by W L Ripley
“In-fucking-credible,” he said, softly. He handed me the scope. Looking through its magnified eye, I saw the blond head of Agent Candless of the Drug Enforcement Agency. He and the other man walked back to the house and went inside. Why was Candless here? Because he was dirty. It explained how Roberts was always one step ahead of the game. But why now, before dawn?
All along I had sensed something rotten about Candless, but up to now I thought his connection was with Alan Winston. More lights came on in the house. So much for hitting them while they slept. What event had brought Candless to the house at this particular moment?
“Maybe he’s collecting for the heart fund,” Chick said.
“Or maybe the sale is going down.”
After Candless and the man entered the house a man wearing a parka and carrying a scoped rifle stepped onto the balcony. He stayed back in the shadows, occasionally stepping forward to look in the direction of the road.
“They couldn’t have over seven or eight guys with guns and two attack dogs,” Chick said. “They don’t have a chance.”
“I’m surprised they haven’t surrendered already.”
“Maybe this was a planned meeting.”
“Or maybe Candless wants to be around when the call comes in and he’s helping them plan a course of action. I don’t like the odds.” I didn’t. But there was no way to pull back now.
We settled down to wait. I thought about Sandy, or at least I tried to, but the more immediate problem was on my mind.
Chick looked through the scoping glass. He was watching the sentry. “The guy on the balcony sees something,” he said.
“Where is he?” I asked. Chick handed the glass to me.
“There,” he said, “against the wall.” I looked at the man. He was casting quick glances around one corner of an alcove. He had a walkie-talkie to his mouth.
“He’s talking to somebody on a radio,” I said. I followed the line of the sentry’s sight. One hundred and fifty yards southwest of the lodge I saw a shadow moving through the edge of the timber. “Somebody is over on the west ridge. Moving in the direction of the house.”
“Place is getting crowded.”
The man who had met Candless came out of the house carrying a shotgun and something thin and supple, like rope, in one hand. He gave a low whistle and the two dogs ran to him. The thing in his hand was a pair of leashes. He tethered the dogs and moved over by the tack house, in the shadows of one side of it. I saw the red glow of a cigarette as he lighted it. The distant figure on the opposite ridge made its way slowly across the open field.
“He’s coming in from the wrong side,” I said. “Wind’s at his back and the shadows are wrong.”
“Can you tell who it is?”
“No.” I hoped it wasn’t Simmons. He had expressed a desire to do more than make one phone call, but I had vetoed it. If it was Simmons, he had made a dumb move that could screw up everything. My heart thumped in my chest. If it was Simmons, we would have to abandon our plans in order to rescue him. An iffy proposition. Unless we could radio in an air strike we would be caught out in the open, outgunned and outnumbered.
“Don’t even think it,” said Chick, reading my mind. “He shouldn’t have come.”
“We can’t let the dogs eat him,” I said.
Chick smiled. “Knew you’d see it that way. What the hell. Okay, we work our way along the north side of the property then down the back side of the house and over to the tack house. There’s some cover from that direction. When we get there we have to do the guy and both dogs and do it without alarming the sentry. I can burn both dogs with this.” He lifted the .22. “But you’ll have to stick the guy.”
“From behind?”
“From behind. Aim for the base of the neck. Even if it doesn’t kill him right off, which it should, it’ll keep him from yelling out. I’ll pop the dogs, and maybe the guy on the balcony will never know. And maybe the Cleveland Indians will win the pennant this year.” He looked at me. “Don’t want to do the guy, do you? Rather do the dogs, right?” He was right. I respected animals, but wasn’t going to go dewy-eyed over a couple of mutts bred to kill. It was much worse, not even in the ballpark, in fact, to kill another human being. Never understood people who equated animal life with human life.
“No,” I said. “I don’t want to, but I have to. I’m better with the bow than you are, or you’d do it. The dogs are a smaller target, so the gun is better for them.”
“Well, I don’t know if you shoot better than me, but it is your bow, so maybe you can shoot it a little better than me.”
“Much better,” I said.
“Uh-huh,” he said, grunting. “We’ll see.”
“You’ll probably miss both dogs,” I said.
“You can’t shoot a bow worth nothing.”
“Bounty hunter. Ha!”
“All-pro,” he said, derisively. He grinned and I shrugged.
Then we stepped out of the woods and made our way down the ridge.
THIRTY-FIVE
The first ember of dawn glowed faintly on the east horizon as we reached the back of the property. I followed Chick, placing my feet down in the exact spot he’d stepped in. If he thought a spot of ground was safe and quiet, then it was okay with me.
I reslung the sawed-off so it wouldn’t clink against the 9-millimeter. I was careful not to allow the barrel of the shotgun to touch anything. We got a lucky break when we got behind the house. Running along the northern fence line was a hard-packed path, worn smooth by vehicles, which allowed us to move more quickly. We wanted to come up behind the man and the dogs. There was a chance the dogs would scent us, but so far the wind was quartering into our faces. Noise was our biggest problem.
We made it to the back of the tack house without incident. I smelled horsehide and manure. A horse nickered softly from within the barn. I saw the back of the man and the semihorned head of the Doberman. The Rottweiler loomed over the black dog like an elephant, huge and wide. The man dropped a cigarette to the ground and stepped on it.
It was Vance. We were behind a large bale of hay, where he couldn’t see us even if he turned around. If it had been about fifteen yards closer it would have been perfect. But I didn’t want to try to hit that small an area from that distance. I was going to have to step out into the open to get a shot. With my head I indicated we needed to move up. Chick nodded in return, and we stepped out from behind the bale.
We almost made it.
I was nocking the arrow when Chick’s foot scraped something on the ground. The Doberman made a rumbling sound down in its throat and Vance turned around. I wasn’t going to have time to shoot him. Vance released the traces on the dogs and reached for the rifle leaning against the building.
He never got it up.
Chick shot him at the base of the throat. Vance’s hands reached for his throat as he was falling. He was dead within seconds of hitting the ground. The dogs were racing in our direction, eating up the short distance with loping strides. I put a ten-yard pin on the Doberman, figuring it to be the faster of the pair. Besides, an arrow wouldn’t stop the bigger dog. It was Chick’s worry now. Didn’t have time to be scared. I released the arrow and it jumped from the string. The broadhead tore through the dog’s cheek and then ripped into its shoulder. The black dog stumbled and then skidded to the ground, bending the shaft of the arrow. It gave a small yip of pain, and then I heard the muffled .22 spit twice. Still the big Rott came on. I readied myself to swat it with the bow. The Colt sneezed again and the dog slid into the dirt. The Doberman was writhing on the ground; Chick shot it between the eyes and it stopped moving. The bigger dog shivered, then lay still. Vance sat against the side of the building, legs splayed out, a look of surprise on his face, one hand on his crotch, a red spot at the base of his throat.
My shoulder shivered and my mouth felt cottony. I realized Chick had purposely stepped on the twig so I wouldn’t have to kill a man from behind. That, or he didn’t think I could do it. I didn’t
know if I could have. Better off not knowing.
Chick looked at me and indicated the direction from which Simmons, or whoever it was, would be coming. We ducked behind the structure and watched for him. He was seventy-five yards away, crouched low and moving from behind the old barn. Stupid. Soon he would be out in the open, visible from the house.
“Wait here,” said Chick, and then he ran around the back of the tack house. I put the bow down and unsheathed the shotgun, waiting, the blood pumping in my ears. Several seconds passed before I peeked around the corner of the building. When I did I saw the dark figure of Chick Easton grab the intruder, covering the man’s mouth with a hand and pulling him into the darkness. I searched the ground around me for any sign of someone coming from the house. No one came.
I looked at the dogs and Vance. They were very quiet. It wasn’t easy to stand close to them. Certainly was a good thing drugs didn’t hurt anybody but the people who used them.
Chick came back with a man who wasn’t Simmons. Wasn’t Spider-Man, either. It was Special Agent Morrison of the FBI. He was wearing a dark jumpsuit, a black baseball cap with the letters FBI in gold, and a pair of referee shoes, mud caked on them. He looked at the dogs and the dead man. His eyes were large.
“Damn,” he said. “I owe you.”
“You need to take a remedial sneaking up course,” Chick said. “They’ve been watching you ever since you entered the property.”
“I followed Candless here.”
I nodded.
“I think he’s compromised.”
“No shit?” said Chick.
“What are you two doing here?”
“No more talk,” I said. I checked the 9-millimeter, slid the action back. Cocked and loaded. “You going in with us, Morrison?”
“We are investigating this affair. There are procedures that—”
“Procedures!” I said, between clenched teeth. It hissed from me like steam. I leaned into his face. “Your adherence to procedure cost Tempestt her life.”
“You got nothing on Roberts,” said Chick. “The woman agent was your only hope. He’s outsmarted you at every turn and your buddy from the DEA’s been helping him stay out front. If Roberts walks, the sheriff and your agent die for nothing. And I’ve had about enough of that. Worse, if he’s alive at the end of the day, he’ll kill Wyatt. Or have it done. Someday. For sure. And,” he paused, his eyes boring in on Morrison, “that ain’t happening. I won’t let it. You gonna let them get away with killing her?”
Morrison’s eyes looked into mine, then back at Chick. Something was going on inside the G-man’s head. Something nearly audible as he wrestled with it before it clicked into place.
“No,” he said. “I’m not.”
I put on Vance’s hat and coat. The coat was bloodstained. I reslung the shotgun over the coat. Picked up his radio and keyed the mike. “House,” I said, then clicked the mike on and off as if there were interference on the line. “…got one of…” Hit the key. “…two ran into woods north…”
“You’re breaking up, Vance,” came the answer. “You say there were others?”
“Right, they…into the woods…dogs after them. Send…after them to make sure.” I didn’t speak directly into the microphone. “I’d go but…got a prisoner.”
“You think it was that football player and the other guy?” Chick mouthed the words “the other guy,” soundlessly.
“Could be. I’m out.”
I tossed the radio on the ground. “I’ll take the guy on the balcony,” I said. Chick discarded his shotgun.
“Okay,” Chick said. “I’ll come in from the back side and penetrate…ah…get inside the house.” He left. Disappeared, actually.
“What about me?” Morrison asked.
“You’re my prisoner. When we get close we either get the guard to let us in or we drop him. His choice.” I pulled the collar up on the coat to conceal the shotgun and pulled the hat down over my eyes. Morrison walked in front of me. I followed behind with Vance’s rifle pointed at him. Morrison walked with his hands on the back of his head, his .38 revolver shoved down in the collar of his coveralls where he could reach it easily. I marched him up to the house, keeping to the shadows whenever possible.
Two guys carrying shotguns came out of the house. They didn’t look at us, just headed for the north woods. They hadn’t gone twenty-five yards from the house when I heard the .22 spit. Two shots and both men fell without making a sound. Never saw Chick.
“Your buddy is scary,” Morrison said.
When we reached the house, the rifleman on the balcony was gone. Probably back in the house. We were greeted at the door by a smallish man with a shotgun lying across a white-encased arm—my old buddy Luke. Mr. Shit Happens. He was relaxed, not expecting anyone but Vance.
“Hey, Vance,” he said. “Let’s see what you got there.” He took a step forward. “Mr. Roberts sent Breck and Skeeter out to check—” He stopped. “Hey, you’re—”
He tried to level the scattergun, but the cast slowed him. Besides, Morrison already had the .38 pointed at him. Not bad.
“FBI!” said Morrison. “Put the gun down or I will shoot you.”
“And if he doesn’t, I will,” I said. “There’s already three of you down. Put the piece down, nice and easy. Not a sound.” He complied. Maybe I should go into sales. “Now, turn around, with your good hand in your back pocket. If I see your hand at any time, you’re dead.” I put Vance’s rifle down, reached back, grabbed my sawed-off shotgun, and shrugged out of the blood-stained coat.
“Now, open the door with one hand,” I said. As he did so I brought the stock of the shotgun down across the back of his skull. He dropped. I eased him to the ground with my free hand and Morrison cuffed him with a pair of plastic throwaway cuffs. I took a handkerchief from my pocket, balled it up, and stuck it in his mouth, securing it with a length of nylon cord. I made sure he was breathing okay.
“Ready?” I whispered, heart pounding. Morrison nodded and we stepped inside. The door opened into a huge, cathedral-peaked living room. No one there. A staircase in the foyer led to the second level. On the far side of the living room was a large entryway leading to a drawing room or den. Guns ready, we walked in the direction of the opening. Morrison watched my back.
We were about a third of the way through the living room when a big guy wearing a shoulder holster over an expensive shirt walked in. He had coal-black hair and eyes and a thick neck. He wasn’t expecting company. He saw the shotgun in my hand and quickly tugged at his gun, crouching and moving left as he did. I tripped the trigger on the Savage/Stevens double and he was slammed backward against the wall, like a quarterback jolted by an inside linebacker. I heard the loud report of Morrison’s .38 and was moving for cover when I heard the dull thud of a body tumbling down the staircase. I crouched behind a heavy davenport.
Morrison moved under the staircase and trained his gun on the opening. I broke the shotgun open and inserted another shell. I unholstered the 9-millimeter and put it in my right hand. Held the shotgun in my left .The smell of cordite was thick.
The living room was masculine, burled wood and thick carpet. There was a ship’s clock on the mantel of the stone fireplace, and there was a leather-padd ed wet bar. The house was still. A clock somewhere deep within the house chimed six times. The bell tolls for thee, Willie Boy, I thought.
I waited. The hunter’s advantage. I watched the entryway. Chick was probably somewhere in the house by this time. I didn’t doubt his ability to break in, somehow. Where was Roberts? And Cugat? And Candless? The guy I killed looked like mob. One of the K.C. shooters. He had come to kill me, and now I had done so for him. How many had the guy killed? Never again. I had killed a man now. The first in nearly two decades. But not the one I had come for.
Tempestt was dead. The sheriff was dead. There was blood on the walls and on the coat I had been wearing. I was calm. Strange to be calm. Strange to be in a foreign house with the stink of cordite in the air, a defiled
relic shotgun in one hand, having killed two dogs and a man in less than a week. Blood on the walls.
I waited.
The stillness pressed down on me.
“Storme,” yelled a voice from the next room. The voice belonged to Roberts. I said nothing. “I know it’s you out there, Storme. Come along in here, boy.” I raised the pistol and gripped the shotgun tighter. “Got somebody in here wants to see you.” I looked at Morrison. He moved closer to the opening.
“You got that piece of paper we talked about, Storme? Y’all a lot more resourceful than I give you credit for. Not afraid to stick your hand in the gator’s mouth.” Then he slipped into the Cajun accent. “Dat gator just sit dere, him, with his mouth open and his eyes closed, and you just stick dat fist down his throat.”
My thighs ached from squatting. Morrison was at the corner of the entryway. Anybody coming through that opening would be cut to pieces. Roberts spoke again.
“’Cept this ol’ gator, he got bait in his mouth, him. Just wiggle it where you think you can take him and then he snaps dem ol’ jaws shut, him.” Did he have Chick?
“Got a lil ol’ gal here, wants to say something for you.” There was a muffled sound and a female cry of pain. “Why don’t you come in here, Storme, and say hello to this reporter friend of yours.”
Jill Maxwell. Why didn’t she ever listen?
“You bring that shooter friend of yours in here, too,” said Roberts, confident. “You both welcome. I’m a reasonable man. Businessman. We done business before. I know how you are. How you don’t like to see the little girls hurt. Come on in here, now.”
I thought about my options. Chick either was in place by now or soon would be. So what? My options stunk. If we didn’t go in, Jill died. If we went in, we died.
