“I can just eat out of my garden until I get back to town, and Mr. Blake wants to trade some beef for vegetables. I may also try to shoot a feral hog. It’s been a long time since I hunted, but there’s not much choice now.”
“I guess to get by, we’re all going to have to do things that we’re not used to doing,” Harold said thoughtfully. “Do you need to use the generator for anything else while it’s here?”
“No,” Gabe said. “I don’t, but if you don’t mind, could we take it down to Jane Walker’s place and use it to run her well for an hour or two?”
Harold paused for a long moment, his face pensive. “That wouldn’t be a problem, Gabe, but I don’t really have enough spare gas to run it that long.”
“How much will it need?”
“It burns between a half and three-quarters of a gallon an hour, depending on the load,” Harold said.
“I’ll siphon whatever it burns out of my truck and give you some fresh vegetables to boot.”
The neighbor smiled. “Then what are we waiting for?”
The two men loaded the generator into the back of Gabe’s truck. Gabe ran into the trailer and came out with a long box under his arm. He put it behind the seat of the truck and climbed in. He locked his gate behind him this time. It wouldn’t stop anyone from breaking into his house again, but they’d have to carry whatever they stole back out to the road. When they pulled into Jane’s driveway, a sheriff’s car was there.
Gabe tensed and swallowed hard at the sight of the cop car, but relaxed as Robby appeared in the door and came running out.
“Mr. Horne, the sheriff’s office is here trying to see if they can figure out who shot Mom,” he said. He noticed the other man in the truck, and Gabe could see the question on his face. As the two men climbed out of the truck, Gabe introduced Harold and Robby.
“Nice to meet you, sir,” Robby said.
“The pleasure’s all mine,” Harold said with a smile.
“How’s your mother feeling?” Gabe asked.
“She says she’s all right, but she’s limping some. When she thinks I’m not looking, I can see her wincing.”
“Let’s go check on her, then.”
They went into the house and found Jane sitting at the table with the sheriff’s investigator. The two of them were drinking coffee. Jane knew Harold, and she introduced the newcomers to the deputy.
The lawman stood up and shook both their hands. “The sheriff had some nice things to say about you, Mr. Horne. Said you were a real take-charge kind of guy.”
“I was only in the right place at the right time at the grocery store,” Gabe said meekly.
“Well, most folks would’ve just watched the thief run on by. I was just starting to tell Mrs. Walker what I found.” He bent over, reached into his briefcase, and pulled out a plastic bag with an expended shotgun shell in it. “This was by the back fence. It’s a Magnum ‘T’ waterfowl load. It had a bunch of .20-inch steel shot in it.” He reached down and brought out another baggie. It had several small round balls in it. They looked like ball bearings. “I pulled these out of the siding on the back of the house. It’s a good thing they were so far away. Any closer and you might’ve caught five or six of these, Mrs. Walker.”
“Can you tell where they went, Deputy?” Gabe asked.
“No. I tracked them to the road, but there are too many sets of tire tracks to tell which ones belonged to them. My best bet is to get a print off the shell, but with all the lawlessness we’re starting to see, I wouldn’t hold my breath that we’ll catch these guys.”
“Speaking of lawlessness, two guys broke into my place this morning and stole all my food and my garden tiller. I got home as they were carrying things out to their truck, and they took off,” Gabe said.
The deputy squinted, and his lips pressed together so hard that they almost disappeared. “Did you get a plate number?” he asked.
Gabe’s hand smacked his forehead. “No. I’m sorry. I was so mad that I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“Where’d they break in at?” the deputy asked.
“Through the front door. They used a crowbar.”
“Well, I’ll head over there and see if I can pull some prints off the door.”
Gabe rolled his eyes and sighed. “I’m sorry, Deputy, but Harold and I patched the door up before we came over here. I’m sure we messed up any prints they might have left.”
“Anything else they might have touched?”
Now Gabe felt like a real idiot. He’d hit the trifecta. He hated to admit it, but he told the deputy anyway. “One of them dropped some canned goods in my living room, but I picked them up and put them away. They also pushed my Rototiller out of their truck while they were getting away, but Harold and I brought it back home. It might be your best bet, though. I’m sure both of them had to lift it into the truck.”
“Why would they push it out?”
Gabe wasn’t sure how the deputy would feel about him taking potshots at the truck. He thought about making something up but decided to tell the truth. “I took a shot at the truck’s tire. I think the guy pushed it out so I wouldn’t shoot at them again,” he said sheepishly.
“I see,” the deputy said in a disapproving voice. “I’ll go see if I can get anything off the tiller. Where is it?”
“It’s behind my house. The gate’s locked, but there’s a key under the rock next to the second fence post to the left of the gate.”
“All right. Mrs. Walker, I hope you get to feeling better. Mr. Horne, can I have a word with you outside?”
Gabe just nodded and followed the deputy out the front door.
When the deputy got to his car, he turned around. The look on his face told Gabe that he was in more trouble than he’d thought. He was afraid that he might be headed to jail.
“Mr. Horne, I’m going to give you some advice. It’s the same advice the sheriff gives all the deputies when they start working for him. When you fire your weapon, you don’t miss.”
Gabe blinked. He didn’t know how to respond. After a moment he said, “I thought I was in trouble for shooting at them.”
“No,” the deputy replied quickly, “I’m upset you missed. First, you don’t know where the bullet you fired went. Second, it’s much easier to find a truck or a perp with a hole in them.” The deputy paused a second. “Mr. Horne, the sheriff’s department is doing its best to keep order, but it’s getting to be a losing battle. We need to rely on the citizens of this county to help us if we hope to succeed. I know that shooting at someone for stealing some canned food seems extreme, but it sends the message that we will not tolerate thieves and other lawbreakers. Food is a precious resource right now, and anyone who would steal it might just be killing the person they stole from. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
“Yes, Deputy, I do.”
“Good. I’m going to look at your tiller. I’ll lock the gate behind me when I leave.”
“Thank you, Deputy.”
“No. Thank you, Mr. Horne.”
Gabe turned and walked back into the house, wondering why the deputy would thank him. Jane was still sitting at the table when he got back to the kitchen.
“Did you get into trouble?” she asked as Robby and Harold looked on with interest.
“No. Well, yes, but not for what I thought. He wasn’t upset that I shot at the guys; he was upset because I missed.” Gabe shrugged.
“Go figure,” Harold said.
“What did he say exactly?” Jane said.
Gabe told them word for word, or at least as close as he could remember.
“It makes sense,” Jane said. “They must know things are getting out of control. I mean, look at what’s happened to us in just the last twenty-four hours. If things keep getting worse, someone’s going to get killed. We nee
d to figure out how we’re going to stay safe.”
“That’s true,” Harold said.
“You know,” Gabe said, “when I was walking home this morning, Mr. Blake stopped me to check on you and to tell me that they were going to butcher a steer. He wanted to trade some beef for some eggs and some vegetables. I was thinking that someone should get all the neighbors together to see what everyone has to trade and what everyone needs. We could talk about safety, too.”
“That’s a great idea, Gabe,” Jane said. “We could meet down at the little Baptist church on the corner.”
“We should do it soon,” Harold said. “In fact, the sooner, the better.”
“What would be wrong with tomorrow?” Jane asked.
“Nothing, but how can we get the word out?”
“I have an idea,” Jane said with a smile.
* * *
DJ checked the J-B Weld. It was hard and dry. He poured the gallon of gas into the car and looked under to see if it was leaking out. It seemed to be holding, so he got into the car, put the key into the ignition, and turned it. The little Japanese four-cylinder engine started almost immediately. It was too close to dark to go to town now, but they could go first thing in the morning.
“The car’s fixed,” he announced as he walked into the house.
“That’s great!” Crystal squealed, jumping out of her chair and giving him a quick hug.
He tried to get his arms around her, but she pulled back away before he could return the embrace.
At least she seems to be warming up to me a little more.
Crystal fixed dinner, and after the dishes were done, the three of them played a game of Monopoly. Nancy won with only a little help from the grown-ups.
DJ retired to his room, thinking about the gas he’d be able to buy tomorrow. The neighbor said that the station was limiting everyone to five gallons per week and that they wouldn’t fill a can. That was all right; he knew how to siphon gasoline out of a car. Two trips would give him more than enough to make it to his retreat. He’d see what else he could find in town, as well. Maybe there was something Crystal needed. He’d be willing to spend some money on her if it would help him get closer to her.
Just as he was about to doze off, he heard a tap on his door. His mind came to full alertness. The door groaned almost inaudibly as it was pushed open. DJ felt a smile spread across his face.
“DJ,” Crystal whispered.
“Yes, Crystal,” he said.
“I heard a noise outside in the back. Would you take a look?”
Damn it.
Well, at least it was a chance for him to be her knight in shining armor. “Sure,” he answered. He threw the covers back and reached for his clothes. He knew exactly where each piece was, and it took less than a minute to dress, even in the blackness. “What did you hear?” he asked as he found her waiting on the other side of the door.
“I thought I heard voices whispering.”
DJ suspected it was more than likely just the wind whistling through the trees. “Stay here and be quiet,” DJ told her, just in case there really was something, “and don’t use a flashlight or light a lamp.”
“Okay,” she answered quietly.
DJ took the three steps he knew it was from the door to the chair that held his rifle and vest. His night-vision goggles were also there. He felt for the device and pulled the headgear on so that the infrared scope was in front of his right eye. He turned it on and easily donned the vest and grabbed his carbine. He could see that Crystal was wearing a thick bathrobe, which she was clutching together right under her neck. As he passed her, he squeezed the back of her arm.
He decided to go out the front door and creep around to the back. When he opened the front door, his heart jumped into his throat. Two men were pushing his four-wheeler through the front yard and toward the road.
CHAPTER 19
DJ’s mind raced for the best solution. He could easily shoot them with his carbine, but that would make a lot of noise and might bring more attention than he wanted. His pistol would be a little quieter, but probably not quiet enough. He could just scare them off with a couple of shots over their heads. It would work, but they might come back later with friends. Besides, they were stealing from him. They had to pay.
If he had a baton like the one he carried at the mall, it would have been easy to take them down and apply a little mostly silent justice. He had taken several classes—out of his own pocket, of course—on the proper way to use a PR24. It was a devastating weapon in the right hands. Unfortunately, the only quiet weapon he had was his knife, but would the punishment fit the crime?
His mind flashed to the Old West, where horse thieves were hanged for their crimes. The big quad was sort of like a horse, and the current events weren’t unlike those of the frontier days. Besides that, he’d always thought that if he’d been born a hundred and fifty years earlier, his name would have been synonymous with Reeves, Masterson, and maybe even Earp.
DJ didn’t have any offensive knife training, and that made him a little nervous. He’d seen plenty of movies and had read some accounts on the Internet about using a knife, though. They all agreed that if you clamped your hand over the victim’s mouth and inserted the blade into the base of the skull, the results were not only instant but silent.
He set his carbine down by the door, as well as his goggles. He couldn’t afford for them to get damaged. There was enough moonlight that he’d be able to operate up close.
His hand found the handle of the big knife, and he pulled his expensive cutting tool out of its Kydex sheath. The Tanto blade was made for this kind of work. The strong point, hardened steel, and curved blade made this knife a favorite of black operators the world over.
The blade was flat black, but the scalpellike edge glinted in the moonlight. The rubber handle filled his hand perfectly. The pommel nestled in the crease of his palm between the ball of his thumb and heel of his hand. It wouldn’t slip if he hit a vertebra as he pushed it in. He felt his face tighten into a grin as his gaze moved from the instrument to the two men making off with his property.
He moved like a cat, quickly and quietly closing in on them. The man pushing on the back of the quad was the logical choice to take first. If things went bad, DJ could always pull his big Glock out of the thigh holster and use it. He took a deep breath and sprang onto the man. He clamped his left hand over the man’s mouth and inserted the blade just below the bump where the man’s neck and skull met. The thief went limp without making a sound, and DJ let him go, allowing the weight of his body to pull the knife free. That was better than shooting Crystal’s attacker in the head, DJ thought.
The man pushing on the handlebars didn’t notice a thing except that he was no longer getting any help. “Damn it, Chuck,” he whispered without turning around, “would you stop screwing around and push?”
DJ grabbed the rear rack and began to push.
“That’s better,” the thief said.
DJ worked his way from the back of his machine around to the side while still helping the bandit. He let go of the rack he was now pulling on to grab the perp and give him a taste of what his buddy had gotten. Before he could grab the man, though, the bandit started cursing and spun around.
“How many fuckin’ times do I have to tell . . .” The man saw that it wasn’t Chuck who was behind him. DJ and the thug both froze for a second, each unsure of what to do. The rustler was the first to move. His right hand sped toward his waistband, where DJ could see he had a pistol stashed. He was clumsy, though, and the pistol wouldn’t come out, as it seemed to be hung on his clothing. DJ thought about drawing his own pistol, but he’d have to drop the knife first.
DJ had almost forgotten that he already had a weapon in his hand. He looked at it for a split second as if he was trying to convince himself that it was real. His eyes then t
raveled back to the man in front of him and found their way to the triangle of neck that sat between a stain-filled shirt and an unkempt beard.
DJ’s hand followed his eyes and traced a horizontal line across the man’s neck. The razor-sharp blade seemed to glide through the soft tissue. DJ saw the man’s eyes go wide as he quit jerking on his trapped handgun and brought his hands up to cover the thin red line across his neck. A split second later, a stream of blood shot from between the man’s fingers and painted DJ with spurt after spurt like some abstract artist who slung his media onto an oversized canvas in an attempt to create a so-called masterpiece.
DJ watched in gleeful horror as the color blanched from the man’s face and he fell to his knees. His eyes looked up at DJ’s face as if he expected DJ to run the knife backward and heal the fatal wound. DJ was fixated on the copious amount of blood pooling at his feet and the sucking noises coming out of the wound, as the man’s lungs tried to keep working. He finally fell onto his back, his mouth uselessly opening and closing and his body thrashing in vain. After what seemed an eternity, the man’s mouth finally opened for the last time, and his body came to an awkward rest.
DJ didn’t know how much time had passed while he was watching the man bleed out. What he did know was that the euphoria he’d felt on the slash had given way to repulsion as the smell and taste of the sticky blood overtook his senses. The lump of stone that his dinner had suddenly become started rushing upward, and he retched uncontrollably. The aroma of half-digested food and bile was preferable to the stench of death. He wished he’d used a firearm, as he had to admit to himself that this was indeed a very personal method of exterminating someone. He hoped he never had to do it again.
As he stood erect again and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, he noticed his hands shaking. It’s just the adrenaline, he thought to himself as he clasped his hands together. He tried to spit the vile taste from his mouth, but it was to no avail.
The two bodies lay on the lawn, one with little blood pooled under him, the other in a lake of it. He wondered if the ground would soak up the syrupy fluid before daylight. That was unlikely, given the amount of rain that had fallen recently. Another wave of nausea attacked him, but he beat it back this time, barely. He knew the first thing he had to do was to get rid of the bodies. These wouldn’t be like the gangbangers, not missed by anyone. These were probably local boys. Good or bad, someone would want to know what happened to them.
Collision Course Page 16