by Scott Pratt
“Surprise,” she said when I opened the door.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m surprised.”
“Can I come in?”
The pistol was in my right hand, which I was hiding behind the door.
“Can you give me one second?” I said. “I was on the phone with a client. Private conversation. It’ll just take me a second.”
I closed the door and stuck the pistol under the mattress. I fixed the bedding back the way it was and went back to the door.
“Come on in,” I said.
She walked in leisurely, smelling of lemon and musk. It was one of the sexiest smells I’d ever breathed. Her hair was flowing, her makeup perfect, her eyes gleaming.
“Did you find a place?” she asked.
I nodded. “Think so. Management company won’t be back in the office until Monday, so I won’t know for sure until then.”
“Where is it?”
“Cherokee Bluff, not too far from the office. They’re apartments. Nice but not outrageous.”
She sat down on the bed and crossed her legs. She was wearing jeans and calf-high boots beneath the coat. “Did I do or say something last night that offended you?”
“No,” I said as I sat down in a chair about ten feet from her. “Everything you did and said last night was almost too good to be true. I’m having a little trouble processing the feelings.”
“You’ve been through a lot lately.”
“Yeah, well, I’m about to go through some more.”
“Really? What’s going on?”
“The police were here earlier. A couple of detectives. You know Dawn Rule or Lawrence Kingman, by any chance?”
She shook her head. “Don’t think so.”
“I thought maybe you’d run across them through the grad program. Anyway, some psycho apparently killed three people in Charleston, West Virginia, this morning, and they think I either had something to do with it or know something about it.”
“Why would they think that?” she asked.
“They’re still holding on to this theory that I killed two guys in West Virginia who supposedly bombed my mom’s house. The killings today were apparently somehow related to that, or at least that’s what they think. They’re grasping at straws; they have nothing but unfounded suspicions.”
“So you talked to them today?”
“Not for long. I’d stopped by a bar earlier and had a couple of drinks and my judgment wasn’t the best, so I opened the door and talked to them for a few minutes. But they were just being cops, trying to trick me into saying something incriminating, so I shut the door on them.”
“Why don’t you come back over to my place, Darren?” she said. “You told me you don’t like it here.”
“Look around. What’s to like?”
“Then come back over. We’ll drink some wine. We’ll get some takeout, whatever you like. And maybe we can exchange gifts again.”
“I’d like to,” I said. “I really would. Thank you for the invitation, but I can’t do it tonight. I just have too much on my mind.”
I couldn’t tell her I had a date with a psychotic killer and that I had to prepare myself mentally for what was coming.
“I can ease your mind,” she said.
I got up, walked to the door, and opened it.
“You’re kicking me out?” she said. “You’re really going to make me leave?”
“Tomorrow,” I said. “After tomorrow, things will be different.”
She rose from the bed, walked to the door, and lingered a few inches from my face. “What happens tomorrow?”
“I can’t tell you. Now, please, this is extremely difficult for me, but I have to ask you to leave now.”
“But I’ll see you again?” she said. “Do you promise?”
“I hope so, Katherine. I really do.”
CHAPTER 58
The gunfight at the clearing near Petros was scheduled for dawn on a Thursday, two days after Christmas, but there was no way I was going to show up at dawn. I thought Pappy would probably get there and get familiar with the place as soon as he could, and I wanted to be there first. So as soon as Katherine left, I went into the bathroom and replaced the air vent, then picked up the silencer, the box the gun came in, and the extra clip of ammunition. I retrieved the pistol from beneath the mattress and went out and got in my car. I drove around several blocks, doubled back, ran red lights, and pulled into and out of strip malls and apartment complexes until I was certain I wasn’t being followed.
I then drove to a small storage space I’d rented when Grace had kicked me out. Inside the storage space was my camping gear and some heavy clothing, along with most of the rest of the things I’d accumulated after my mom was killed. The weather forecast said it would be cold and there could be some light snow in the mountains west of Knoxville on Thursday, so I put on a set of warm clothes, a pair of leather gloves, a leather coat, a pair of boots, and a stocking cap, then picked up a flashlight and a box of ammunition for the pistol. I drove to a convenience store, bought a couple of large cups of coffee, and filled my car with gas before I got onto the interstate. I planned to keep the car running with the heater on most of the night. I knew I wouldn’t be sleeping, so I thought I’d drink the coffee a couple of hours before dawn. It would be cold, but the caffeine would have the same effect.
From there, I went to my mom’s grave. I stood over the headstone as the wind howled around me. Surprisingly, I wasn’t sad or afraid. I almost felt lighthearted. I said, “Mom, if you know what’s going on, you know I might be joining you very soon. I’ve done some bad things and I know you might not be too happy with me right now, but when you were alive, you always had my back and I always had yours. If there’s anything you can do to help me out tomorrow, a little nudge here, a push there, a big gust of wind that throws him off balance or sends a bullet off target, I’d appreciate it.”
I got back into my car and pulled onto the interstate. As I drove west out of Knoxville toward Petros, I picked up one of my burner phones. I’d left my regular cell back at the hotel. I dialed my ex-wife, Katie’s, number. I wanted to talk to my son, Sean, just in case. I didn’t know what I’d say to him, but I wanted to hear his voice. The phone went to voice mail. I asked Katie to please have Sean call me on my burner number—that it was important—but I knew she wouldn’t. The next number I dialed was Grace’s. She didn’t pick up, either.
“I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry for anything I’ve ever done that hurt you,” I said on her voice mail. “I never intended to hurt you. I never wanted any of the things that have happened to happen. I want you to know I appreciate how kind you’ve always been to me, how good you were to my mom and my son, and that I’ll always love you.”
I was on the gravel road that led to the shooting range in just over an hour. Small flakes of snow were dancing across the headlights like tiny flying fish, and the darkness beyond the reach of the headlights was complete. I pulled my car into a small stand of trees about a hundred yards from the clearing where the targets were, turned off the engine and the lights, took the Walther P22 pistol out of my pocket, and got out. I walked around with the flashlight for a little while, then went over to the targets. I illuminated a target with the flashlight, backed up thirty feet, and emptied a clip into it. I popped another clip in and did the same. I walked up to the target and checked it. The pattern was tight—all of the rounds were close to the bull’s-eye. If I could stay calm, I at least had a chance.
I went back to the car, opened the trunk, picked up the box of ammo and reloaded the clips with 0.22-caliber long-rifle hollow points. The wind was whistling through the leafless tree branches all around me, and I shivered. I thought about cleaning the gun again—the kit was in the trunk, too—but since it had been spotless when I got there and I’d only put twenty rounds through it, I decided against it. I got into the car, started it, and turned the heater up. I looked at the clock on the dashboard. It was only 10:35 p.m. I wondered how long it would take
Pappy to get there. I’d positioned myself in a place where I knew I’d see him come in. He couldn’t drive without headlights; it was just too dark. He would come over a rise that led to the firing range. It was in a natural bowl, almost like a box canyon. Three sides were flanked by steep banks that led to a ridge farther up the mountain.
Time crept by. I got out of the car and walked around several times. I kept impulsively checking the Walther to ensure it was ready to go. Finally, at 5:58 a.m., I was walking about thirty yards from my car, just finishing the second cup of cold coffee I’d bought earlier, when I saw the glimmer of lights coming up the other side of the rise and heard the crunch of tires on gravel. A vehicle topped the rise and stopped. It turned slowly to the left, and its headlights illuminated the target range. It had to be him. Big Pappy Donovan had arrived. The sun wouldn’t rise until 7:45 or so. The first light of dawn would appear about a half an hour before. We had a little more than an hour to wait.
I walked over and huddled against the trunk of a giant white oak tree. It protected me from the wind and gave me a clear view of the spot where the headlights had gone out. I couldn’t hear the engine running, and I couldn’t see the vehicle, but I imagined I could hear Big Pappy breathing. The breaths were slow, deep, and measured, the breaths of a predator stalking prey.
I stayed near the tree for more than an hour, when suddenly I noticed faint slivers of light beginning to emerge above the mountain ridges in the distance. Five minutes later, I stood and began to walk toward the range. I could make out the shape of Pappy’s vehicle; it was a small sedan of some sort. Another five minutes passed, and I saw the interior light come on. The door opened, and the huge man climbed out of the driver’s side. He took several steps toward the range, and I stepped out of the tree line.
He saw me and stopped. I did the same. I was ready to pull the Walther out of my pocket and start shooting, just in case he tried to ambush me.
“I’m glad you came,” Pappy said. “Wasn’t sure you would.”
“I told you I’d be here.”
“I was afraid I was going to have to hunt you down in Knoxville. It would’ve been hard, but I would’ve gotten to you eventually.”
“I’m saving you some trouble, then.”
“Are you ready to die, Darren?”
“I am. Are you?”
“Not today.”
The snow had stopped completely, but the wind continued to swirl. I took my gloves off and dropped them on the ground. As I looked at Pappy, I noticed something that seemed a little unusual. He was wearing a short coat, but he appeared even bulkier than usual. I cursed under my breath. The son of a bitch was wearing a bulletproof vest.
“You’re wearing a vest?” I said.
“And you’re not?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Then how stupid are you? Who comes to a gunfight these days without a vest?”
I should have known he’d do something like this, and I cursed myself for being so naive.
“I thought this was supposed to be old school,” I said.
“It is, but we’re not using flint-lock pistols and musket balls, are we? I reserved the right to use the technology available to me, although I don’t think I communicated that to you very effectively.”
I’d planned on aiming for center mass and trying to pump as many hollow points into his chest as quickly as I could, but now I’d have to aim for his head. He had a large head, which helped, but at thirty feet and in poor light, it would make things more difficult.
“How’s your ear?” I said.
“Fuck you, let’s do this.”
We walked toward each other slowly. He’d always made me feel small, but walking toward him in the dim light in the mountains, knowing what was about to happen, made him appear gigantic. The gun in his right hand looked to be a nine millimeter, and I was sure it was, like mine, loaded with hollow-point bullets that expanded on contact so they inflicted maximum damage. Neither of us said a word as we approached each other. I watched his gun hand intently because I didn’t trust him. We came within inches of each other and he turned around. I did the same.
“Five paces,” he said, and I walked off five paces. I turned back around to see that he was doing the same.
“Pistol toward the sky,” he said, and he raised his right arm.
“Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . ,” he said. I wondered for a brief second whether he was counting down the last ten seconds of my life, but then I began to hone in on my target. I breathed deeply and slowly.
“Seven . . . six . . . five.”
I was surprised to realize that I wasn’t frightened. It was as though I’d accepted whatever outcome the universe had in mind for me. I wouldn’t question, and I wouldn’t try to force anything. My heart was beating normally, and my hands were steady.
“Four . . . three . . . two . . . one.”
I saw his hand begin to drop as he took aim. I did the same, and I did it quickly. I fired two shots before I heard his weapon explode. I felt the concussion as a bullet whizzed by my left ear. I fired again, and again. Was I missing him?
He fired two more times. The second shot knocked me backward onto the ground as I felt my right collarbone shatter. The pain radiated through my arm and chest like fire at first. It was so excruciating I almost passed out, but then it eased and turned into a dull, aching throb. My pistol immediately fell to the ground beside me, and my right arm was rendered useless. I reached over with my left hand and picked up the gun, which caused pressure on my right arm and sent pain shooting through me again. I expected to see Pappy hovering over me with the nine millimeter pointed at my forehead. Instead, I looked over, and he was on his knees, clutching at his throat with both hands. I couldn’t see his pistol.
I managed to get to my feet and staggered toward him, raising the Walther with my left hand. I held my right arm against my stomach, but pain still shot through my shoulder, arm, and neck. When I got to within six or eight feet of him, I could see he’d been shot through the throat, and blood was spurting from the wound. There was another bullet hole in his right cheek.
He looked up at me with an expression of pure hatred as his throat gurgled. I took a few more steps and was less than three feet away. His pistol was on the ground by his right knee. He started to reach for it, and I fired one last shot with my left hand. The bullet went into his forehead just above the bridge of his nose, and he went straight over on his back.
“No quarter,” I said out loud, and I turned and began to walk slowly toward his car.
CHAPTER 59
I was relieved to see Big Pappy’s keys were in the ignition. I sat down in the driver’s seat with the door open and the interior light on and began to examine my wound. The entry was almost directly in the middle of my right clavicle. I was certain the bone was broken or fractured. It was bleeding, but not badly. I cursed myself for not thinking to buy and bring along a first-aid kit. I’d known the chances of my getting shot were pretty high but honestly hadn’t expected to survive if I was wounded.
I removed my coat and shirt and started feeling around my upper torso with my left hand for an exit wound. I found it beneath my right armpit, about halfway down my rib cage. It, too, was bleeding. There wasn’t a torrent of blood coming from the wound, but there was more than was coming from the entry wound. The entire right side of my upper body was throbbing in pain. It radiated in waves from the collarbone, down my arm and through my rib cage. I took some deep breaths—which hurt like hell—and tried to think. I reached down and pushed a button, and the trunk popped open. I forced myself to stand and walk to the back of the car. I started going through the trunk with my left hand. There were several weapons—pistols and knives and assault rifles—enough ammunition to fight a long battle, some bags of dehydrated food, several gallons of water, a tent, a wad of cash, and, to my great relief, a first-aid kit. I pulled it out and opened it.
Two things caught my eye immediately: antiseptic wipes and rolls of gauze. I op
ened the antiseptic swipes and wiped down both the entry and exit wounds. I had to do it gingerly because of the pain. When I started stuffing gauze into the entry wound and applying pressure, I thought I might pass out. Once I had both wounds cleaned and stuffed with gauze, it was time to empty the trunk. It took me about ten or fifteen minutes, but I eventually got everything out and laid it in a pile beside the car. I stuck the cash in my pocket, got into the car again, started it, and drove it over to where Pappy’s body lay. I backed up to him, got out, and spent another ten agonizing minutes loading his 270 pounds of dead weight into the trunk. Once I had him loaded, I got into the car and headed for Gatlinburg.
I pulled up in front of Granny Tipton’s house around eight thirty in the morning. When she opened the door after I knocked, the color drained from her face.
“My goodness, Darren, what’s wrong?” she said.
“I’m hurt,” I said. I’d made a makeshift sling out of one of the rolls of gauze in Pappy’s first-aid kit, and my right arm was across my stomach.
“You look terrible,” she said as she wrapped her hands around my left arm. “Let’s get you inside.”
We walked into her dining room, and she sat me down in a chair.
“What happened?” she said.
“I’m sorry to come here, but I didn’t know where else to go. Big Pappy came after me. It’s a long story and something you really don’t need to hear, but he came after me and he shot me. I probably need a doctor, Granny, but I can’t go to a hospital or to anyone who will talk about this. Do you know anyone?”
She nodded. “I know a man. He’s helped us out several times over the years. I’ll call him and get him to come. I thought you and this Pappy were friends.”
“So did I,” I said. “It didn’t work out that way.”
“Where is he?”
“That’s his car out there. He’s in the trunk, dead.”
“You killed him?”