by Lou Cadle
Sierra had a friend in attendance, and so the party had been awkward for Devlin. Kelly felt bad, that something she had wanted to do for her son to celebrate had ended up turning him quiet.
And she hadn’t missed the look of longing on her son’s face whenever he glanced at Sierra and her friend. Kelly knew Arch didn’t want to encourage a romance there, but a friendship wasn’t out of order. Dev needed some social contact with someone his own age, and with the gas situation as it was, they weren’t going to be driving in and out of town anytime soon.
And she had an idea that would make Arch willing to let Devlin spend a little time with the girl. She worked a “yes” out of Arch and broached the topic with Devlin a few days later in the afternoon as he was helping clean up the last of the mess from canning.
*
Dev was worried. He could tell his mother was about to bring up a Serious Topic. He could only hope the topic wasn’t sex.
“Your father and I have been talking,” she said.
Here it comes.
“And we have an idea. It’s a little sneaky. Pilar—Mr. Crocker—might not like it. But I think you might and Sierra might, and maybe Mr. Crocker doesn’t need to know every little thing at first.”
Sierra? His interest level rose.
“Have you been paying attention to the radio? The news?”
“Some. I’m not inside much.”
“No, I guess you aren’t. The gas delivery didn’t come to Payson last week, and there isn’t much gas in Phoenix or Tucson. What there is? A hundred dollars per gallon now in Phoenix.”
“That’s a lot,” Dev said, thinking of his hidden envelope of cash. If he had a car, he couldn’t go far on what he’d saved over the years. Not to an ocean, for instance. He had always wanted to see the ocean.
“Your father thinks—and I’m afraid he’s right—that things are going to get worse. That people might come up this way.”
“To steal from us?”
“Maybe it won’t be their first plan. They might simply be fleeing the city. If they see us, and if they see we have supplies, yes, they might try to take them. Hungry people are desperate people.”
She wasn’t saying anything he hadn’t heard before. “What does this have to do with Sierra?”
“Your father tried to get Mr. Crocker to agree to the idea of group training, but he refused. Still, you might be able to teach Sierra a thing or two that will help her when the time comes. I’ll keep working on Mr. Crocker, but you might be able to help his daughter to be more prepared.”
“Won’t he be mad when he finds out?” Having his own father mad at him so much of the time, Dev didn’t really want Sierra’s dad angry too.
“Probably. But he’ll feel worse if she was hurt and there was something that could have been done to prevent it.”
“So you want me to do it? Not Dad, not you.”
“Yes.”
“How? If I’m supposed to keep it secret, how?”
“Been thinking on that,” his mother said. “Invite her on a hunting trip, just a short one the first time. Look for rabbits, squirrels, small game. That way, you can get some target practice in too. Watch what she’s doing. See if there’s any tips you can give her.”
“Okay.” Dev wasn’t quite sure what to make of this, but he was intrigued. A chance to spend some time alone with Sierra? Time away from his chores and his father’s critical eye? Sounded good to him.
“Maybe it can become a regular thing, a couple times per week. Make it fun the first time, and you can keep teaching her. She might not even understand she’s learning. But she’ll be learning. And getting used to having her rifle in her hands.”
“I get it,” he said. “When?”
“No time like the present. When the last of these dishes is put away, you and I will go over there and chat about it. For now, the appeal is supplementing supplies on hand with more meat, right? That’s how we’ll sell Crocker the idea.”
Dev was excited, and nervous, and a little afraid. But the more he thought about it, the more he was proud. His folks both trusted him to teach someone something this important. That was pretty great. Pretty shocking, coming from his father. His mother trusted him more. Knew him more. Liked him more.
Two days later, he and Sierra were walking across the main road in early afternoon, going into federal forest land to hunt small game. He’d been thinking about what to talk to her about, what to ask her about, like Mr. Morrow had said, and he had finally come up with something.
“You know what?” he said.
“What?” She sounded bored.
“I envy you.”
“You do?” More interested now.
“You have such a great relationship with your father.”
“Yeah, Pilar’s okay.”
“My father would knock me into next week if I called him ‘Arch.’”
“My father has never hit me. He’s looked like he wanted to a few times, but he never has. Arch does, huh?”
“Not really. I mean, he doesn’t do more than smack me once, and it doesn’t hurt.” Not physically.
“That’s good.”
“Maybe you can give me pointers on how to get along with my dad. I’ll give you hunting pointers, and you can do that. Fair trade?”
“Sure, but I don’t think I can help you much with Arch. Pilar’s easy because he’s easy.”
“Anyway.” They had moved beyond the road far enough to look for game. It wouldn’t have been far enough a month ago, when cars pulling lightweight tent trailers and trucks would have been moving along it, making noise while getting up onto the Rim and its cooler weather. But the gas shortage had made it a quieter world.
Dev gave her pointers on her shooting. Grip, stance, pretty much everything about her technique was half-assed. She missed a squirrel and refused to shoot at doves. He took two doves with two shots, feeling pretty proud of the second. “This isn’t legal,” he said. “I know that bothers your father.”
“Are they protected species?”
“No, not at all. They’re not at all rare. The official season is September, so I’m off by a few weeks is all.”
“Seems like not much meat for the risk.”
“It’s good meat though. Not quite as good as quail. Winter, we’ll come out and get as many quail as we can.” He put the birds into his bag and said, “You want them?”
“Better not. Pilar probably knows they’re not in season, and he’ll throw a fit. How do you prepare them, pluck them like chickens?”
“Nope. Not enough meat to hassle with. You breast them, more like filleting a fish. Fry them in butter or bacon grease. Put the rest in the compost.”
At the end of the day, she shot a cottontail. He was happy to see her willing to kill an animal. “You can have it too,” she said.
He’d have to check it for parasites and disease. A lot of them weren’t healthy enough to eat. If it wasn’t, he’d leave it and a mountain lion or coyote or owl or crow would come along and eat it. He wondered if carrion eaters were suffering from the lack of gasoline too. They probably relied on cars hitting animals for some of their meals.
Sierra surprised him by saying, “I’d like to do this again. Not kill the animals so much, but you gave me some good pointers on shooting.”
“Great,” he said, glad she’d made that part of his job easier. “Sunday okay?”
“Probably. It’s not as if I’m going anywhere.”
She left him with the rabbit, which ended up not being safe for human consumption. Nature was efficient. By the time they were back here again, there probably wouldn’t even be bones left.
Over the next two weeks, in five hunting trips, he managed to impart a good deal of information to Sierra. He talked about battle tactics cautiously at first. But when she didn’t protest, he grew bolder. By their fourth session, there was no hunting at all for food, just target practice. He flushed animals and tried to get her able to hit a moving target. And he explained a bit about fightin
g battles against humans.
“Surprise. Mobility. Training. These are the three principles my dad keeps driving home.” He explained flanking maneuvers. Waiting for the right moment to attack. Finding cover and digging bunkers and traps. Gaining the high ground and how to use it. “But the most important part of all this is training regularly. Not only so that you’re familiar with your weapon and other equipment, and that your aim is true and your movements practiced, but so you can calm the mind. Panic does you no good.”
“You think it’ll come to this? Needing to fight people?”
“My mom thinks so. My father thinks so.”
“My dad thinks it won’t.” She looked troubled. “But I’m not so sure he’s right.”
Chapter 10
Saturday, they were meeting again at the Morrows’, with Curt Henry not in attendance. Pilar, last in line, loaded his plate with chocolate-dipped strawberries and homemade parmesan crackers. He had just settled down and balanced his plate on his lap when Bodhi, who had come along for either the company or the treats slipped to him, began to growl.
“What’s wrong, boy?” Pilar asked. “Coyotes?” He leaned back to look around Mitch and make eye contact with Sierra. “You put the chickens back in the coop, right?”
“I did. Want me to run over and make sure a weasel or something isn’t in there?” She stood and put her plate of food on the bench where she’d been sitting.
“I’ll go too,” Dev said.
Bodhi began barking more loudly, and the hackles on his neck were up.
“Whoa,” Pilar said, speaking loudly to be heard over the noise. “He doesn’t do that a lot. Might be a bear he’s caught wind of.”
“Or worse,” Quinn said, standing and staring in the same direction as the dog was facing. “I should have brought a rifle.”
Pilar managed to not snap out a rude reply. He and Quinn had come to a truce, which was kept only by their staying away from certain topics.
Still, he wondered if maybe there might not be a real danger out there. He went to Bodhi and leaned to put his hand on his neck. The dog was quivering. “He’s never like this. Never.”
Quinn said, “Kelly, stay here. Devlin, with me.”
Dev jumped up.
“I’ll go too,” Pilar said.
“Have a gun?”
“No, not on me.”
“Get one.” He shocked Pilar by putting his leg up on a chair and lifting his pants to reveal an ankle holster. He unsnapped it and handed the gun over to Devlin. “Go with Crocker. Be careful. I’ll head for our house. Morrow, you should get a shotgun or rifle. Give Kelly another if you have it. Or Kelly, if he doesn’t, you go inside.”
“I will not,” she said. “I’ll stand guard out here. Mitch, bring me your shotgun. Please. Then you and Sierra should stay inside.”
“Let’s go,” Quinn said, and vaulted the deck railing.
A little dramatic, Pilar thought. He took the steps like a normal person and ran across the Morrow backyard, directly toward his house, while Quinn went for the driveway and road back to his house. Now that Pilar was moving, Bodhi was running ahead of him, over the brown grass, still barking up a storm.
Dev, who had started out behind him, quickly outpaced him. “Be careful, Dev,” Pilar said. “In case there is something—someone.” That’s all he had wind to say as he sprinted to catch up to the boy.
By the time he had reached his house, Bodhi was out of sight. He was barking from the direction of the Quinns’ house. Dev was climbing up to the cistern platform, probably trying to get a better vantage point.
Pilar resisted the urge to tell him to get down. If there was someone around with a rifle, the boy shouldn’t make himself a target up there.
Pilar did a quick circuit of his house, making sure there were no broken windows, and was about to turn for the chicken coop to see if this was all about a dead chicken when he heard the gunshot from the Quinns’.
“Shit,” he said, and he pounded up the steps to his back door, threw it open, and reached for the rifle he kept over the back door. Ammunition was in the nearest kitchen cabinet, inside a box, inside a Dutch oven. He fumbled it out, loaded the magazine, popped it in, and ran back out.
Dev was already off the platform, running ahead of him. Another shot sounded from ahead of them. Another.
Shit, shit, shit. Pilar put on more speed than he knew he had in him, vaulting the raised herb bed at the edge of his property, pounding after Dev.
“Wait up,” he called to the boy, but either Dev didn’t hear him or was choosing to ignore him.
“Dad!” Dev said. He had paused by the shop and was looking wildly around. Pilar ran up and grabbed him by the shirt, pulling him over to the side of the barn and pushing him against the wall. “Don’t expose yourself.”
“Where’s my dad?” he said, struggling to break free.
“Devlin,” Pilar said sharply. “Think. I know your father trained you better than this. Use your head. Shh.”
The boy quit struggling, could be seen to gather his wits again, and nodded. In a flash, his panic had evaporated and he was all business as he said, “You take the shop. I’ll take the house.”
“Stay low. Use cover.” Pilar had no idea why he was thinking they were dealing with a human problem, not an animal one, but that is what he thought. In fact, he was almost certain of it.
Dev took off for the house, moving in spurts, staying low, using cover, and when he couldn’t, dodging from side to side, not making himself an easy target.
Pilar pushed his worry for the boy to the back of his mind and tended to his own task. He slid down the shop wall to the corner, peeked around, and yanked his head back, trying to think about what he had just seen. No people. Nothing obviously amiss. Okay, go.
He edged around the corner, and he saw the door to the shop was hanging open. Not far, just an inch or two. Goddamn it, he was simply not cut out for this kind of thing. But he pushed forward anyway, watching where his feet were landing, trying not to make any noise.
He heard a grunt. Inside the shop. Then a low thumping noise.
He made it to the door without making much noise. Then he took a deep breath. Man, he was shaking. But if Quinn was in there, hurt—or worse—he had to act now. It’d be dark. His eyes would have no chance to adjust.
Well, screw it. He raised the rifle and took a step, then kicked open the door, hoping to get some light in there so he could see what he was shooting at. “Hands up!” he yelled at the same time.
“I could shoot you so easily,” Quinn’s voice said. “You should have come in low.”
“Thank God you’re okay,” Pilar said, as he let his rifle down. “You hurt?”
“I’m okay. This guy not so much.”
Pilar’s eyes were adjusting. There was a man on the floor of the shop. He was unconscious or worse. There were barrels that had been pulled out from the walls and kicked over.
Dev.
The thought came to him. “Shit,” he said, and turned to run for the house.
“What are you doing?” Quinn yelled after him.
“There might be more people. Dev’s at the house.”
Quinn caught up to him, grabbed his arm, pulled him to a stop, and said, “Stop. My family has signals we know. Let me.”
“He might need help.”
“He’s my kid and he’s trained. Go back in my shop and make sure that asshole doesn’t get up.”
Reluctantly, Pilar went back to the shop. He waited for his eyes to adjust, and then he carefully rolled the guy on the floor over with his boot toe. His eyes were open and empty. There was blood on his shirt.
Pilar dropped to his knees and checked the man’s neck for a pulse. This guy wasn’t getting up, not ever again. He wasn’t anyone Pilar recognized. He tried to close the dead man’s eyes, but they were stuck open. Funny, that always worked in the movies. He had a flash of an idea, going over to get a pair of needle-nose pliers from Quinn’s work bench, and yanking down the eyel
ids with those.
Then he realized how bizarre the thought was and believed he might be going into shock. He’d seen dead people—or one. One dead person. But he’d never seen anyone murdered.
Don’t use that term to Quinn.
He nodded at the voice in his head like it was another person and spoke back to it. “You’re right. He’ll not see it that way. Homicide, anyway. But would the sheriff call it self-defense, or justified?” Was there a weapon lying around the guy? If so, who had shot first?
Sheriff. Call the sheriff, idiot. He had his phone in his shirt pocket. He took it out and dialed 911. It took over a minute for someone to answer.
“911. What’s your emergency?”
“I need the sheriff.”
“What’s the emergency?”
“There’s been a robbery, I think. And someone was shot. The robber was shot.”
“So you need an ambulance.”
“I guess, yeah.”
“Sir, what is your name?”
He spent another five minutes on the phone with the woman, and she assured him a sheriff would be up as soon as possible. She got him to admit that the shot guy was also a dead guy, and she told him to not touch anything, to leave the scene as it was until the sheriff got there. She hung up, which surprised him. He thought they kept the person on the phone, in case they were in danger or the shooter.
Then he thought about Bodhi. Where was he? “Bodhi,” he called. “Bodhi? Here, boy.” He whistled for the dog, the come-home whistle, a series of short tones, each rising a bit in pitch. After a few minutes, he tried the whistle again.
He was starting to get worried enough to go look for him—no reason to guard the dead body—when the dog appeared at the door, tail wagging.
“Where’d you go, boy?” If the intruder was what had set him off, why’d he leave the place where the guy was? Made no sense. “Let me check you over.” He kneeled down and checked the dog. No blood, no wounds, no sign he’d been in a fight with anyone.
