Six Cut Kill

by David R Lewis

  “Got seven new Pitbulls out at the dog center,” Crockett said.

  “No shit?”

  “Clay County brought ‘em in yesterday. Evidently, they were found at what turned out to be Spivey’s place. No sign of him, though.”

  “Spivey was livin’ over in Clay County?”

  “The deputy said his truck was there, and they found mail for him at that address.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Bison said. “He wasn’t there, huh?”

  “They’re looking for him, though. Petey too, probably. There was a wrecker at the house.”

  Bison nodded. “Reckon they’ll find ‘em?” he asked.

  Crockett caught his eyes. “I don’t think there’s a chance in hell,” he said.

  Bison stood up. “Hell’s the first place I’d look,” he said, and turned to go. He stopped in the doorway and looked back. “That burger you ordered?” he said.

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s on the house.”

  Crockett took another sip of his Coke and watched the big man leave, Rufus trailing behind him.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Clete got all moved in and settled by the middle of August. He still had to make the occasional trip to Chicago for a day or two, but Stitch and the Baby Banana cut his travel time down considerably. He and Charlene spent time together on a relatively regular basis. Danni dated Deputy Benson off and on, but devoted most of her time and energy to the dogs, horses, and Lucy. Satin got things organized with volunteers and staff to the point that she could actually hang around and relax a little.

  In mid-September, Dale Smoot put a down payment on a little place in the country near Omaha, and made Crockett promise to come up and visit in the spring. Charlie Rogers and Arky Bennett argued over which one of them should run for Sheriff. Crockett continued to work part-time at the cop shop and as a volunteer with the horses, while still managing to take Donk fishing a couple of times a week and drink a little scotch with Clete and Stitch on the deck now and then.

  On a Thursday morning in late September, Clete called to say that he and Stitch were leaving for Chicago but should be back by noon on Saturday. As was usual, Crockett offered to check on their places while they were gone. He fixed some scrambled eggs for breakfast and went over to the horse barn to get the company truck and pick up some feed. When he returned and unloaded, he took Satin to Wagers Café for lunch. She looked at him over her hot roast beef sandwich.

  “What’s the matter with you?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. What’s the matter with me?”

  “You’re tense. What’s up?”

  “Nothing, I guess,” Crockett said. “I’m kinda nervous for some reason. Edgy. Maybe it’s the dreaded manopause.”

  Satin grinned. “At your age?” she said. “Not likely. Are you taking your medication?”

  “I don’t take medication.”

  “Maybe that’s the problem,” Satin went on. “I hear Stitch relies on herbal therapy.”

  Crockett smiled. “Far out,” he said.

  He beat Satin home by nearly an hour. He was jumpy and couldn’t relax, so he straightened up the living room, put coffee on, and had ham salad and chips ready when she got in a little after dark. She accepted a cup of coffee and peered at him.

  “You’re still vibrating,” she said.

  Crockett’s cell phone went off. He’d left it upstairs.

  “Hold that thought,” he said, and headed for the stairway. He got to the phone on the fifth ring.

  “Crockett.”

  “David, this is Verna Warner.”

  “Miz Warner. How are you?”

  “Alarmed. I just got up from the nap I take before our Thursday evening meeting. That man we talked about, the one I saw as being associated with the deep and the dark, I feel he is near you. I believe you are in grave danger. I had to call, David. This may just be the ramblings of an old woman but, then again, it may not. I’m very frightened. I believe you should be warned. If I were you, I would take action, and I would take that action now. Godspeed.” She disconnected.

  His head swimming, Crockett looked at the dead cell phone in his hand. Then, he smelled it. That scent worn by the Amazing Disappearing Woman so long ago. The odor of To a Wild Rose was in his nostrils.

  He grabbed the Smith and Wesson off the nightstand and the night vision headset from the closet and tore downstairs and into the kitchen as fast as he could. Satin stared at him.

  “Now,” he said, “right now. Do exactly as you are told. No questions, just action. Get the dogs off the deck, take them with you, and get outa here! Go to town, stay with people, go to the café or someplace, but get the hell out of here!”

  Frozen where she stood behind the counter, Satin gaped at him.

  “Goddammit!” Crockett thundered. “Fucking move! The Bladerunner in on the way. He may be here already! Grab the pistol from beside my chair and go! As fast as you can. I can’t protect both of us! For God’s sake, Satin, go!”

  He yanked open the sliding doors and called the dogs. Dundee came in, but Donk tore off the deck and disappeared. Crockett picked Dundee up under one arm and ran to the side door. There was enough light from the doorway to see that the jeep was clear. He hustled outside, tossed Dundee in the car, and turned around as Satin came out the door.

  “Donk ran,” he said. “Dundee’s in the car. Go, sweetheart. Don’t stop for anything until you get to town.”

  Satin climbed in behind the wheel and started the engine.

  “Goddamn you, Crockett.” she said.

  “I love you, too,” he replied. “Now go.”

  His head full of possible scenarios, Crockett didn’t watch her accelerate off down the drive, but began making snap decisions with way too little information. If Clark was out there somewhere, he had to control at least some of the encounter. He had to make his ten percent chance as fat as possible. He hustled inside, slipped the 686 and holster on his belt, grabbed the nightvision headset, picked up his small LED flashlight, and shut off the lights. Grasping at mental straws surrounding the only plan he could think of, he went onto the deck, down the steps, and ran toward the dock.

  Christ, the water was cold. He eased into it anyway, putting the headset on as he did, and backed under his boat, his head above the surface between the pontoons. He turned on the night vison and scanned the slope and house. Nothing. No sign of any movement. Crockett was concerned about Donk. He could depend on Dundee doing what she was told, but Donk was a different matter. The dog sensed something was up. That’s why he wouldn’t leave with Satin. That’s why he was out there in the dark somewhere, doing what he thought was best. Damn Dog.

  Endless minutes crawled by while he knelt in that cold water. After a few of them, Crockett began to feel a little foolish. Then he heard Donk bark from someplace at the rear of the house. Donk’s bark escalated into a growling snarl that was cut off by a high-pitched yelp. Clark. Oh you bastard! You sonofabitch!

  Crockett nearly lost it then, wanting nothing more than to tear up the slope and do something completely stupid, but he didn’t. Instead, he made himself think. He eased up in front of the bow of the boat and slipped the line that tied it to the dock. Then he put the foot control of the trolling motor into reverse and set his tackle box on the pedal. The thrust of the motor kicked in and the boat started off across the cove, backwards. He eased back into the water and retreated along the edge of the dock until he was standing, shoulder deep. He sank to a point where his nose was just above the waterline, and watched. In a few seconds he saw a figure dart from the rear of the house and run in his direction. Crockett sank below the surface and released the headset. From the floating plastic modules he heard footsteps and felt the vibration as Clark moved to the end of the dock. Holding the 686 muzzle downward to clear it, he turned and stood up, firing as he rose from the water. Clark took four rounds in the back before he pitched face first into the lake.

  Crockett waded ashore and walked out to the end of the doc
k. The body lay there in the soft moonlight, floating legs downward in the calm water.

  “His name was Donk, motherfucker,” Crockett said, and fired once more, this time into the back of Clark’s head. He clicked on his flashlight then and, with the sounds of distant sirens on the night air, went in search of his dog’s body.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Cold weather brought a lull to a lot of the horse business, and Satin and Danni had more spare time. Arky Bennett was the new city police chief in Hartrick, and Charlie Rogers the new sheriff of Hart County. Clete became a nearly full time resident of the Crockett Country Fun Club and Retirement Community. Crockett left the cop shop, except as a consultant who was seldom consulted. Stitch had a new lady friend he’d met on one of his trips to Chicago with Cletus, and Clete and Charlene seemed to be doing fine.

  The group gathered on Christmas afternoon for a holiday dinner prepared by Satin and Danni, so more people could lavish Lucy with late offerings from Santa. Clete and Charlene were the last to arrive. They bustled in from the lightly falling snow with several presents for Lucy, and took their coats off. Small talk was made for a few moments, then Charlene turned to Clete.

  “Probably getting a little cold in the car by now,” she said.

  “I’ll get him,” Clete said and vanished outside.

  Everyone’s curiosity was satisfied when he came back in carrying a cat kennel that produced a ten-week-old Australian Cattledog puppy.

  “Time you had another dog, pard,” Clete said, passing Crockett the pup.

  Crockett took the little guy and held him to his face as he smelled the delightful scent of puppy. When he lowered the dog to the floor, he had tears in his eyes.

  “I don’t know what to say,” Crockett murmured, watching the pup wobble around.

  Nudge, who had viewed the tableau from the snack bar, hissed and ran upstairs.

  Lucy made a grab for the pup, but he backed away and promptly peed on the floor.

  Satin laughed. “Don’t feel bad, Luce,” she said. “I’ll have that same problem with your grandpa before long.”

  *****

  Author’s notes:

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  Thank you,

  David