Shoot the Dog
Page 26
The firing stopped as Virgil reached the end of the building. He heard a metallic click and then something hit the floor. Levi was changing clips. Virgil stood at once, saw Levi behind the top boards of the stall, his face partially concealed by a post that ran to the ceiling. Virgil raised the musket and fired; the roar of the shot was deafening in the confined building. The musket ball hit the post inches from Levi’s face, driving splinters into his cheek. He screamed, then hammered the fresh clip home and began firing again.
Virgil had run himself out of room, and Levi, knowing that he’d fired his one shot, got brave and came for him. Virgil could hear Georgia yelling, telling him to run. The open granary was behind him, a few feet away, across an open space.
Crouching low, he could hear Levi moving across the floor, stalking now, holding his fire. Virgil took a breath and ran for the granary. Levi opened up again with the .45; Virgil could hear the slugs thudding into the planking behind him as he ran. He threw himself onto the floor of the granary, smelled the musty odor of grain from decades past. Rolling over, his back to the wall and the musket in his hands, he fumbled with a percussion cap and slipped it in place, then pulled the powder flask from his pocket and dumped a heaping amount of gunpowder down the barrel. Levi had stopped firing again. Virgil could sense him, stealthily approaching the granary door, knowing that Virgil was trapped.
Hands shaking, Virgil reached into his shirt pocket for a musket ball. And came up empty. They must have spilled out when he’d hit the floor earlier.
Now he heard Levi’s footsteps a few feet from the granary door. Virgil shoved the ramrod into the barrel of the musket and scrambled to one knee. Levi stepped into the opening, both hands on the .45, like a gangster on film. His cheek was bleeding where the splinters had struck him earlier but he was smiling behind the barrel of the semiautomatic, his eyes bright.
Virgil swung the musket up, pulled the trigger, and drove the ramrod clean through Levi’s body.
• • •
Virgil and Georgia sat on the tailgate of his truck in the overgrown parking lot of old Fort Howard. It had been three hours since Virgil called 911 on Buddy’s cell phone. Police from various departments were still arriving. There were two forensic units on the scene—one from the state police, the other from the county. A sheriff and his constable, both from the little town of Butlersville, ten miles away, were roaming around like tourists, on the scene but out of the loop.
Virgil and Georgia had been interrogated separately by the county cops. Virgil had mentioned that Levi Brown had confessed to killing Olivia Burns, but he got the sense that his words hadn’t carried much weight. He also got the sense that he was about to be arrested for killing Levi Brown. It seemed that the different departments were trying to decide who should do the deed. It was apparent that there was some confusion among the cops and he could understand that.
Claire arrived before anybody actually put the cuffs on Virgil, pulling up in a blue sedan to park beside his truck. She got out and, after regarding all the law enforcement vehicles on hand, walked over to Virgil. She gave him a look he couldn’t read, then turned to the little girl.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Claire.”
“I’m Georgia. This is my friend Virgil.”
“I know your friend Virgil,” Claire said.
“He saved my life,” Georgia said. Her tone was rather conversational; she might have been saying that Virgil bought her an ice cream cone.
“So I hear.” Claire looked at Virgil again. “I got the bare bones of it on the radio. So it was Levi Brown.”
“Yeah,” Virgil said. “She kicked him to the curb. Or so he said.”
“He told you that?” Claire asked.
“Yeah.”
Claire glanced at the little girl, not wanting to delve into things too deeply with her there. “Maybe she did but there was more to it than that. Sal Delano turned up an insurance policy on Olivia Burns for half a million dollars. Taken out by the production company but the signee was Levi Brown. And Sal’s been hearing about a large loan Levi floated from some gangster last year, something to do with a movie that never got made. Apparently Levi had a habit of raising pocket money that way. This time it backfired. Sal doesn’t have all the details yet but there’s a giant Samoan with visa problems who’s about to get talkative.”
Virgil nodded.
“Are you a cop?” Georgia asked, noticing Claire’s badge clipped to her belt.
“I am.”
“Virgil’s like a super cop.”
“No,” Claire said. “He’s not.”
Virgil looked away from her, to the crew of plainclothes officers standing by the gates of the old fort. “I have a feeling they’re about to take me into custody,” he said. “Can you make sure Georgia gets back?”
“You can drive her back,” Claire said after a moment. “I’ll straighten things out with the gang over there, at least for now. I’ll tell them you’re not a flight risk, your past history notwithstanding. I’m sure they’ll have more questions for you at some point.” She paused. “And you and I are going to have a long discussion later.”
“I kinda figured that.” Virgil waited until she walked away, then turned to Georgia. “I guess we can go.”
They walked around to get into the truck. Virgil started the engine and then, aware that the little girl was watching him, glanced over.
“Are you in trouble?” she asked.
“Maybe a little.”
“Are you always in trouble, Virgil?”
“Comes and goes,” he said. He put the truck in gear and the two of them drove off, heading into the heart of the Catskills in the fading light of the day.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
They say that writing is a solitary game but if the truth be known, there are a lot of fingerprints on a manuscript by the time it hits the bookshelf. In that regard, Shoot the Dog is no different. So I would like to thank the following:
My editor, Daniel Burgess, and the terrific bullpen at Scribner.
Linda Muir, for delivering both advice and movie minutiae.
My wonderful agent, Victoria Skurnick, who always has my back.
And my friend, the lovely Jen Barclay, who still puts up with me even though she has been transformed from a quiet English lass to a Greek Goddess.
© LORRAINE SOMMERFELD
BRAD SMITH was born and raised in southern Ontario. He has worked as a farmer, signalman, insulator, truck driver, bartender, schoolteacher, maintenance mechanic, roofer, and carpenter. He lives in an eighty-year-old farmhouse near the north shore of Lake Erie. Red Means Run, the first novel in his Virgil Cain series, was named among 2012’s Best Crime Novels by Booklist.
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Crow’s Landing
Red Means Run
All Hat
Big Man Coming Down the Road
Busted Flush
One-Eyed Jacks
Rises a Moral Man
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2013017221
ISBN: 978–1–4391–9756–1
ISBN: 978–1–4391–9758–5 (ebook)