The Dying Season

by J. Reichman

  Jeff closed his eyes. The sun warmed the left side of his face, and the pines whispered in the breeze. We’ll rescue Wade, go back to the tent for the night, and ride back to North Fork Glen tomorrow. I hope the sheriff shows up. Maybe he’s there now. He sighed. Everybody’s leaving. My folks got to be worried about me, but I’d like to stay here. His eyes flew open. God! Where’d that come from? No girls around the Glen. Got to quit thinkin’ like that. He pulled his thoughts back to the business ahead and turned over to study the meadow. “Anything?”

  Nick swung his binoculars across the valley. “Just the deer grazing down there.”

  The breeze grew stronger and the deer pricked up their ears. A cloud blocked the sunlight and threw a shadow over the valley. A northerly gust blasted through the pines that blocked the view to the north and moved across the meadow, bowing the grass before it. More low clouds sailed from north to south. An advancing low pressure with gusty winds would create problems. That’ll make the shot more difficult, Jeff thought.

  “I see him,” Nick said.

  Jeff stretched out on his stomach and swung his rifle in the direction Nick indicated. Through its scope, he had a clear view. Wade sat easily in the saddle, but the killer rode beside him to his left. No shot. Too far, anyway. “Wait ‘til they’re closer,” he said.

  “Hear something?” Nick said.

  Jeff listened. Another northerly gust swept through the trees bringing a faint thudding noise. “Sounds like a ‘copter.”

  “Could be the sheriff,” Nick said.

  Jeff focused the rifle’s scope on Wade and the killer again. Still no shot. And then he glimpsed the killer’s face. The man was talking to Wade. Wade turned toward the killer and blocked his view again. He lowered the rifle. Why hasn’t Wade given me a shot? “What do you see?” he asked Nick.

  “The killer’s slumped in the saddle. Looks like Wade’s leading his horse.”

  “Maybe Wade took the guy’s gun,” Jeff said.

  “Look. Wade’s waving his Stetson.”

  “Wonder what that means. Brett would know.”

  “I think he’s waving us off,” Nick said.

  The clattering grew closer. Jeff glanced over his shoulder at the tall pines as a small helicopter swooped down into the valley toward Wade and the killer. He noticed Wade kick the horses into a trot. Now! He lifted his rifle. I’ve got a shot.

  “Don’t.” Nick knocked Jeff’s rifle aside as tracers flew. “A gunman’s in the ‘copter. Shooting. Don’t think it’s the sheriff, either.”

  Jeff swung his rifle to the helicopter. “No identification on it.”

  Nick focused his binoculars on the helicopter as it circled back around toward Wade and the killer. “Two men. Passenger in a blue uniform has an automatic rifle.”

  Jeff watched the craft parallel the horseback riders. The gunman lifted his rifle and took aim. The noise of the helicopter drowned out the sound of shots, but he could see the tracer bullets spray the killer. The killer’s horse threw him and bolted, pulling Wade from his saddle. Wade hit the ground and rolled as the packhorses thundered over him. Fifty yards away, the killer’s horse fell and thrashed in the grass. Wade’s mount and the packhorses halted near it.

  The helicopter banked and circled again.

  “He hit the horse,” Jeff said. “Aiming for the killer, I suppose.”

  “Helicopter’s getting buffeted around. Makes it hard to get off a good shot.”

  The helicopter came in low. Jeff saw Wade get to his knees. He looked at the killer through his rifle’s scope. The man didn’t move. “Is he going to land?”

  “No. He’s hovering, trying to get a shot. Oh, God! He’s aiming at Wade,” Nick shouted. “Take him out.”

  Jeff focused his scope on the gunman and pulled the trigger. The cockpit’s plexiglass spiderwebbed. Another northern gust swept over the ridge and down into the meadow. The helicopter banked sharply to the left and tipped down, its blades cutting into the grass and dirt as it fell to earth with a momentous, grinding thud. A high-pitched screech echoed over the valley before quiet descended. Jeff focused on Wade who rose on his hands and knees then slowly stood. The killer lay unmoving.

  “Let’s get down there fast,” Nick said.

  “I’m in big trouble if I’ve just murdered a law enforcement officer.”

  “I told you to shoot. Don’t think an officer would shoot Wade.”

  Wade clutched his thigh where a horse had stepped on him. He knew Brett watched from the ridge but was an hour's ride away as he would backtrack to the trail down into the valley. They were after Carl. Why shoot him when he’s hangin’ onto the saddle? He picked up his hat and automatically slapped it against his thigh.

  When he heard the approaching helicopter, Wade thought of the sheriff, but his first sight of the craft dispelled that anticipation. Looks like an R22. Not the sheriff. Sam has one to fly around his ranch. He’d seen the tracer bullets on the helicopter’s first pass and thanked the swirling wind for making the shots miss. Must be an AK. Next pass he won’t miss. Doesn’t have to aim. Just spray. He hugged Roman’s neck and urged him into a full gallop. On the next pass, he was pulled from Roman’s back and lay breathless in the grass.

  Now Wade examined the downed helicopter which settled into the grass on its side. A two-seater. Doors removed for easier access. Easier shooting, too. He remembered the Robinson R22 as a light-weight training craft. A puff of smoke appeared at the craft’s tail followed by yellow flames. Fire! Tank burst. Flames will follow the fuel.

  He sprinted across the meadow, pulled himself up onto the craft’s skid, and peered into the cockpit. The passenger slumped against the pilot, blood running from a wound onto the pilot’s chest. The pilot’s head rested on the earth. A huge gash marred his forehead, but no blood seeped from the wound. Odd neck angle. Broken. He’s dead.

  The passenger moaned and pushed himself away from the pilot. Wade popped the man’s seatbelt and grasped the neck of his leather jacket. Bracing himself above the open door, he maneuvered the man’s body over the edge. Legs inside the craft, the man hung over the door’s entrance, his head dangling. Wade jumped down, pulled the man to the ground and dragged him away from the fire. He sat beside him in the grass to catch his breath.

  He opened the man’s jacket and examined him. An entrance wound in the chest. Exited under the left armpit. Probably hit the pilot. The man was awake but stunned. Wade stood and looked around the meadow. No sign of Carl. His horses stood about fifty years away near the downed Tipsy. He hiked to the horses. Gunfire had raked Tipsy from her haunches to her shoulder. A gaping wound behind the shoulder pumped blood which pooled in the grass below her chest. Carl’s gun was in the saddlebag on Roman. Wade took the gun from his saddlebag and gave her peace. He stuck the gun in his back waistband under his jacket and took the saddle from her.

  After switching all the gear to one horse, he saddled the other and led the horses back to Carl who sat in the grass where he had fallen. "Think you can stand?"

  Carl looked up at the new mount. "Where's my horse?"

  "Dead."

  "The helicopter." Carl searched the horizon. "I thought I heard a shot."

  "You did." Wade offered Carl his hand. "Shot the horse."

  Carl stood. "Who shot the horse?"

  "They did and I did."

  Carl shook his head and wiped his forehead with his forearm. "Why shoot the horse?"

  "Aim was bad."

  Carl blinked rapidly. "Shooting at me?"

  "Looks that way. Mount up."

  The excitement seemed to have revived Carl, and he swung easily into the saddle. "The helicopter’s on fire."

  "Yeah." Wade mounted. "Pulled a man from it. Pilot’s dead.”

  Wade led Carl to the rescued man who now sat in the grass clutching his chest.

  "Max," Carl said.

  Startled, Wade inspected the killer's face. "You know him?"

  Carl didn’t answer.

  “I’m a federal
marshal,” the man said. “I’ve been shot.”

  “Wasn’t me,” Wade said.

  “I’m after that killer.” He nodded toward Carl.

  "You shoot first? Ask questions later?" Wade shook his head. "Doesn't sound like a federal officer to me. Uniform’s all wrong, too. And you aim at me?"

  The man grimaced. “Don’t know who you are.”

  Wade took down his canteen and offered the man a drink. “You sure ain’t a marshal. Who are you?”

  "Who shot him?” Carl asked.

  "A friend," Wade replied. "Might as well relax. Git down and sit. Help will be here soon.”

  "You said we'd be out of here today. Let's move on."

  "It's gittin' interesting."

  "What's this about help?"

  "A friend’s coming."

  "You expect someone to meet you here?"

  "Yep."

  "I'm leaving." Carl turned his horse’s head.

  "'Fraid I can't let you do that." Wade drew his gun.

  "Shoot me."

  "Nah. Might hit the horse. Already lost one today."

  Carl kicked the horse into a trot. From where he stood, Wade spotted two riders across the valley. He let Carl ride past Tipsy then whistled. The horse turned back. Carl drew back on the reins. The horse stopped. Carl fought with the reins but the horse refused to obey. Wade whistled again and the horse walked back him.

  Carl leaped to the ground, his face a furious red, and charged Wade who calmly sidestepped and tripped him.

  “Just stay where you are.” Wade watched his friends approach as the rest of the fuel burned off and the helicopter popped as it cooled. Jeff and Nick? Where’s Brett? Must still be up on the ridge.

  "Quite a mess," Jeff said as he looked down at Wade.

  "Got injured men here. This one claims to be a federal marshal but he ain’t. One dead in the helicopter. Broken neck. Probably shot, too. And I'm low on horses."

  Nick swung down from Vanilla. "It's worse than you know."

  THIRTY-TWO

  Lyn watched the Army helicopter take off with the last of the school children late Wednesday afternoon. It barely cleared the trees when another craft replaced it. A tall, thin man wearing khaki slacks and a blue jacket alighted and strode toward Lyn and Cooper. A star decorated the jacket's left breast.

  More law enforcement? Maybe he’s come to help Holmes catch the killer.

  The man held out his hand to Cooper. "Colin Reid, U. S. Marshal."

  "Cooper Stone but you need to speak to Lyn Woodburn." He motioned to her.

  "Ah, yes, Mrs. Woodburn." Reid shook her hand.

  "I'm surprised to see another marshal."

  A gust of wind lifted Reid's comb over and he patted his hair down. "Another?"

  "Holmes came this morning in a small helicopter," Cooper said. "Nice fellow."

  "Holmes?" Reid frowned. "Nobody named Holmes out of my office."

  Another blast of cold air pushed against Lyn and she shivered. She glanced at the leaden sky and wondered if Nick was okay. “He left before noon to get the killer.”

  "Did he have identification like this?" Reid offered his badge.

  "He flashed something," Lyn said. "I didn't really look at it."

  "Let's get out of this wind." Cooper opened the school's door and ushered them inside.

  Reid took off his jacket. U. S. Marshal emblazoned the back of it. The empty cafeteria echoed with voices from the kitchen.

  "Have a seat," Cooper said.

  "This Holmes," Reid said as he sat sideways at a cafeteria table. "What'd he look like?"

  "Well," Lyn said, "he was short. Five eight, maybe? Not fat but stout. A pleasant round face. Always looked like he was smiling."

  "You talked to him for some time?"

  Lyn nodded. "But I wasn't the only one. He talked to a lot of people. Cooper, for one. And Herb. Prissy, too.”

  "You talked to Holmes?" Reid said to Cooper.

  "Yes." Cooper smiled. "Great guy."

  "What'd you talk about?"

  Cooper shrugged. “Getting the kids ready to go. That kind of stuff."

  "Nothing about the murder?"

  "Well, now that you mention it, I told him about the interview Lyn had with the state trooper and about the pictures she took."

  Prissy interrupted with a tray holding a coffee carafe, three cups and a plate of cookies.

  "Prissy, this is U. S. Marshal Reid," Cooper said.

  Reid stood. "I understand you met Holmes.”

  "What a delightful man." Prissy's face beamed. "So polite."

  "And what did you talk about with him?"

  "Feeding everyone. I told him about packing food for the men going after the killer. He asked who went and I told him about the killer taking Wade and such."

  "Anything else? Did he ask about Brook Strong?"

  Prissy shook her head. "He seemed to know about that." She smiled again. "He complimented me on my spotless kitchen."

  "Did he speak to anyone else?"

  Prissy nodded. "My husband Herb."

  "Oh, and Jenny Walker, the first grade teacher," Cooper said.

  "Are they here?"

  "Herb is," Cooper said, "but Jenny left with the kids this morning."

  "I'll get back to the kitchen," Prissy said.

  "I didn't know delightful was in her vocabulary," Lyn said to Cooper.

  "Mrs. Woodburn. Tell me about your conversation with Holmes."

  "He started out complimenting me." She chuckled. "A habit of his, it seems. He indicated he'd listened to my interview with Trooper Snead. Seen the pictures I took." She summarized the rest of the conversation. "I took him up to speak to Nora. She knew where they would catch up with Wade and the killer."

  "This Holmes is an impostor?" Cooper said.

  Reid nodded. "Seems people told him all he needed to know."

  "But who is he?" Lyn said. "What does he want?"

  Reid shook his head. "I can't answer those questions."

  "I'd say he's either a friend of the killer or he's after him, too," Cooper said.

  A friend of the killer? Nick’s in danger. "You've got to go after this guy. Now."

  "I can't."

  “That’s ridiculous!” Lyn jumped to her feet, fists clenched. She wanted to hit the man. “You’re a sworn officer of the law. Lives hang in the balance. You must go.”

  "Not enough daylight left."

  “So? You can fly in the dark.”

  “When we know where we’re going,” Reid said. “And what do we do when we get there? Search for a place to land and then we’re on foot in the dark. No. We’ll wait for morning.”

  “This is unbelievable.” Lyn paced the floor, her heart racing.

  “Lyn.” Cooper put his hands on her shoulders. “Be reasonable.”

  “I’m tired of being reasonable.” She shook of his hands. “No phone. No electricity. No road. No law.”

  “People are doing what they can,” Cooper said.

  “Well, it isn’t enough.”

  “Mrs. Woodburn,” Reid said. “We’ll stay overnight, have sunshine tomorrow and be out at first light. I need to know where to go. I need your help.”

  Lyn tried to think rationally. "I have keys to Brett's cabins.”

  "It's sparse," Cooper said. "A hurricane lantern, wood-burning fireplace, outhouse."

  Reid nodded. "I've had worse."

  "You said you needed my help," Lyn said.

  "Yes," Reid combed fingers through his thinning hair. "Nora. I need to talk to her."

  "I'll drive you up." Lyn remembered saying the same thing to Holmes. "Cooper, you come, too."

  In the CR-V, Lyn turned the ignition key. "Marshal Reid, I think we deserve some answers." She guided the vehicle out of the school's parking lot and turned downhill.

  Reid, sitting in the passenger's seat, looked straight ahead. "What do you want to know?"

  "Brook Strong. Who was she and why was she in witness protection?" Lyn glanced at Cooper in the rea
rview mirror.

  "I'm not authorized—"

  "She's dead. What can it hurt?" Lyn took the drive to Brett's cabins.

  "Okay." Reid sighed. "Dee Manzetti. She testified against an organized crime figure."

  Lyn parked next to cabin two. "The killer?"

  "That's a logical conclusion."

  Cooper leaned forward. "And who is he?"

  "Carlo Manzetti, her husband."

  Lyn looked at Cooper. "Andy's father."

  "That's why he took him."

  "But why did she testify against her husband?"

  Reid turned to face Lyn. "He abused the boy."

  "But he couldn't have been more than three years old."

  "That's right."

  "Did he abuse her, too?"

  Reid nodded.

  "That's why he was in prison?" Cooper said.

  "No. He was the enforcer for an organized crime group . . . loved his work . . . perfected torture." Reid paused again. "Always disfigured his victims. Left them to die."

  "So maybe . . ." Lyn's voice shook as she turned off the ignition.

  "We don't know, yet," Reid said. "It may have been after she died."

  A long pause in the conversation followed.

  "But if he was in prison for murder, how'd he get out?" Cooper said.

  "He turned state's evidence," Reid said. "He made a deal. Faced the death penalty for murder but went to prison on racketeering charges. Turning state’s evidence put a target on his back. They tried several times to get him in prison, so I suppose they’ll try again now that he’s out on parole."

  "It's catching up with him," Lyn said.

  "I suspect so."

  Now there are two killers on the loose and I can’t do anything about it. "Let's get a fire started in your cabin. Then I'll drive you to see Nora."

  Quiet reigned at dinner as all the school children flew out during the day. Only Dana’s three-year-old Denver and Zenia’s third-grade son Logan remained. The quiet unnerved Lyn. It echoed the eerie silence of the once bustling village. She looked around at the small group which remained, the ones who’d be the last to go.