by Dinah McCall
“Do you know where Puppy’s food is?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, and bolted out the back door.
“He doesn’t have his coat,” Molly said.
“It won’t take but a few seconds to scoop some dry food into Puppy’s bowl. He should be all right.”
Molly nodded and went back to peeling, while Deborah started taking off her coat and boots. She was in the act of kicking off the first boot when they heard the dog begin barking in a state of frenzy.
“What on earth?” Molly said, and started toward the back door, but it was Deborah who was already running.
The moment she’d heard the dog, she’d had the vision. Even as she was running, she feared she would be too late.
“Get the gun! Get the gun!” she screamed at Molly as the kitchen door banged against the wall.
Molly froze, then turned and ran out of the kitchen, heading for Deborah’s bedroom and the closet where the rifle was kept.
She didn’t know why she was running. Maybe it was another cougar, maybe not, but she knew panic, and it had been thick in Deborah’s voice.
Mike turned from the woodpile as Deborah’s dog came flying through the screen door, hitting it so hard that it flew back against the outer wall. The fur on Puppy’s back was standing up like the mane of a lion as she bounced out through the snow. Before Mike could react, Johnny came out the door, right behind the dog, calling for her to come back. He was minus a coat and spilling a scoop of dry dog food as he ran.
“Johnny! Hey, Johnny!” he called, but Puppy was barking so fiercely the boy didn’t hear.
Then he saw Deborah come racing out behind them. The expression on her face made his blood run cold. She leaped off the stoop and landed in the snow in an all-out run. When he heard her screaming Johnny’s name, he began to run after them, all the while searching the area for a reason to fear.
Darren Wilson had been waiting in the woods since before sunup. He’d seen a woman go to the barn with a bucket, watched as one of the men came out to get wood, and had been thinking about waiting until they all went to sleep, then torching the house.
Noon had come and gone, and he thought about the food they were eating, and the warmth and comfort they surely must be enjoying. His misery grew.
It was midafternoon when the back door suddenly opened, and to his surprise, a dog bolted out, with the kid right behind it. It wasn’t until the dog began running toward him, barking in a frenzy, that he realized he’d made an error. He hadn’t seen a dog on the premises and just assumed there wasn’t one. But the moment it had come out of the house, he realized that he’d been standing upwind, which meant there was every possibility the dog had caught his scent.
He stepped back into the trees, hoping he’d been wrong, but when the dog continued running in his direction, he knew he’d been made. His mind went into overdrive as he shouldered the rifle and took aim. He could get the dog and the kid with two easy shots and throw everybody in the house into a panic. If he was lucky, the others would run out, and then he could pick off the second witness and be gone before they knew what had hit them.
Even though the dog’s barking was making him nervous, he stood his ground. The dog was getting closer, and closer, but so was the kid. His entire focus was on what he could see through the telescopic sight.
First the dog, he thought, and pulled the trigger as it came into view. The shot sounded loud against his ears, but he grinned when he heard the dog yelp. Seconds later it went down. He was waiting for the boy to come into his line of fire when he realized a third person had entered the scene and was screaming for the kid to get down. With only moments to make a decision, he shifted the rifle slightly, centered the crosshairs on the middle of the kid’s chest and fired, just as the little boy turned.
When the first shot rang out, Mike thought he would die from the fear. He saw Puppy drop and Johnny pause, and he knew that would make Johnny a perfect target. Deborah was still running and screaming when he saw Johnny turn around and start toward her. The fear on the child’s face made his veins run with pure horror. Even as Mike ran, he knew he would be too late.
Deborah’s throat felt constricted, as if her cries of warning could not be heard. Her legs felt weighted so that, despite how hard she tried, she wasn’t gaining ground. She saw Puppy drop at the same time she heard the shot, and she tried not to focus on the blood that splattered all over the snow.
It was the boy who was in danger. She’d seen it the moment Puppy had begun to bark. She didn’t know that the pain in her shoulder had been a foreshadowing of what was about to happen to herself until it was too late.
Within a second of her dog going down, she launched herself toward Johnny. There was a brief sensation of flying as she leaped, then she caught the boy on the run. He went down less than a millisecond before the bullet slammed into her body. She had a vague memory of a sharp, burning pain, then nothing.
She didn’t hear Mike’s cry of dismay, or see Molly come running out of the house and toss Mike the rifle as he ran past.
Evan had come out of the kitchen just as the dog had gone down. At that point, his entire focus centered on his child. He could see what Deborah was trying to do, but when the second shot rang out, he didn’t know who’d been hit. All he saw was both of them falling, then neither of them moving.
“No! No!” he screamed, and came off the porch on the run.
He passed Molly, who’d fallen to her knees in the snow and was struggling to get up, and then he passed Mike, who’d already spotted the shooter in the trees. He wouldn’t look at Puppy as he dropped to his knees beside his son.
“Get them into the house!” Mike screamed as he ran past Evan.
There was blood spreading across the front of Deborah’s coat as Evan turned her over. Mike saw blood on Johnny, too, as Evan picked him up. It was all Mike could do to keep running, but run he must. The killer wasn’t supposed to be here, but he was, and he couldn’t let him get away.
Behind him, Evan thrust Johnny into Molly’s arms and screamed at her to run. Then, with one last look toward the trees to make sure the shooter was gone, he scooped Deborah up in his arms and headed to the house, right behind Molly and his son.
Darren Wilson was in a panic. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen. What the hell kind of people didn’t tend to their wounded? He hadn’t expected anyone to give chase—or to be armed.
And, to make matters worse, no sooner had he turned to run than he fell flat on his face, discharging the rifle again, which left him with only one shot.
He was still sore and weak from the accident, and from lack of rest and food, but he couldn’t afford to give in to the pain. If he was going to get out of this mess in one piece, he had to get away.
Panic, coupled with unadulterated fury at the situation he’d gotten himself into, lent speed to his flight. But it wasn’t long before he realized his injuries were going to slow him down. Danger was in front of him. Danger was coming up fast behind him. For the first time since he’d come to after the crash, he was wishing that he’d died along with everyone else. Then he would be free of his gambling debts, Finn would still be alive, and his own troubles would already be over.
18
Evan raced up the back steps with Deborah in his arms, trying not to think of the warm blood running down his hands and arms, or the pale, lifeless feel of her body. Molly held the screen door open, while the kitchen door stood ajar. As he ran into the kitchen, he saw his son crouching beneath the table. The fear on his face was heartbreaking, but at the moment, there wasn’t anything he could do.
Molly came in right behind him.
“How bad is she?” she cried.
“I don’t know,” Evan muttered. “Johnny! Are you hurt?”
Johnny shook his head, then hid his face against his knees.
“Damn it all to hell,” Evan muttered, then laid Deborah down on the kitchen floor and began tearing at her clothes, needing to assess her wounds.
> The bullet had gone in, but he couldn’t find an exit wound, and she was losing too much blood.
“Compresses! I need compresses!” he yelled.
Molly began grabbing dish towels from a drawer and tossing them to Evan by the handful.
Suddenly Johnny was at Evan’s side. “Is she dead like Gran and Granddad Pollard?”
“No. She’s not dead, and she’s not going to be,” Evan muttered, then looked up at Molly. “See if the phone still works.”
Molly grabbed the portable phone and tested for a dial tone. It was there, the sweetest sound she’d ever heard.
“It works! It works!” she cried.
“Call the operator. We need the sheriff, and we need an ambulance, and if the roads are impassable, we need to airlift her out of here.”
Molly’s hands were shaking as she made the call. Within moments, an operator had connected her with the sheriff’s office in Carlisle. The moment she heard the dispatcher’s voice, she started talking.
“There’s been a shooting at Deborah Sanborn’s home. We need an ambulance immediately.”
“Oh, Lord,” Frances said. “Who’s been shot?”
“Deborah, and she’s losing a lot of blood.”
Evan looked up. “Tell them we need the law, as well.”
Molly nodded quickly. “Darren Wilson is on the run down the mountain, and Mike O’Ryan is chasing after him. We need the sheriff, too.”
“Oh Lord, oh Lord,” Frances repeated. “Don’t hang up. I’m going to put out the call, but don’t hang up.” Frances spun her chair from the phone to the dispatch radio. “Sheriff Hacker! Come in! Come in!”
Wally Hacker was coming out of the bathroom of Sonny’s Stop and Go when he heard the panic in his dispatcher’s voice. He ran toward the car as fast as he could.
“This is Hacker…come back.”
“Wally…Darren Wilson shot Deborah Sanborn at her home. Mike O’Ryan is chasing him. They’re requesting assistance. I’m going to call Mediflight. They say she’s losing blood fast.”
“Get Mediflight on the way, then contact all my deputies and send them up after me. I’m already on my way.”
“Ten-four, Sheriff. Over and out.”
Frances quickly dispatched Mediflight, giving them all the information she had, then turned back to Molly, who’d heard it all.
“Medical assistance is on the way. Mediflight will be landing in the clearing behind her house. The sheriff and his deputies are on their way, as well.”
“Thank you,” Molly said, then disconnected.
Evan grabbed another handful of dish towels and pressed them against Deborah’s wound.
“Deborah! Deborah! It’s Evan…can you hear me?”
There was no answer, no movement, and precious little in the way of breathing, to indicate that Deborah Sanborn was still with them.
“Damn it,” Evan muttered, and pressed harder on the wound, desperate to stop the blood flow.
Johnny had crawled back under the table, lain down on his side and curled up into a ball. His gaze was fixed, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears, as he stared at the pool of blood in which Deborah was lying.
Evan didn’t dare take time to go to his son, to hold him and assure him that he was safe. Hell, he didn’t even know if that was true. He had no idea what was happening to his dad. He needed help, and the moment he thought it, he knew who to call.
“Molly, get the phone again,” he said.
She grabbed the portable, then squatted down beside him.
“Dial this number,” he said, watching as she punched in the sequence he’d given her. “When they answer, put the phone to my ear.”
She nodded in understanding, listening intently as she waited for someone to answer.
James was just walking into the motel room when the phone began to ring. Thorn was stretched out on the bed asleep, and James ran to answer as Thorn was waking up.
“Hello,” he said.
“Granddad, it’s me, Evan. We’ve got big trouble. Darren Wilson shot Deborah. She’s bleeding badly. We’re waiting for her to be airlifted out. Dad is somewhere on the mountain, running down Wilson with Deborah’s old.22 rifle. I don’t know what’s happening, or if they’re all right. We contacted the sheriff, and he and his deputies are on their way to help Dad, but I need help. Johnny is a mess, and Molly’s not strong enough physically to deal with everything.”
“God in heaven,” James muttered, and motioned quickly for his father to get up. “Don’t worry, boy. I don’t know how just yet, but you can count on us. We’ll be there, if I have to grow some damn wings and fly.”
Just hearing his grandfather’s voice gave Evan the peace of mind he needed.
“Thanks, Granddad. Do what you can—but hurry.”
The phone went dead.
James stared at the receiver, in disbelief in the wake of what he’d just heard, then replaced it on the cradle.
“Dad, get dressed. Deborah’s been shot, and Mike’s on the mountain going after Wilson. And I think Johnny’s witnessed one trauma too many. We’ve got to find a way to get to them.”
“I think I know how,” Thorn said, and grabbed his boots.
Mike was running as fast as he could through the snow, slipping on the icy spots and grabbing at trees to keep from falling. Wilson had about a hundred-yard lead on him, although he still caught brief glimpses of the man through the trees as they ran.
He’d had one chance for a shot when they’d gone through a clearing. It wasn’t much, but it was enough, and he took the opportunity. The bullet hit a tree right beside Wilson’s head, sending bark and snow flying. Darren Wilson had thrown up his arms in a defensive gesture, then ducked into a thicker copse of trees. After that, Mike was following by tracks and sound as much as by sight.
He wanted to stop and go back, to pick Deborah up in his arms and make sure she and Johnny were all right. He’d seen the blood all over her coat, and the pale, lifeless color of her skin. But if he quit, that meant the bastard who’d shot them would get away.
He was barely aware of the cold air burning his lungs or the numbness of his feet. All he wanted was the back of that man’s head in the crosshairs of his rifle, and an end to the danger to his family.
The deep cuts and scratches that Darren endured during the crash and his subsequent falls were hampering his escape. His right ankle throbbed with every stride, and his vision was blurred. The pain in his body was so intense that it made him nauseated. Every tree he dodged, every limb that hit him in the face, every bush he had to go through, became the enemy.
At first he was far enough ahead of the man giving chase that it gave him a sense of false confidence. It wasn’t until a bullet hit a tree past which he was running, sending splinters of wood and a limb full of snow flying in every direction, that he panicked. He felt a sting on his cheek, but he couldn’t stop to check it out—not even when he felt something warm running down his face into the collar of his coat.
Damn it to hell, didn’t that man ever quit?
He dodged behind a trio of pines, then used the thicket of underbrush to keep himself out of rifle range. His heart was pounding, as was his head. Every impact of foot to ground was agonizing, but nothing compared to the danger behind him. Gut-wrenching fear lent speed to his crippled stride.
“Goddamn you!” he screamed, although there was no one to hear his cry.
He ran headlong through thickets, although he could no longer feel his left foot. It had gone numb, either from the cold or from the fact that he’d torn ligaments and muscles when he’d fallen into that ravine last night. It threw him off balance just enough that when he skidded around an outcropping of rock, he went down to his knees.
“Oh, shit,” he cried as he scrambled to his feet. But in that moment of shock, he saw salvation only yards away.
A truck was pulled up next to the woods! And off to the right, he could see a man swinging an ax, cutting wood. The closer he got, the more certain he became that the w
oodcutter was the same man who had that crazy wife and all those kids.
At that point, Darren wouldn’t look back. He wouldn’t let himself see how close O’Ryan had come. He couldn’t—not when escape was in sight.
Mike was less than fifty yards away and gaining. Wilson was struggling, and the closer Mike got, the more apparent that became. Once he’d gotten a glimpse of Wilson’s face and had been shocked by the mass of cuts and bruises.
All of a sudden Mike saw a change in the shooter’s stride. Something had changed—but what? Then he saw it.
There was an old truck…and a man cutting wood.
God, oh God, he couldn’t let Wilson escape. If that bastard got to the truck first, he wouldn’t be able to catch up with him. That left Mike with only one option.
He broke stride and stopped, sending snow flying as he braced himself, then raised his rifle to his shoulder. Within seconds, he had the shooter in his sights.
At first only one shoulder and the left side of the man’s head were within view, then the back of his head and the coat he was wearing, then a better-than-fair view of the upper half of his body
At that point Mike fired, twice and in rapid succession. He didn’t know for sure that he’d hit him until the man fell face forward across the hood of the truck, but he knew the shot was righteous when the body slid off the truck and into the snow.
I’m dying…I’m dying. Oh, God…oh, Jesus…it wasn’t supposed to end this way.
The snow was cold, but he felt colder. The sunlight was dimming, and he could hear his pursuer coming through the trees. He tried to reach for his gun, but his arms wouldn’t work. He tried to curse, but the words wouldn’t come, because breath had become a rare commodity.
He coughed. Blood spilled from his mouth onto his chin. He could feel someone grab him by the shoulders. He flopped like a rag doll onto his back. He didn’t want to look. He didn’t want to see the expression on the man’s face—but there was nothing else to see.