Only the sound of the rifle shot mattered.
The sound, and the reason.
Branches tore at my clothing, raked my face, caught the gun barrel. I fought the underbrush. I didn’t know what direction they’d taken through the trees—so I continued directly east. It was my only hope, to keep to the same line Keller had first taken. Ahead, through the trees, I saw another wide, grassy clearing. Within minutes the dew would begin to dry on the grass. The prints would disappear.
Would I still find two sets of footprints ahead?
Or only one set, after the shot?
Without hesitation, I entered the second clearing. Still on the same line, going steadily east across the clearing, I saw footprints.
Two sets of footprints.
Still two.
I forced myself to slow from a ragged run to a fast walk. For whatever lay ahead, I mustn’t be exhausted. Walking now, I was halfway across the clearing when I saw a length of leather lying on the grass. It was Darrell’s belt. Darrell had left the belt to mark the trail.
Darrell?
Or Keller?
Had the shot been meant to attract my attention? Had Keller left the belt for the same reason—to keep me on their trail?
It would have been impossible for Darrell to take the belt off secretly and drop it without Keller’s knowledge.
Keller, then, had marked their trail.
For what purpose?
At the far edge of the second clearing I drew up. The trees before me were thicker: scrub oak and low-growing pine, almost impenetrable. Had they continued straight east, or turned in another direction? How could I know? What was Keller’s plan—his real plan? Was his purpose harassment? Or murder?
From ahead, through the trees, I heard a faint voice.
I began flailing at branches and brambles with the shotgun barrel, fighting my way toward the sound. Caution meant nothing. If Keller wanted me, he could have me. If Darrell was the bait, I’d be the prey. The ground was littered with fallen trees; thick-growing branches slashed at my face and arms. As I thrashed my way through, I relived moments from long-forgotten football games, fighting for inches up the center, through savagely churning arms and legs and helmets hard as steel. Fearful that I’d fall and the gun would discharge, I stopped beside a fallen tree trunk to set the safety. Ahead, through a break in the trees, I saw another grassy clearing. I climbed over the fallen tree, struggled another fifty feet through branches and brambles and finally came to the edge of the clearing. I stopped again, this time to listen.
For long moments, with my heart hammering and blood roaring in my ears, I could hear nothing.
Then, once again, I heard a voice—louder, closer.
It was Darrell’s voice. He was sobbing.
When I stepped into the clearing, I saw him. He was lying in tall grass about a hundred yards from where I stood, in the center of the clearing. I could just see his head above the grass.
“Darrell!”
His head jerked as he twisted toward me, supporting himself on his elbows.
“Dad!” The cry was both joyful and tearful—hopeful and fearful. “Dad. A snake. I got bit. On my leg.”
Swearing, I plunged forward. As I ran, I tried to remember Ann’s words: Keep calm. Keep quiet.
I’d been amused, listening to her.
“Dad. Be careful. He’s here—over there. Keller. He—”
A rifle cracked—once, twice.
Instantly, I fell to the ground. My head was turned to face the sound of firing. The shot had come from the right. He was somewhere among the trees. Cautiously, I brought up the shotgun, ready to fire. If he was within shotgun range, it was my advantage. Then I saw it: a rifle barrel reflecting the light. He was behind a large fallen log at the far end of the clearing. The distance was more than a hundred yards: routine range for a rifle, impossible for a shotgun.
Another sharp, vicious crack. Grass ripped close beside me. He was shooting to kill. He’d left Darrell lying in the open, the bait. And he was trying to kill me.
The grass surrounding me was almost a foot high. With my cheek pressed flat to the ground, heels down, I was probably invisible to him. But he knew my position. Two or three more shots, placed in a pattern, and he would hit me. I couldn’t escape by crawling. If I stayed motionless, the grass might conceal me. But not if I moved.
I drew up my legs, digging in with my toes. I gripped the shotgun hard, with the stock braced on the ground. Then, levering myself to my feet, I was running straight for Darrell. I heard one shot, then another. Altogether, he’d fired five shots. He might have to reload. Above the grass, eyes wide with terror, Darrell watched me close the distance between us. But I couldn’t stop—couldn’t help him.
“Stay there,” I panted. “Put your head down. Stay put. I’m going after him. It’s all I can do.”
My feet thudded into the ground a bare foot from Darrell. I saw him roll on his back, to follow me with his eyes. His face was wet with tears.
“Stay down, Darrell. Keep your head down. I love you.”
As I called hoarsely to him, I heard another shot. Dirt spurted a foot in front of me; the bullet screamed away, ricocheting. Trees were just ahead—trees, and safety. Moments later I crashed through underbrush and fell to the ground beside a huge pine tree. For a moment I lay motionless, unable to move. Then I struggled to my knees, crouching behind the pine’s trunk, facing Keller. My throat was burning, my chest heaved convulsively. My breath came in short, strangled sobs. I knew I must remain motionless until I could breathe normally. I must be quiet. I must stay hidden.
I must live.
Kill Keller, and live.
Propped on the shotgun, I knelt with my head hopelessly hanging, fighting for breath. Now I turned my head to the right, and saw the spot where I knew Darrell was lying.
If Keller had wanted to, he could have killed Darrell. He could still kill Darrell.
The thought made it impossible for me to remain motionless. I came unsteadily to my feet, then moved to my left, away from the clearing. For me—for Darrell—there was only one chance. I must somehow get Keller within shotgun range, while I avoided his rifle. So I must stay in the woods. Loaded with buckshot, the shotgun had a maximum effective range of seventy-five yards—and a lethal range of only fifty yards. Keller’s rifle could kill at two or three hundred yards.
But, at fifty yards, a buckshot pattern was three feet in diameter. Keller’s shot pattern was less than a half-inch. In open country, the advantage was his. Among the trees, the advantage might be mine.
Slowly, steadily, I advanced through scattered trees and light underbrush. Now, suddenly, my breathing was normal. I blinked, clearing my eyes of exhaustion’s tears. It seemed like a miracle.
Like salvation.
I began angling to my right, toward the edge of the clearing. I must keep Keller’s log in sight—and hope he hadn’t moved. Then I must move toward him, with trees always between us. If he was still behind the log, and saw me, he would fire. If I presented an uncertain target, he would miss. When the range was less than fifty yards, I could return the fire—and kill him.
Because killing, ultimately, was my business. I carried a badge, for proof.
Now the range was more than a hundred yards.
But, step by step, walking among the trees, I was closing the distance between us. Now I must provoke him—tempt him to fire, so I could verify his position. I moved to my right, walking on the edge of the clearing. When I saw him raise his rifle, I’d drop to the ground and roll to my left, behind a tree or bush.
Eighty yards.
Seventy.
Behind the fallen log, nothing stirred. Had he left the log—taken up a new position when I dove into the woods? It would have been sound strategy.
Sixty yards.
When he showed himself I would drop to the ground, aim, fire. Quickly, I glanced over my shoulder, toward the place where I knew Darrell lay. I could see the top of his head above the grass, nothing mo
re.
Keep calm. Keep quiet.
But Darrell’s heart was hammering—just as mine was hammering. Blood was pulsing fast through his body, carrying the venom into his heart, his brain.
Fifty yards.
Now the advantage was mine.
With my gaze fixed again on Keller’s log, I moved to my left, into the trees. I would begin a circle, to come into position behind him. I would—
“Dad!”
I threw myself to the ground as bark flew from an oak tree above me. I was rolling in leaves and dirt as two more shots cracked.
“He’s across the clearing. Where we came from.”
Crouched behind the oak tree, I brushed dirt from my face, my eyes. I looked across the clearing. Light glinted on a rifle barrel close beside a large pine.
Range, a hundred yards. More, maybe.
He’d fired three shots.
Two shots were left. Or three. No more—unless I gave him a chance to re-load.
I was leaping from behind the oak tree. I was running across the clearing, zigzagging as I ran. I did it out of instinct—out of wild, blind hate. And I did it because of Darrell—because he must have help.
Seventy-five yards.
I heard one shot. Two. I was still running, unhurt.
Fifty yards—or less. Beside the pine tree, I saw Keller fall to his knees. His rifle rested with the barrel across his thigh, the stock on the ground. The breech was open. He was slipping one cartridge into the magazine. Two cartridges.
Twenty yards.
With a smooth, precise movement of his hand, Keller was closing the bolt.
Ten yards.
I stopped, steadied myself, raised the shotgun to my shoulder. Over the big double barrels, I saw Keller’s rifle come up. The small gold bead between the shotgun’s barrels steadied on Keller’s chest. His rifle was almost on line. The shotgun roared; the barrels kicked up, momentarily obscuring the target. Then the barrels came down.
At ten yards, the buckshot pattern was about a foot across: a circle of bright red blood and blasted cloth and shredded skin centered on Keller’s chest.
I didn’t wait to see him fall.
Twenty
DARRELL WAS ON HIS knees when I got to him. His face was white. He was staring past me, toward the spot where Keller had fallen. Darrell’s eyes were fixed. Against the pallor of his skin, his lips were a vivid red.
I knelt beside him, taking his head in my hands. “Don’t look, Darrell. Please don’t look.”
His body was rigid; his neck was corded. His head resisted the gentle pressure of my hands as I tried to turn him toward me. I moved awkwardly on my knees, to put myself between Darrell and Keller’s body.
“Darrell. Please.”
His vivid lips slowly parted. “Is he—dead?”
“He was trying to kill me.”
Wonderingly, his eyes sought mine. His skin was pale as death. Perspiration covered his face. It was a sure sign of shock. His voice was a low, halting monotone: “He wouldn’t let me move from here. He said he’d shoot me if I moved. He said I had to stay here until you came. And the snake was here, too. After it bit me, the snake stayed here. I could hear it rattling.”
“Darrell”—I dropped my hands to his shoulders—“Darrell, I want you to lie down. I want you to lie down flat on your back.”
It was as if his limbs were locked with rigor mortis. He was staring at me like someone silently seeking the answer to some terrible question.
Was it the shock of seeing Keller die?
Or was it the venom, killing him?
“Darrell, I want you to lie down.” I began to push on his shoulders. For another long, limb-stiffened moment he resisted me. Then I felt his shoulders trembling. His mouth began to quiver. He was blinking rapidly, fighting sudden tears.
“Dad. I—I’m scared.”
I hugged him close to me as his body went limp in my arms. “Lie down now. Just lie down.” Over and over, helplessly, I was repeating the same words in a low, choked voice. It was a lost, desperate lullaby. I supported him as a mother supports her baby, with one of my hands gently cradling his head. He let me lay him full length on the grass. His eyes were streaming—and so were mine.
“Where’s the bite?” I asked.
“On my ankle,” he said. “My right ankle.” He spoke thickly, as if he were falling asleep. His eyes were half closed. I lifted his right pantleg. Just above the bulge of the ankle bone I saw two angry red dots, a little less than an inch apart. The ankle was inflamed, beginning to swell.
I’d dropped the shotgun on the ground beside me. As I picked up the gun and broke the breech I said, “I’ve got five or six extra shells. I’m going to shoot them off, as a signal. If that doesn’t work, then I’m going to have to leave you here, while I go for help.”
“No.” Weakly, he shook his head.
“I can’t carry you, Darrell. You’re too heavy, and we’re too far from the road. And you can’t walk. You’ve got to stay quiet. That’s the most important thing of all—to stay quiet.”
He didn’t answer. I’d just slid two live shells into the breech and was snapping the gun shut when I heard the sound of an engine. A moment later a red jeep appeared at the furthest end of the clearing. The driver was Virgil Cassiday.
I broke the shotgun, ejected the two live shells and stood with the stock of the empty shotgun resting on the ground. I wondered what Cassiday would think, seeing me crying.
“I bet I’ve seen a dozen people snake-bit,” Cassiday said. “Maybe two dozen. I’m fifty-four years old, and I’ve lived in Long Valley all my life. But I never seen anyone die from snakebite. I saw them pretty sick, and there was one little girl, a few years back, that lost her leg up to the knee. But that was because she ran when she got bit. You can’t do that, you know. You can’t run, when you get bit.”
We were in a small, stark waiting room. There were only two doors, one marked EXIT, the other marked EMERGENCY. We’d been sitting side by side on an uncomfortable green plastic sofa for more than an hour. During most of the time, Cassiday had been talking: a droning, drawling monologue concerned with ranching, snakes, hunters, tourists, guns and the killing of men and animals. He sat with his booted legs thrust straight out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. His brown Stetson was tilted aggressively over his eyes. His strong forearms were folded across his chest. Two crossed American flags were tattooed on either forearm.
“The reason I come looking for you,” he said, “was that when I heard all that shooting on a Monday morning, I knew damn well something smelled rotten. But you were lucky I happened to be down by the river, just the same. I was checking on my goddam pump, that’s been giving me nothing but trouble lately. Because if I hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t’ve come, probably.”
I mumbled that I was glad he’d come—that I could never repay him.
“Hell, that’s what it’s all about,” Cassiday answered. “Helping folks, I mean. Up here, we got to look out for the other guy. There’s no such a thing as radio-dispatched police cars cruising around up here, you know. Speaking of which, Rawlings called to say they found your gun. Your snubnose. Did I tell you?”
“No, you didn’t tell me. Thanks. Thanks very much. I would hate to’ve lost it.”
As Cassiday continued to talk, this time about his CB radio network, I let my eyes close. I wondered how the little girl was getting through life, with only one leg. Had her friends avoided her—taunted her, even? Would she marry, have children? Did she have an artificial leg?
“… a criminal?” Cassiday was asking, half turning to me as he spoke.
“What?”
“Was he a criminal, that Keller fella?”
Slowly, I shook my head. “Not really. He was crazy. But he wasn’t a criminal.”
“How about that girl? The one that got all beat up? You going to prefer charges?”
A half-hour ago, they’d taken Cara into the emergency room. From her gurney, she’d smiled at me. Like Da
rrell, she’d been pale and weak, badly frightened.
“No,” I answered, “I’m not going to prefer charges.”
The door marked EMERGENCY opened. A young man with a large red mustache and bushy red sideburns stood in the doorway. His eyebrows, too, were red and bushy. He wore a pale green jacket and white trousers. A stethoscope hung around his neck. As he stared at me, his expression was grave.
“Mr. Hastings?”
I discovered that I was having difficulty getting to my feet. Suddenly I remembered the moment, fifteen years ago, when a white-haired doctor with lively blue eyes had shaken my hand, clapped me heartily on the shoulder and said, “It’s a boy.”
Finally I stood erect, facing this young man with so much red hair growing on his face.
“Yes.”
“Come with me, will you?” He held the door for me, then preceded me down a wide white corridor. We passed a rack of oxygen tanks and a blood-spattered gurney. At a door marked “Ward A” the young doctor finally turned to face me squarely. His expression was still grave.
“He’s in there, Mr. Hastings.” A pause. Then: “There’s no problem. He should stay overnight, for observation. But I’m sure he’ll be able to go home tomorrow.”
For a moment I couldn’t answer. My knees were trembling. Now I began to shiver, as if I were very cold. My entire body was helplessly quivering. I reached out to brace myself against the wall.
“Are you married, Doctor?”
Surprised, he shook his head. “No, I’m not.”
“I didn’t think so. Because, if you were married, and if you had a child, you wouldn’t have put me through the last thirty or forty seconds, wondering whether my son was alive or dead—and how many legs he had.”
I brushed past him, pushed open the door and found Darrell propped up in bed. White curtains surrounded his bed on three sides. I pulled the fourth curtain closed before I turned to face him. I realized that I couldn’t speak.
The Watcher (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 15