by Bill Crider
I still couldn't hear the gun, but water and mud were splashing up from the marsh. Birds were flapping wildly, some of them taking to the air. One spoonbill collapsed into the water, feathers and blood flying as a bullet pierced its body.
"Goddamn!" Lindeman yelled, and we buried our faces in the mud as if that would help. Maybe it did. Bullets thwapped into the mud all around us, but neither of us was hit although lead thunked into the mud beside us, spattering it all over us.
Just before I turned away, I got a look at what was shooting at us. Some kind of semi-automatic weapon with a suppressor on the muzzle hung over the edge of the cockpit. I couldn't see who was holding it, however.
"He's gonna kill us," Lindeman said, pulling his face up to take a breath. "If the birds don't get him first."
There were hardly any birds left on the water now, and they were soaring higher and higher. The pilot must have realized the danger, but he wasn't discouraged. He made another turn and started back.
"We have to get into the water," I said. "We might have a chance there, if it's deep enough."
I stood up, dragging Lindeman to his feet, and we jogged across the flat with the mud slapping and sucking under our feet. The binoculars bounced wildly, slamming into my breastbone.
Or maybe what I felt was my heart, slamming into my breastbone from the other side. I wasn't able to make any fine distinctions at the moment.
It must have been the binoculars, however, because Lindeman tore his off, pulling the strap over his head and sending his Astros cap flying into the air. He threw the binoculars aside and kept running.
The cap landed in front of me. I stepped on it and crushed it into the slick mud as I tossed my own binoculars away, and we splashed through the shallows, trying to get to water deep enough to cover us.
The plane swooped by and bullets splatted into the water around us, sending little geysers into the air. I launched myself forward in a flat dive as something tugged at my sweatshirt, and I heard Lindeman scream just before I went under.
The water I landed in wasn't much more than a eighteen inches deep, no protection at all really, but at least I was covered, and that gave me the illusion of invisibility. I stayed down as long as I could hold my breath and then came up to look for Lindeman.
I didn't see him, but I did see a red stain spreading on top of the muddy water a few yards away. I spat out a mouthful of water and mud and looked for the plane. It was heading off to the north and was already so far away that it looked no larger than a model plane hanging from a kid's ceiling. The birds were too high and too thick in the air for it to risk making another pass at us.
I sloshed over to the red stain and reached down into the water. I felt Lindeman's shirt, grabbed a handful of cloth, and pulled him to the surface. He was unconscious, but I didn't think he was dead. Blood was flowing down his leg along with the muddy water.
I hadn't seen a hospital in Picketville, and I didn't even know if there were any doctors there. There probably wasn't time to drive Lindeman to town, anyway. I had to do something for him now.
I pulled him free of the water and over to the side of the road. Both of us were soaking wet and covered with mud, and my hands were shaking. I didn't like being shot at, and I was afraid the plane might come back as soon as the birds cleared out.
The birds didn't leave, however. They weren't nearly as disturbed by what had happened as I was. They were already settling back down on the lake, but if the plane came back they would fly up much more quickly than they had before. I hoped. And I hoped the pilot was thinking the same way that I was.
I didn't carry a knife, so I couldn't cut Lindeman's pants off. I had to take them off. That wasn't easy. They fit him loosely, but they were wet and clingy, and Lindeman wasn't any help.
It was a struggle, but I finally got them down around his knees. That was far enough. I could see that he'd been shot through the fleshy part of his right thigh, and the bullet had gone right through. Blood was still seeping out, but that was a good sign, I thought. No major arteries had been severed.
It might still be a good idea to try to stop the bleeding, so I slid Lindeman's belt off and tied it above the wound, then pulled his pants back up. There wasn't much else I could do except get him to the truck and back to the ranch. The wound had to be cleaned and disinfected.
Lindeman wasn't a small man, and it was quite a struggle to get him to the truck. I didn't think we'd walked far from the old Dodge, but as I hauled Lindeman along the ruts, gripping him under the armpits and pulling him along with his heels dragging, I realized we had walked at least ten miles.
Or maybe it just seemed that way. I had to stop once and rest, but when we finally got to the truck, I managed to bundle Lindeman into the passenger seat.
I looked in the ignition for the keys, and they were there. Lindeman hadn't been worried about car thieves. At least that was one thing to be thankful for.
I got Lindeman as close to upright as I could and kept him there by fastening his seat and shoulder belt around him. He didn't look good, but he was still breathing.
I started the truck and headed back to the house.
Eleven
Lindeman came to as the truck bounded along the ruts. The first thing he did was to wince in pain.
"Jesus H. Mahogany Christ!" he said. He started to grab his leg, but he resisted. He took a deep breath through gritted teeth and leaned back against the seat, his eyes closed tightly.
He let out the breath slowly, and after a while he asked, "What the hell happened?"
I gave him the short answer. "You got shot."
He seemed almost relieved. "You sure that's all it is?"
"I'm sure. What else could it be?"
"I hurt so damn much, I was afraid I'd been snake bit. Those cottonmouths can kill you quicker'n a bullet."
I'd forgotten about the snakes. Getting shot at from a plane has a tendency to drive other considerations out of my head.
"How bad is it?" Lindeman asked, looking down at his leg.
"I'm no doctor, but I think it's a minor wound."
"Is that like minor surgery?"
"That's right. Because you have it, it's minor. If I'd been shot in the same place, it would be a major wound."
He tried a grin that he couldn't quite bring off, sucked in a breath, and said, "That's what I figured."
If he could joke about it, he must have been feeling a lot better than I would have under the same circumstances.
"The bullet went straight through your leg. I've got your belt tied around it."
"We better loosen it now and then."
"We can do that as soon as we get back to the house. Do you have any hydrogen peroxide around?"
"There's some in the medicine cabinet. We can pour some on me, but I think we oughta go to a doctor unless you're a lot better at this stuff than I am."
"I'm not."
"What I figured. What the hell was that all about, do you think?"
"I don't have any idea," I said.
"They were tryin' to kill us," Lindeman said later.
He was sitting in his living room with a bottle of Coors in his right hand. He had his leg propped up on the coffee table. I wasn't sure he should be having the beer, but he was. I had a glass of water. Lindeman didn't have any Big Red on hand.
We were both less muddy than we'd been earlier. There was a laundry room in the back of the house, so I was able to wash and dry my jeans and sweatshirt. I'd taken a shower, too, after I had done something about Lindeman.
I'd cleaned Lindeman's wound and bandaged his leg with some tape, pads, and gauze he had in his bathroom. He was able to get in the shower, and I'd gotten most of the mud off him. Before the shower, he'd taken a handful of Ibuprofen tablets, which is why I was worried about the beer.
And he'd changed his mind about the doctor.
"That'll mean we have to bring the sheriff in on this," he said. "The doctor'll have to report the bullet wound, and I don't have anything to say to that son of a bit
ch Sheriff Roy Peavy."
"Why not?"
"Because he's in Evans' hip pocket. They're practically best friends. Peavy likes the Minute Men. Thinks they keep down crime around here."
"Well, it's too late to keep him out of it. I called the sheriff's department while you were cleaning up. Peavy's going to meet us at the doctor's office."
That wasn't the only call I'd made. I'd tried to get hold of Lance, but I couldn't get past his secretary. She didn't care who I was or why I wanted him. He was in "an important meeting," and he'd given orders not to be disturbed. She didn't care if the Chinese army had invaded Picketville and killed everyone in town; she wasn't going to disturb Lance Garrison.
Lindeman wasn't happy with me. "Maybe we can tell Peavy it was some kind of accident. Deal with Evans ourselves."
"Maybe Evans wasn't the one shooting at us. I couldn't see who was in the plane. Could you?"
"Hell, no. But it was Evans. Who the hell else is goin' to be up in an airplane with an automatic rifle?"
I didn't have an answer for that. In fact, there were quite a few things I didn't have answers for. There was a lot more going on here than a dead Prairie Chicken, though, I knew that much.
"Did you call the doctor, too?"
"Dr. Harvey. You said he was the one you used."
"I don't use him all that much. I don't hardly ever get sick."
"You're not sick now, either. You're shot." I looked at my watch. "We'd better go. Sheriff Peavy is going to meet us at the doctor's office."
Lindeman put his leg on the floor and tried to get off the couch without help. He couldn't quite do it.
"Hoo-eee," he said, sitting back down before I could get to him. "There's a walking stick in the hall closet, used to belong to my grandpa. I'd appreciate it if you'd get it for me."
I looked in the closet and found the cane stuck in the back. I took it to Lindeman and helped him stand up. He balanced himself with the aid of the cane and took two shaky steps forward, wincing each time his foot touched the floor.
"I guess I can make it to the truck," he said. "You better stand close by, though."
I walked beside him, holding his arm, and we got to the truck without incident. I helped Lindeman in, and he said, "You're really gonna like Sheriff Peavy."
"I'll bet," I said.
Dr. Harvey saw Lindeman as soon as we arrived at his office. I sat in the waiting room and read a tattered five-year-old issue of U. S. News and World Report and waited for the sheriff, while the receptionist watched me suspiciously. She probably thought I was going to steal the magazine, which would have been a shame. It was the only magazine in the office. The only other thing for the patients to read was a coverless paperback historical novel called Rivers of Gold.
Peavy came in with his deputy. They were both tall, and they both wore ten-gallon white hats. The difference was that the deputy wore his with a uniform, while Peavy wore a western-cut suit and a bolo tie.
I could see the bulge of a pistol under the side of Peavy's jacket, but the deputy was covered with peace-keeping equipment. There was a radio on his shoulder, and besides a pistol his belt held Mace and a thick black baton. Be Prepared, that's the Boy Scout motto.
Peavy said hello to the receptionist, who smiled and asked how he was. She obviously looked on him much more kindly than she did me. Then Peavy turned to me and asked if I was Smith.
"That's right."
The deputy looked at me with red-rimmed eyes. I wondered if he'd been up all night chasing criminals.
"I'm Ward Peavy," the sheriff said. "And this is Deputy Denbow. You'd better come with us."
It wasn't that I didn't want to tell Peavy what had happened. It was just that I didn't feel like going anywhere.
"Why can't we talk here?" I asked.
"I'd like to talk to you somewhere a little less public," Peavy said.
"I have to take Mr. Lindeman home after the doctor examines him."
"Don't you worry about that. I'll see that Deputy Denbow here does that little job for you."
Deputy Denbow smiled and showed me a set of teeth that demonstrated a marked lack of orthodontic care.
"I'll take real good care of the old man," he said.
For some reason I didn't believe him. Maybe it was the eyes. Maybe the smile.
"I'd stay here until I'm sure he's all right," I said. "I told him I'd wait."
Peavy shrugged. "If that's the way you feel about it. We can sit down here and talk if that's all right with Jean."
He smiled at the receptionist, who said it was fine with her. There wasn't anyone else there to overhear us. We sat in the straight, uncomfortable chairs, and I told Peavy and his deputy exactly what had happened.
"And it was Red that said the plane belonged to Billy Younger?" the deputy asked.
I don't know whether he was trying to trick me or whether he was just stupid. If I'd been a betting man, I'd have gone with stupid, though.
"I've never been in this town before in my life," I said. "How would I know whose plane it was?"
"No need to get touchy with Deputy Denbow," Peavy said. "He doesn't know much about you. But we're having you checked out."
I'd figured they might.
"We heard about you already, though," Denbow said.
So he wasn't stupid. He was just suspicious.
"About that business you got mixed up in not far from here," Peavy explained. "With the alligator."
I wasn't surprised they'd heard about that. The bad news was that I'd had some trouble with the law enforcement people on that job. And the law enforcement people had had some trouble with me.
"We know the kind of fella you are," Denbow said. He was sitting on my right, and he smelled like an ashtray that someone had forgotten to empty. "You're a wiseass. And you like to cause trouble."
"Look," I said, trying to sound earnest and reasonable and anything but a wiseass, "I don't want to cause any trouble, and I don't want to be a wiseass. I just came out here to see about a dead bird. That's all. I've never been here before, and I don't know Billy Younger or what his plane looks like."
"Maybe not," Peavy said.
"Why don't you ask him?"
Peavy shook his head. "Well, you see, that's the hard part. Billy can't talk right now."
"Why not?"
"Because somebody hit him in the head and tied him up in his hangar," Denbow said. "Hit him pretty damn hard, too. He's on his way to the hospital in Houston."
Peavy and Denbow were no slouches. I'd told them about Younger on the phone, and they'd already had somebody check on him.
"His plane's gone, though," Denbow said. "So you may be right about that part."
"Any sign of who did it?" I asked.
"Billy couldn't tell us much," Peavy said. "He remembers two men getting out of a truck with stocking masks that mashed their faces all out of shape. They were wearing camouflage outfits, but then a lot of folks go rigged out like that around here."
That was probably true, but I immediately connected the camo suits with Ralph Evans and his bodyguards. I didn't mention that to Peavy, however. He could figure it out for himself if he cared to.
"Did Younger tell you anything else?" I asked.
Peavy said, "The two men held guns on him and made him get out his plane. Then one of them hit him in the head. That's about all he remembers, but we'll talk to him again when he's feeling better. We'll keep after it until we find out who's responsible."
Denbow was looking at me as if I were someone whose Wanted Poster he'd seen come across his desk.
"I didn't steal the plane," I told him. "I didn't shoot at myself, either."
Denbow turned to Peavy and said, "See what I mean about him bein' a wiseass?"
"I don't mean to be," I said. "But the two of you are questioning me as if I had something to do with what happened. I'm as much in the dark as you are."
"Maybe so, but we can't be sure of that, can we?" Peavy said.
"You can take my word for
it."
Denbow laughed, but at least he didn't call me a wiseass again.
"One thing we know for sure," Peavy said. "We know you came here to make trouble about that dead bird. The government's already decided that that was just an accident. We don't need you here trying to stir things up."
"I'm not stirring things up. I didn't get here until last night. I haven't even talked to anyone in town."
"Well, somebody knows you're here," Denbow said. "And they don't like you worth a damn."
I could tell by the look on his face that he didn't like me worth a damn, either, but I didn't see any profit in calling his attention to the fact.
Peavy was about to add something to the discussion, but Lindeman came out of the examination room just then. He was in a wheelchair pushed by a gray-haired nurse.
"Dr. Harvey says I got to get me some crutches," Lindeman said. "How are you doin', Peavy? Deputy Denbow?"
They said they were fine and Peavy asked him to give his version of the events. Lindeman told it almost exactly as I had. While he was talking an old man with a bad cough came in and was shown to the examination room. Dr. Harvey's practice wasn't going to make him rich.
"I guess that's it," Lindeman said when he was finished. "Anybody ask Billy Younger about the plane?"
Peavy said, "It was his, all right." He went on to tell him about Younger and about the missing plane.
"You know who it was, even if Billy can't tell you yet," Lindeman said. "Don't you?"
"Are you about to make an accusation?" Peavy asked. "You'd better be careful what you say."
"Then I don't have anything to say. You wouldn't believe me, anyhow."
Denbow licked his lips. "What do you mean by that?"
"Nothin'," Lindeman said. "I think I better go on home. My leg's hurtin' me pretty bad."
I stood up and stood behind the wheelchair. "Where can we get some crutches?" I asked.
"There's a little medical supply place not far from here," Lindeman said. "Push me out of here."
"What about it, Sheriff?" I said.
"All right. We don't have anything else to ask you right now. You can leave."
I pushed the wheelchair over to the door and we went out. I could feel Denbow's eyes on me all the way.