Death in Living Gray

by John Clayton

  But my call was drowned out by the crack of the pistol and a ping, as the bullet hit the roof of the shed.

  I guess Fanny was sober enough to know what was happening, because she leaped toward the back porch and crashed face first into the post at the top of the steps. She sprawled backwards, arms akimbo, draped head-down across the three risers. Out cold. Belatedly fortune had smiled on her however. She was out of the line of fire as long as Pickerill stayed on the second floor.

  ***

  “I’ll go around to the side of the back porch, beyond the range of the dogs, and get her,” Jack Senior said, rubbing more mud into his face. Once the requirement for action was decided, there was no holding back. “Remember, Pickerill doesn’t know we have Maurice or how many of us there are. We have the element of surprise.” He picked up a shotgun—Maurice’s, I supposed—and held it out to Old Oilhead. “It’s got two shots left. I want you to go right up to the support post closest to the house, and if they make any move against me, aim it up in the air so you don’t risk hitting Fanny.”

  “Shoot?” Old Oilhead asked.

  “Shoot,” Jack Senior confirmed.

  Old Oilhead took the gun with his fingertips, looking first at Jack Senior and then the farmhouse.

  “You were in ‘Nam weren’t you?” asked Jack Senior.

  “Cook,” Old Oilhead replied, massaging his hand to a firmer grip.

  So Jack Senior showed him how to hold the shotgun, pull the trigger, and get the next round into the chamber. I could have done better, but Jack Senior had another job planned for me. “Run over and get behind the truck. When I get Fanny, I may need you to get her back to the van.”

  “The jewels in the ice hole,” I insisted.

  He stopped dead and did a quick calculation. “Clarence and I will go back and look for them when we’re through with Fanny,” he said.

  Old Oilhead was fingering the shotgun, a dubious half-grin poking out from under his mustache.

  Jack Senior gave him a big slap on the shoulder. “Come on, soldier, let’s do it,” were his last words as he set out, hunched low, over toward the side of the yard where I had first come in.

  I ran back the other way, expecting to hear a shot, but nothing happened. As I got to the truck, I landed on all fours and skidded up behind the right front tire. Peering underneath, I could see Jack Senior directly opposite on the other side of the porch, slowly working his way through an old rose trellis that was between the backyard and the overgrown field beyond. If I’d been given to thinking about such things, I’d have realized it was too quiet.

  ***

  Then it wasn’t. I could see my husband on his hands and knees, halfway from the rose bush to the back porch. A spotlight had suddenly illuminated the backyard from the upstairs window closest to me. The light was immediately followed by a shotgun blast from the same window.

  Jack Senior did what he used to call a high crawl when he was playing war games with the kids: moving back toward the trellis on the tips of his fingers and toes faster than I have ever seen a human move. Dogs were barking, hogs were in pandemonium; and to my consternation, I was squealing just like the piglets. I clamped my mouth shut and looked up to see Cassie’s profile in the edge of the spotlight. Fortunately, she was looking out across the yard and not at the side where I was hidden.

  Jack Senior had already disappeared from sight—safe, I hoped. I had no instructions for what to do next. Old Oilhead hadn’t fired the shotgun. I guess he’d been just as surprised as the rest of us. Fanny was still lying on the steps, out of the line of fire. I scanned the center window looking for Pickerill. He wasn’t there. Maybe, with Cassie in the house, he was going to move around and attack from the rear. Two shotgun shells weren’t enough to do much good. But if I could get Fanny away, Jack Senior would have a free hand to maneuver. He’d disarmed Maurice, hadn’t he? I was stepping out from my hiding place, intending to climb over the railing, creep across the porch, and drag Fanny back to the protection of the truck, when the back door opened.

  Pickerill strode across the porch, reached down, grabbed Fanny by the neck of her blouse, and pulled her upright, balancing her against his chest. She seemed to be halfway standing on her own. That, however, was a two-edged sword, for while it was good that she was coming around, it also made it easier for Pickerill to hold her up as a shield.

  “Why don’t you come out and let’s have a talk?” he called out across the hog lot, which had become quieter now that the shooting had stopped. He didn’t make any direct threat against Fanny other than the pistol pressed up against her chin. The only response was the renewed barking of the Dobermans. Pickerill gave his little sign with his gun hand and they fell quiet.

  ***

  I slid back behind the truck. Since I was out of the main glare of the spotlight, Pickerill hadn’t seen me. He was concentrating on Old Oilhead who had finally gotten the shotgun gun into position and was aiming at the porch. Stupid. Endangering Fanny. Cursing at myself that I wasn’t close enough to make him stop.

  Suddenly Jack Senior slid out of the shadows of the shed and pushed the gun upright. After pulling Old Oilhead out of the confrontation, my husband just as suddenly disappeared.

  Pickerill screamed this time, “Come out and get your friend,” implying, but not saying that he’d hurt her if we didn’t comply. There was no answer. He called out again, “I repeat, come out or there’ll be serious consequences,” confirming what I’d been saying all along. He’d have done anything to get the jewels. The only problem was that by trying to beat him to it, I’d succeeded in putting everybody in jeopardy again. If I slipped over the railing on this side of the porch, I could hit him from the rear. But he’d probably get off a shot from reflex. He’d kill Fanny if I tried to help.

  I was dithering, when out from the shadows of the shed stumbled Maurice, walking steadily forward. Around his neck, was a noose that ran down to hands tied behind his back. Across his shoulder, I could see about one quarter of Jack Senior’s head. Maurice was trying to pull back toward the dark, but was overcome when a sudden wrenching of the rope caused his face to screw up in pain and his feet to inch forward. Jack senior was controlling him from behind.

  “Stop where you are. Or I’ll shoot,” issued from the porch, but Maurice and his manipulator continued to waggle slowly forward, first a staggering sideways motion and then a bigger step forward. Maurice didn’t want to come, but Jack Senior’s rope system was a convincing persuader.

  Beyond them, I could see a shotgun barrel wavering against the night sky, moving disconnectedly up the side yard toward the rose trellis. Old Oilhead must be taking up position there, but he didn’t know much about stealth. Of course, you probably wouldn’t notice he was there unless you knew where to look.

  Maurice dropped down into the watering trough and clambered out the other side, all the time carrying the almost invisible appendage at his back. When they got to the gate from the hog lot, Pickerill issued another command to stop. Jack Senior stuck his head up about two inches and called, “Want to trade?”

  “Why?” came a sharp answer from Pickerill.

  “You’ve got Mrs. Beecham and I’ve got your butler,” Jack Senior calmly pointed out.

  “So what? You have what we call in the higher echelons of the business world a sacrificial pawn. Do you feel the same way about Mrs. Beecham?”

  Jack Senior didn’t answer. He began to maneuver his prisoner forward again.

  Maurice looked like he wanted to argue, but the rope around his neck was too tight for him to say anything. There was only fear in his eyes. Pickerill ground the pistol into Fanny’s chin. Fanny must have been awake by now, because she tried to move her head away. Pickerill grabbed her more firmly with his left arm and pushed the pistol back into place. He called out, “I didn’t get to be where I am by being nice to employees. If I have to, I’ll shoot you both.”

  Again, Jack Senior kept quiet, and Maurice kept on mini-stepping forward.

  Pickerill
called out again, “If my butler had gotten the package this afternoon like he was supposed to, none of this would have happened. It’s his fault if he dies.”

  Maurice kept moving. Jack Senior didn’t say another word. The dogs were quiescent because of previous orders. Even the piglets were silent, probably a genetic response to a dangerous situation. Pickerill tried again, “I’m just defending my property. If I shoot all of you, it will be self-defense. My butler’s death—as well as your own—will be on your head.”

  But Jack Senior just kept pushing his unwilling shield forward.

  Looking toward the other side of the yard, I could make out Old Oilhead camouflaged in the roses, with his arm braced around one side of the trellis to hold the shotgun steady. He must have learned that in basic training before he went to cooking school.

  “Stop!” Pickerill yelled. “This time I mean it!”

  Jack Senior was less than twenty feet away and moving slowing forward. Now it was completely out of anybody else’s control. It was a personal war between the philandering Southern gentleman and the not-so-gentleman from up North. Jack Senior was close enough that if Pickerill shot Fanny, Maurice would be smashed into Pickerill’s body and Jack Senior would kill them both in an instant. Except Pickerill didn’t know that. He thought he still had a choice. And Fanny’d die because Jack Senior wouldn’t stop. His buddies from Vietnam said he was like that. That he’d have never been promoted to major because his primary skill was confronting the enemy in the field. He’d forget the strategic picture and turn life and death into a personal chess game. Jack Senior against any weakness of the enemy. And he must have found a weakness now, because Pickerill didn’t make good his threat to shoot.

  The shot came from the upstairs window.

  ***

  Maurice was trying to fly backward but was weighed down by Jack Senior hanging onto his rear. They were both down in a pile, as a stream of fire erupted from the rose trellis. An upstairs window smashed out—the one closest to Old Oilhead. Wrong window, stupid. Hit the one on this side before she can shoot again, I silently screamed.

  Pickerill had lowered his gun down to aim at the pile of human flesh on the ground in front of him. Fanny was out of immediate danger. I could leap across the yard and hit his arm. But I didn’t need to start running, because I was already halfway there—not over the railing like I’d planned, but along the ground at the back edge of the porch. The Dobermans must have taken Pickerill’s motion as an attack sign because they were going wild. I was trying to aim a blow at the one closest to me, when suddenly its head snapped upward and the dog flipped over backwards. Ran out of chain. My hands were around Pickerill’s arm trying to aim it straight up while Fanny grasped at the pistol. But Pickerill was too strong. I spun around and lost contact with the floor, tumbling sideways down the steps into the yard.

  When I looked back up, I could feel more than see a second shot from Old Oilhead. The middle window erupted. Still the wrong one, but closer. Cassie wasn’t at the third window anyway. She’d disappeared, and Pickerill was plunging through the back door into the house. Fanny was standing on the porch, holding the pistol in both hands, staring down at it. Sheriff Overhouse was running into the backyard, shotgun at the ready. “Don’t move,” he screamed. “Nobody move.” Somebody must have called him about the noise.

  ***

  “This is the last straw. You’re all under arrest,” the sheriff was saying. He’d called an ambulance for Maurice, one of his two junior deputies was tying off the Dobermans’ chains, and Weevil was circumnavigating the yard, looking for someone to hit with his baseball bat.

  Jack Senior had a couple of red splotches around his head and arm, but I couldn’t tell whether it was because he was hit or had been splattered by Maurice’s blood—which was plentiful. My husband was on his knees ripping off Maurice’s shirt, trying to stop the gushing. But it was hard to figure out where to start. The butler’s left shoulder looked like raw liver in contrast to his chalk-white face. His head lolled back. But he was breathing.

  Jack Senior looked up from his ministrations and calmly asked his old high-school buddy, “Did you get the Pickerills?”

  Just as calmly, the sheriff answered, “Nobody answered the phone. They’re not home.”

  “Because,” I screamed at him, “they were here shooting at us. They hid the jewels in the ice hole and then tried to kill us when we went to dig them out.” I was waving my arms in frustration instead of doing what I should have been—which was try to help Jack Senior. But then, he looked like he knew what he was about, without needing any assistance from amateurs.

  Sheriff Overhouse started twisting his hat. “So far, I’ve got a call from a neighbor about you all disturbing the peace. I’ve got two respected citizens brandishing weapons in the commission of a crime, and a man, who was defending his employer’s property, wounded, probably by one of the guns.” He nodded to the second junior deputy, who was holding Maurice’s shotgun and Pickerill’s pistol. Fanny and Old Oilhead had given them up, the latter with obvious relief and the former apparently without ever fully comprehending how she got it in the first place. Fanny was supporting herself against a porch post, while Old Oilhead was waiting in attendance to see that she didn’t fall—all the while cleaning the mud off his face, hands, and shoes.

  “Did you see the Pickerills’ Mercedes when you got here?” Jack Senior asked the sheriff, conversationally, not raising his voice, as he pressed his own folded shirt against Maurice’s bleeding shoulder.

  “No,” replied the sheriff.

  “Did you look?”

  “We were trying to stop the shooting. Didn’t have time.”

  “Then I suggest that, before you do anything else, you find out what the Pickerills were doing for the last hour,” Jack Senior explained. “They must have left from the front door when you were coming around the back.”

  “That’s not very likely,” the sheriff explained back.

  “The jewels are in the ice hole,” I screamed again. “If you take us away, the Pickerills will come back to get them. Then we’ll never be able to prove they stole them in the first place.”

  “The Pickerills weren’t running around shooting off guns in somebody else’s backyard,” the sheriff said, turning to me. “Which is why you’re going to go down to my office as soon as the ambulance gets here.”

  And that was instantaneous as he said it. A paramedic arrived toting a small case, while two more men came up wheeling a gurney. Jack Senior stood up and they unceremoniously took his place by the fallen man.

  The sheriff motioned us back to the porch to join Fanny, now as white-faced as Maurice, and Old Oilhead, who was almost back to his normal sartorial tidiness. Jack Senior walked along slowly with his head held high, but with droplets of blood running down his cheek.

  “We’ll go as soon as the medics are through,” the sheriff announced.

  “But the ice hole,” I said again, less shrill this time, since my screams hadn’t done any good.

  “You should find the Pickerills and look in the ice hole,” Jack Senior advised the sheriff as calmly as he had spoken before.

  “Tomorrow. When it’s light,” replied the sheriff. “That’s the best we can do.”

  The two junior deputies and Weevil were already converging to the back porch.

  I was admitting that we were sunk, when a voice screeched, from amid the circle of paramedics, “You gotta stop the bitch.”

  The sheriff waved us to stay put and walked toward the gurney that was now elevated, with Maurice receiving an infusion of blood from an even higher bottle. “Which bitch?” asked Sheriff Overhouse, soliciting a deathbed accusation, I supposed.

  “The one that shot me.”

  Sheriff Overhouse stepped back so that Maurice, from the gurney, had a clear sight of us all. “Which one did it?” He motioned toward Fanny and me.

  “Not them,” Maurice gasped. “Pickerill’s bimbo… shot me,” he wheezed, as the medics carrying him pick
ed up speed and disappeared behind the truck on their way to the ambulance. “Damn her…” came a faint receding groan.

  Turing to Weevil, the sheriff said, “Guard the ice hole until morning. We’ll get some forensics help from the state police.”

  Lou Overhouse was off the political hook on which he had been placed by Pickerill’s money and position. His body relaxed a bit, but he bit back a sigh of relief—or at least I think he did—although it could have been a projection of my own relief. Throwing an arm over Jack Senior’s unbloodied shoulder and giving me a slight nod, he said in a low voice, “I want you all to ride with my deputy to the hospital. Jack needs somebody to look at that blood on his face. I’ll be along shortly—after I’ve made a couple of calls. Then maybe we can sort this thing out.” He removed his arm, stepped back, and continued with a serious grin. “But remember you’re still in custody. Do you think you can make sure nobody gets lost?”

  Jack Senior assured the sheriff that everything was under control, and that we’d be eagerly awaiting his arrival at the county hospital. As we trooped off in the direction of the deputy’s police cruiser, I was trying to mop the blood off Jack Senior’s head. It really did look like a couple of small punctures. The sooner to the hospital the better. Fanny was a little wobbly as she left the porch, so Old Oilhead gave her his arm for support, only to be dubiously rewarded when she threw up all over his newly cleaned brogans.

  Chapter 14

  Birdshot. That’s what the doctors said. Cassie had tried to take out two men with those little pellets that local hunters use for partridge. Fortunately for everybody, she didn’t know any better. After they cleaned the blood off, most of Maurice’s wounds were superficial—except for one piece in his eye, but they got that out OK. Jack Senior had a couple of specks, but the hospital let him go after cleaning and bandaging. It took a little longer to get away from Sheriff Overhouse. Finally, he let us all go home provided we stayed in Mason County—as if any of us would have had the energy to go anyplace else.