by Peg Kehret
“If he had missed,” Alex said, “he would have fired the gun again.” They all hurried into the car. Alex felt cold, as if he’d been plunged into an icy stream. His hands shook as he pulled the door shut.
Beside him, Benjie cried harder. “I want Petey,” he said.
“Let’s go,” Mr. Kendrill said.
“That shot was close by,” Mrs. Kendrill said, as the car moved forward. “He can’t be far ahead of us.”
They continued uphill but had gone only a short distance when Hogman’s truck came speeding around the curve toward them. The truck swerved erratically across the center of the road as if the driver wasn’t paying attention.
Mr. Kendrill pulled to the side, leaning on the horn. The truck jerked back into its own lane and kept going.
“Stop!” Alex yelled. Mr. Kendrill honked the horn again.
As the truck clanked past them, spewing gravel out behind it, Alex saw the driver. His face was contorted in anger and streaked with blood. He didn’t even glance at the Kendrills as he steered the truck downhill.
Mr. Kendrill read the truck’s license number out loud, and Mrs. Kendrill wrote it down.
“I didn’t see Pete,” Alex said. “If he’s still in the truck, he—he can’t stand up and claw at the window.” Alex tried to swallow the lump that seemed stuck in his throat.
“I don’t think he’s in the truck anymore,” Mrs. Kendrill said sadly. “I think we need to look for him up ahead.”
Mr. Kendrill drove slowly up the hill.
Alex stared at the side of the road, watching for a lump of brown-and-white fur, hoping he wouldn’t see it.
Mr. Kendrill had driven only a short way beyond the curve when he saw another spot wide enough to pull off. He stopped the car again.
“I don’t see Pete,” Mrs. Kendrill said. “Maybe he really did get away.”
“Or maybe we haven’t yet come to where the shot was fired,” Mr. Kendrill said.
With his heart in his throat, Alex got out of the car. “Pete?” he called. “Pete, where are you?”
Benjie got out, too, but instead of calling for Pete, he pointed at the gravel and began to cry even harder. “Blood!” he said.
Alex looked at the crimson drops that splattered the side of the road. Benjie was right.
Mr. Kendrill put his index finger on one of the drops, then wiped his finger on his handkerchief.
“It’s fresh,” he said.
Mrs. Kendrill put her arms around the sobbing Benjie.
“Petey’s dead!” Benjie wailed.
“Maybe not,” Alex said. “If the shot had killed him, he would be lying here. Maybe Pete only got wounded, and he ran away and hid.”
“Maybe meanie Hogman took Petey with him,” Benjie said.
“I doubt it,” Mr. Kendrill said. “If Pete was bleeding, it would make a mess in the truck. Why would the man do that?”
“He might take Pete so we couldn’t find him,” Alex said.
“When he left this spot, he didn’t know we were following him,” Mrs. Kendrill said. “He would have thought nobody heard the gunshot.”
“He’s hiding the evidence,” Benjie said. “He’s going to bury Pete.”
“Anyone who would kill a family pet wouldn’t bother to bury the body,” Mr. Kendrill said.
“The man had blood on his face when he went past us,” Alex said.
Benjie quit bawling. “He did?”
“Yes. There were big streaks of blood on his cheeks.”
“Maybe Hogman didn’t shoot Pete,” Benjie said. “Maybe Pete shot Hogman!”
Alex thought it highly unlikely that Pete could have done that, but he kept quiet. Let Benjie cling to his hope.
“Let’s search this area,” Mr. Kendrill said, “but if we don’t find Pete quickly, I think we should go back home and call the police.”
“Pete!” Alex called over and over. “Here, Pete!”
After seeing the blood on the side of the road, Alex felt even more desperate to find Pete. He imagined what had happened, clearly seeing the man aiming at Pete, shooting, hitting the cat but not killing him. He envisioned Pete, dripping blood but able to run away before the man could get off a second shot.
He pictured Pete, bleeding and weak, hiding alone in the woods, too scared and feeble to move. I have to find him, Alex thought. I have to!
Starting where the blood was, Alex walked in an ever larger circle, thinking he might see another drop of blood that would be a clue to which direction Pete had gone. He saw only the gravel road and then the prickly leaves of Oregon grapes and the graceful stems of sword ferns leading into the cedar, fir, and alder trees.
Darkness comes early in the deep woods, as the sun vanishes behind the tall trees. While the Kendrills searched through the thick undergrowth, dusk settled over the forest. The woods that seemed peaceful with sunlight filtering through the open spaces between trees now took on a menacing look.
Alex shivered. He wouldn’t want to spend the night alone out here. He didn’t want Pete spending the night out here, either. There were probably coyotes and cougars, and huge owls with sharp claws and night-vision eyes. If Pete was already injured, he wouldn’t be able to run fast or put up a fight, and a predator might smell blood, and track him down.
Alex called Pete’s name over and over, but there was no answering “meow”—no sign of the big brown-and-white cat.
“It’s getting dark,” Mrs. Kendrill said.
“We need to go home,” Mr. Kendrill said, “and call the police. Now that we have a license number, they can see who owns that truck. They can question him, and maybe find out what he did with Pete.”
Alex didn’t want to leave. What if Pete was hiding somewhere, alone in the dark forest? But Alex did want to let the police know what happened.
“I’ll be glad when cellular phone service comes out this far,” Mrs. Kendrill said. “If we had a cell phone, we could have called the police as soon as we saw the truck pass us.”
“After we contact the police,” Alex said, “can we come back up here? We could bring flashlights and keep looking.”
“Let’s see what the police say before we decide that,” Mr. Kendrill said.
Alex got in the car. Benjie huddled beside him, sniffling.
“Will you be able to find this spot again?” Mrs. Kendrill asked, “or do we need to mark it somehow?”
“It’s the third wide space after the gravel starts,” Mr. Kendrill said. “I’ll find it.”
Alex closed his eyes as the car turned around and headed downhill. I’ll be back, Pete, he promised silently. I’ll be back, and I’ll keep looking until I find you.
11
A split second after the shot rang out, Hogman dropped Pete. Pete landed on his paws and took off toward the trees. In his panic, Pete forgot his plan to zigzag; instead he galloped straight for the woods, expecting another shot at any second. Pete’s ears echoed from the gunshot, and his front legs and stomach ached where the man had held him too tight, but fear gave him strength and speed.
Even after he reached the trees, Pete kept running. Afraid that the man would chase him and take aim, Pete pushed through the forest, ignoring the prickly bushes and vines that snagged his fur, and paying no attention to which way he was going. He climbed over fallen trees, squeezed between crowded seedlings, and scrambled through a patch of thistles.
He jumped over an anthill, barely avoided a clump of poison oak, and badly scratched one ear when he misjudged how close he was to a blackberry thicket. He didn’t care where he was or how far he went. All he wanted was to put as much distance as possible between himself and the man with the gun.
When he had run until he felt on the verge of collapse, Pete chose the highest tree he could see and climbed up the trunk. His claws dug into the rough bark as he went higher and higher, shoving his head and shoulders through the leaves.
At last, too tired to climb one more inch, he crawled out on a horizontal limb and stopped. His sides heaved
from exertion, but except for that he lay completely still, listening, afraid he would hear Hogman’s heavy boots pursuing him. He heard only the soft cooing of a mourning dove high in the treetop above him.
After a few minutes with no indication that the man was nearby, Pete peered down. The ground was a long way below his branch. He hadn’t realized he had climbed this high. He was much higher than when he sneaked out Alex’s bedroom window and went down the maple tree.
Looking down, Pete felt dizzy. He dug his claws into the branch and stared straight ahead. He’d never be able to climb down again by himself. He would have to stay in the tree and hope Alex found him.
Pete was exhausted, but he didn’t dare close his eyes. He couldn’t take a chance on going to sleep, because if he fell asleep, he might drop off the branch. He had survived the furious Hogman with a gun; now he needed to keep his wits about him until he got rescued.
He wondered why Hogman had not come after him. He hadn’t even fired at Pete as Pete ran toward the woods, though there would have been a few seconds when Pete was still visible.
Maybe he couldn’t chase me, Pete thought. Maybe when the gun went off, the bullet hit him by mistake. That idea made Pete blink his blue eyes in surprise. He had felt his foot hit something hard, like metal, a split second before the loud noise. Had it been the trigger? Had he shot the man who was trying to shoot him?
Pete thought it over and decided that must be what had happened. If so, he hoped the man wasn’t badly hurt. No matter how much he disliked Hogman, he didn’t want to kill the man.
Pete would not have intentionally shot anyone. He had never even seen an actual gun before, although he’d seen them on television. Cats and other animals didn’t have weapons. Only humans used such barbaric devices.
If I shot him, it was self-defense, Pete thought. I didn’t shoot him on purpose. I was struggling to get away when my foot accidentally hit the trigger.
• • •
As Pete bolted away from the noise of the gunshot, Bick doubled over in pain, pressing his hand to his thigh. When he took his hand away, he saw blood on his fingers. A red spot oozed on the side of his pants leg and dripped onto the road.
Bick couldn’t believe it. The cat had shot him! While he was trying to point the gun at the cat’s head, the cat’s foot had pressed down on the trigger, the gun had gone off, and the bullet had grazed Bick in the leg.
Furious, he kicked at the gravel, then groaned when the swift motion sent a sharp stab of pain up to his hip. Gingerly, he felt the wound again; he supposed he would need stitches. Maybe even surgery. He’d have to drive himself to the hospital emergency room and get help.
Bick hated doctors! He punched his fist down on the hood of the truck. There would be endless paperwork, and it would probably cost him an arm and a leg, but he couldn’t leave a gunshot wound untreated and risk infection.
He wasn’t going to admit that a cat had pulled the trigger, though. He’d tell the doctor that the gun had gone off accidentally as he was putting it in his holster. He’d say the wound was self-inflicted. The doc might laugh at him for that, but not as hard as he’d laugh if Bick admitted he’d been shot by a cat. He wouldn’t tell anyone, not even his brother, what had really happened. If he did, he’d never hear the end of it.
Bick threw the handgun on the floor of the truck and got behind the wheel. He wished he had an automatic transmission; that leg was going to kill him every time he let the clutch in or out. Bick gritted his teeth, pushed in on the clutch, and started the engine, cursing the cat as he did.
Bick shifted into gear and steered with one hand, keeping his left hand pressed against the bloodstain on his thigh, to try to stanch the bleeding. The leg throbbed now, and Bick pushed harder on the gas pedal, crossing the center line as he went around the first curve.
A horn blasted. Bick tensed and swerved back to the right. There was never any traffic up here, and the sudden noise startled him. The horn honked again as Bick sped past, and he heard someone yell, “Stop!”
Was it that same kid, the one who had stolen his pig? The one with the cat? Bick couldn’t tell and he sure as heck wasn’t going to stop to find out. What would that kid be doing up here, anyway? He couldn’t be looking for his cat because nobody had seen Bick drive off with it.
He winced as the pain shot up his leg again. He wished now that he’d shoved the cat out of the truck and left him next to the pigpen instead of driving away with him. But how was he to know that the cat was capable of causing so much trouble?
Bick removed his hand from his thigh and gingerly touched his face. He could tell that the places where the cat had scratched him were beginning to scab over, but both cheeks still stung and he’d probably have scars.
Muttering under his breath about what he would do to that cat if he ever saw him again, Bick drove past Hilltop, past Valley View Estates, and down the hill toward the outskirts of Seattle. He followed the blue hospital signs until he reached the closest hospital. Leaving his truck across the street, Bick limped in the emergency entrance.
“I need to see a doctor,” he told the admitting clerk. “I accidentally shot myself in the leg.”
“How bad is it?” the clerk asked. “Do you need help right away?”
“I ain’t waiting till tomorrow, if that’s what you mean,” Bick said.
“How did you get here?”
“I drove.”
The clerk nodded. “If you drove unassisted, it’s not a critical emergency,” she said. “Please sit here and fill out these forms.” She handed Bick a clipboard that had several pieces of paper attached.
“No need for a lot of paperwork,” Bick said. “I don’t have insurance.”
“I need the information anyway.”
Bick hesitated. For a minute he considered walking out the door and going home, but his leg hurt too much and he was worried about blood poisoning or even gangrene. He sat down and began filling in the blanks, making things up as he went.
Name: Brock Thorsen. Social security number: don’t have it with me. Bick used his brother’s address and phone number, changing one digit of each. For employer, he wrote “self-employed farmer.” He continued down the page, inventing whatever information he needed. By the time the hospital figured out that he’d made it all up, his leg would be patched up and he’d be out of there.
When he got to the line that asked why he needed treatment, he put “gunshot wound in leg.” Under explanation he added “My gun went off accidentally.” Then he handed the papers back to the clerk.
In a few minutes a nurse called, “Brock Thorsen,” and Bick followed her into an examining room. Her name badge said Rosemary. Handing him a hospital gown, she said, “Ties go in the back. Pull the curtain open when you’ve changed.” She pulled the curtain closed and walked away.
Bick dropped his blood stained pants and looked at the hole in his thigh. It still hurt like crazy, but it didn’t look as deep as he had feared. The bleeding had slowed to an ooze. Maybe he wouldn’t need surgery, after all. A few stitches and he’d be good as new.
He slipped his arms into the hospital gown and tied the strings behind his neck. It was a good thing he’d left his underpants on; this skimpy gown wouldn’t cover a small boy, much less a grown man.
Bick pulled the curtain open and sat on the bed with his legs dangling over the side.
“Those are some wicked-looking scratches,” Nurse Rosemary said when she returned. She reached for Bick’s face as if she were going to touch them. “What happened?”
“Oh, those are from the blackberry bushes,” Bick said as he leaned away from her. “I was pruning them. I ain’t here for the scratches; I’m here because I got shot in the leg.” What good was it, Bick thought, to write down exactly what had happened and what treatment you needed if they weren’t gong to read what you wrote?
The nurse bent over, and peered at Bick’s thigh. “Who shot you?” she asked.
“I did. It was an accident. I was putting my gun a
way and I thought it was empty.”
Rosemary nodded. “Put your feet up on the bed,” she said. “It will help slow the bleeding.”
As he did that, she lifted Bick’s wrist and looked at the bite marks on his arm. “What happened here?” she asked.
“What?”
“Looks like you got bit.”
“Oh, that. You don’t have to do anything about that. All I want is for you to take care of my leg where I got shot.”
“Right,” the nurse said. She let go of Bick’s arm, but she looked again at his face. “They must have been huge blackberry bushes,” she said.
He was getting seriously annoyed with this woman. Why was she fussing about a few scratches on his face and arm when he had taken a bullet in his leg? A person could bleed to death in this place while the nurse yammered on about blackberry bushes.
“Forget the scratches,” Bick said. “I just want my leg fixed.”
“The doctor will be here in a couple of minutes,” Rosemary said.
She left, pulling the curtain closed behind her. For most patients, Rosemary would write her assessment of the patient’s condition on the chart and leave it for the doctor while she went on to the next patient. But something about this case bothered her. Those scratches on the man’s face were too deep to be caused by a wayward blackberry bush. There were several of them on both cheeks, and more on his arms, as if someone with long fingernails had been fighting for her life.
The bite marks were deep, too. They weren’t made by human teeth, but it’s possible that a person’s small dog had tried to defend her from attack. It seemed likely to Rosemary that this man had tangled with a person, not a blackberry bush. Maybe he was lying about the gunshot, as well. Perhaps it had not been accidental.
Still, if someone had shot him, why would he try to protect that person’s identity? Unless he had been the shooter and had somehow injured himself along with the other person. Clearly, he had struggled with someone.
Rosemary explained her concerns to the doctor on duty and then, following hospital protocol for any suspected crime, she called the police.