya just glad to see me?”

  Crockett grinned and patted her bottom. “I am speaking of a rifle, you floozy. Zeb is on his way across the lake with a couple of targets.”

  “Across the lake?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Uh…what kind of pillow you need?”

  “Soft and squishy.”

  “I got one of those neck pillows with some kinda beads in it.”

  “Perfect. Bring it out on the deck willya?”

  Mazy looked a little harried. “So you can shoot at something across the lake.”

  Crockett kissed her on the tip of her nose. “Relax,” he said, releasing her and turning to the door. “Zeb’s safe.”

  When Mazy joined Stitch and Crockett on the deck, Zeb was over halfway to his destination. The running lights on the Johnboat glowed red and green in the growing dark. They continued to watch as he beached the boat on the gravel bar and fussed around at the water’s edge.

  “What’s he doing?” Mazy asked.

  Stitch looked at Crockett. He was gazing out across the lake, a thousand
miles away. “Puttin’ water in a couple of milk jugs,” Stitch replied.

  “Why water?”

  “’Cause it’s warmer than the air. Unless I miss my guess, Ol’ Crockett’s got a infra-red feature on that trick scope. If he can’t pick up the targets ‘cause of the dark, he can find ‘em on infa-red.”

  Mazy looked at the rifle where it leaned against the railing. “It’s ugly,” she said.

  Stitch grinned. “You don’t like guns?”

  “Got nothin’ against guns. Used to quail hunt when I was younger. Got a double barrel twenty in the house. That thing ain’t a huntin’ gun. That’s a killin’ gun. It’s ugly.”

  They could barely see Zeb as he made his way up the slope from the water’s edge to the bluffs. Crockett put the pillow on the porch railing and rested the forearm of the Super Magnum across it, the muzzle pointed thirty degrees higher than the target line. “Almost no wind,” he said.

  “Not much,” Stitch agreed.

  “Three or four miles an hour, right to left,” Crockett went on as if he hadn’t heard. “Won’t be stacking up against the bluff.”

  Zeb lit a flashlight as he scrambled away from the target area. Finally he turned the light in their direction and flicked it on and off a few times. Crockett lowered the muzzle of the rifle and settled in behind the scope. His motions were slow and fluid, deliberate and practiced. Mazy watched him and gooseflesh rose on her arms. “Eight hundred and ninety-six yards,” he said. “About three degrees lower than the firing point.”

  Crockett eased a shell into the chamber, took up the tiny slack on the trigger under the pad of his forefinger, and released half the breath in his lungs.

  When the rifle went off it was, as it should have been, a surprise to everyone on the deck. Not needing to conceal his ejection of the spent cartridge, Crockett quickly worked the bolt, seated another round into the chamber and fired again. He then repeated the entire procedure for the third time. As the echo died away, Crockett removed the two remaining shells from the rifle, policed his brass from the floor of the deck, and walked away toward the bus. Mazy watched him go and turned to Stitch.

  “He’s okay,” Stitch said, patting her stiffly on the shoulder. “He’ll clean the gun, fuss around for a while, and then come inside. Crockett goes away when he shoots like that. Takes him a little time to come back.”

  “Those jugs were almost nine hundred yards away?”

  “Yeah. Cool, huh?”

  “You said Zeb had two of ‘em. Crockett shot three times.”

  “Crockett don’t miss,” Stitch said. “Musta been three jugs.”

  Zebulon Watkins shook his head. “Durndest thing I ever saw,” he said for the fourth or fifth time. Zeb was sitting at the kitchen counter waiting for breakfast as Mazy scrambled eggs and Stitch made coffee. “Ain’t natural for nobody to be able to shoot like that. Over half a mile damn near after dark. Three shots, two gallon milk jugs an’ a half gallon orange juice bottle. Jumpin’ Judas.”

  “Pretty freaky,” Stitch said.

  “Plumb across the damn lake!”

  “You could do it.”

  Zeb turned to see Crockett standing in the doorway of Mazy’s bedroom. He was wearing sweatpants, a tee shirt, and looked severely rumpled. His ponytail was askew and his mustache made his face look like it was asking to leave the room.

  “You up?” Zeb asked.

  “Almost.”

  “Durndest thing I ever saw.”

  “Gimme five hours a day for seven days and you could make those shots,” Crockett said.

  “Bullshit.”

  “Nope. Zeb, there are people out there who could do what I did at over two thousand yards. Maybe more. And do it after spending four days lying in a spider hole on the side of a ridge, eaten up with bug bites, dehydrated, belly down in their own waste. What I did was no more than a warm-up for shooters like that.”

  Crockett walked behind the counter, kissed Mazy on the ear, checked to see if coffee was ready, and peered at the eggs. Mazy smiled with a memory of the night before and bumped him with a hip to push him out of the way.

  “You impatient this morning, too?” she said.

  “Don’t bitch. Everything turned out all right, as I recall,” Crockett said, feeling his ears get warm.

  Mazy grinned. “Everything turned out just fine. Why don’t you make toast? It’ll occupy your mind so you can slow down a little. That way, we’ll all finish together.”

  Stitch smiled. ‘Yeah, man,” he said. “Finishin’ together is way cool, dude.”

  “Durndest thing I ever saw,” Zeb said.

  During breakfast three or four trucks arrived towing boats, and an immense SUV wheeled in and disgorged a family of seven. Zeb slapped some scrambled eggs between two slices of toast and headed out the door. Stitch did the same and followed him down the slope. Mazy refilled Crockett’s coffee cup, came around the counter, leaned on him, and rubbed the small of his back.

  Crockett grunted. “Feels good.”

  “What are you gonna do?” Mazy asked.

  “’Bout what?”

  “Johnny April.”

  “Something drastic.”

  “Don’t kill him, okay?”

  Crockett smiled. “You don’t want him dead?”

  “I don’t want you to be a murderer.”

  “Too late. I’ve already killed people.”

  “That doesn’t make you a murderer, Crockett, and you know it. You got a great heart. I don’t want it damaged. If you just go out and kill that man, part of your heart will die, too. I’d really hate that.”

  Crockett swiveled on his stool to face her. Mazy slid between his knees and put an arm on each shoulder.

  “You’d hate that, huh?” Crockett asked.

  Mazy kissed his cheek. “Uh-huh.”

  “How much?”

  She kissed his other cheek. “A lot.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  Mazy pressed their foreheads together. Her eyes crossed as she peered into his. “Promise me, Crockett. Promise me you won’t kill him.”

  “Okay.”

  “C’mon. Say it.”

  Crockett sighed. “All right. I, David Allen Crockett, do solemnly swear not to kill the rat bastard in question, one Johnny April.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Mazy kissed him on the lips. “Just one more thing,” she said.

  “Christ,” Crockett said, his hands sliding down her back to the swell below her waist. “Now what?”

  “Go fix your mustache. I can’t stand it anymore. It looks like your nose is signaling for a left turn.”

  Crockett did his best to look offended. “You stood it okay last night.”

  Mazy grinned. “Last night I couldn’t see it,” she said.

  Zeb got the family situated on the twenty-eight foot pontoon boat while Stitch filled their coolers with fresh ice and a day’s worth of munchies. One of the bass boats was manned by two worthies all the way from Memphis, eager to pay for the services of a guide. Crockett and Mazy made it to the dock just in time to join Stitch as he watched Zeb and the Memphisians disappear into the early morning distance.

  “Rush hour,” Stitch said, gazing out over the lake.

  “You never know this time of year,” Mazy said. “I wouldn’t have figured on this much business today. I’m gonna go check the cooler and kitchen. I may get to be a chef and waitress before all this is over.”

  Stitch watched her go and turned to Crockett. “I put coffee on in the bait shop. Should be ready by now.”

  “Great,” Crockett said, sinking into a deck chair.

  Stitch smiled as he went for the coffee. He could feel the shift starting in Crockett. Actually it had begun the afternoon before when the rifle was unpacked, but now it required no external stimuli. Crockett was slipping into mode. Through the window Stitch could see him apparently staring at the water, but the lake was probably invisible. Crockett’s vision was directed internally. Mazy
interrupted his reflection as she entered from the back. Stitch opened the small fridge under the counter for some cream. “Don’t get all freaked,” he said.

  She furrowed her brow. “What?”

  Stitch poured cream into one of the coffees. “Crockett’s okay. He’s probably gonna get a little distant today. It ain’t you. It ain’t me. He’s just getting his shit together for the briefing.”

  “The briefing?”

  “Yeah. This afternoon or tonight he’ll tell me what the plan is. We’ll talk it over, finalize things, and admit that nothing ever goes the way it’s supposed to. We’ll probably head for Kaycee tomorrow. The thing is, don’t expect him to be his usual self between now and then.”

  “So I shouldn’t worry.”

  “Naw. But that ain’t gonna stop ya, is it?”

  “No.”

  “Crockett don’t take no dumb chances. He and I’ll both be fine.”

  “You take care of him, Stitch.”

  “I bring my people back, man,” Stitch said. “Ask anybody.”

  Before the morning was over three additional families arrived and several more boats used the ramp next to the bait shop. While Stitch and Mazy attended to the surprising rush, Crockett put a couple of sandwiches in a cooler and took the twenty-foot Lowe pontoon boat and motored up the lake for lunch. He slipped into a small cove, kicked the anchor over the side, lit a Sherman, and let himself think.

  He didn’t need this. It wasn’t like he was a cop or something. He had no real authority to do anything. It wasn’t his job. Hell, he didn’t need a job. Thanks to Ivy he was independent. Thanks to Ivy, he was involved in the whole thing anyway. Because of her his life had taken on a twisted new pattern in the last two or three years, a pattern that put him in his current situation. Christ! He’d been running around like some kind of cut-rate superhero that made his own costume on Cletus Marshal’s sewing machine, stocked up his utility belt courtesy of Sir Thoroughgood Henley-Wahls, and waited for Ivolee Minerva Cabot to shine the Crockett signal on the perpetually low-lying clouds above Gotham City.

  No. That just wasn’t true. Ivy hadn’t started the whole thing. Ruby had. Ruby who wouldn’t leave well enough alone. Ruby who called with a client that wanted to learn how to shoot. Ruby that insinuated herself into his life at his lowest moment and loved him back to reality. Ruby that rebuilt his damaged spirit and accepted his damaged body. Ruby that put him back together in spite of himself and then left him when she couldn’t handle that he did what had to be done. Ruby who wouldn’t talk with him on the phone, but was now obviously involved with Cletus.