Move to Strike

by Perri O'shaughnessy

  Nikki’s shock at seeing her mother with a gun stopped her tears. “What’s that?”

  “Grandpa Logan’s shotgun,” said Daria grimly. “A twelve gauge. Sounds like a cannon, under the right circumstances. Ought to give someone an awful scare.”

  “Is there shot inside?”

  “It’s loaded, yeah,” Daria said, checking by cracking the gun in half and peering into the breech. “Grandpa always called number four buckshot primo antipersonnel materiel.” She rushed to the back door. Nikki was right behind her.

  “Step aside, honey,” Daria said, trying to push Nikki out of the doorway.

  Nikki stood her ground, arms outstretched in front of the door. “Mom, wait. You know how to shoot? What if you hit Bob!”

  “Don’t worry. Bob’s going to be all right. I’m an ace shot.”

  Nikki continued to block the door. “And what about the guy. What if it’s Scott?”

  Daria stared. “I thought you said it was a stranger. Is it Scott?”

  “Maybe,” Nikki said. “I know you’re mad at him . . . Just don’t shoot anybody, okay?”

  “I’ll be careful.” Almost out the door she turned abruptly to her daughter and planted a kiss on her cheek. “I like it when you call me Mom, honey,” she said, and swept into the night.

  Nina pulled up vaguely near the curb, slammed on the brakes, and jumped out of the car. While Paul opened the door laboriously, she made her way up the path to the house and began pounding on the door.

  “Who is it?” a quivering voice asked from inside.

  Paul, reaching the porch, hobbled up the steps.

  “It’s Nina Reilly and Paul van Wagoner. Nikki, open up. Please.”

  The door opened slightly. Nikki’s puffy eyes scrutinized them.

  “Is Bob here?”

  She appeared to be looking out at something beyond them. Nina turned her head to study the street but noticed nothing unusual. “What’s the matter?”

  “Everything.”

  “What’s wrong?” Nina asked. “Nikki, please. Where’s Bob?”

  Nikki pointed behind her. “He’s out back.”

  “Why is he out there?”

  “He came because I needed him to come.” Her teeth chattered. “Don’t get mad at him. Blame me,” she said. “It’s all my fault.”

  At that moment, they heard the first shot, and in that split second, Paul had them all on the wood floor of the porch. Before Nina could raise her head from the dust, he was struggling up.

  One of Paul’s crutches fell. He held his gun in that hand. When had he found the time to get a gun out? Nina wondered. “Where are you going?” she cried.

  “Who’s out there?” Paul barked at Nikki. When she didn’t answer, just opened flooding eyes to his, he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her up. “Speak up, girl!”

  “She has the shotgun! But she knows Bob’s out there. She won’t shoot Bob!”

  “Who?”

  “My mom!”

  “But who is she shooting at?” Nina asked.

  “Somebody’s out there,” Nikki said. “A man. He’s after Bob.”

  “You two, stay on the ground,” Paul said.

  Before they could say another word, he took off.

  He made the crackling pain in his leg his friend. The more pain he felt, the faster he whipped the single crutch he had left toward the still light of a flashlight on the ground ahead. Moving as quietly as he could, allowing his face to contort all it wanted as long as it screamed silently, he made quick work of the backyard, found his way into the pine woods, and lodged himself behind a tree, breathing hard.

  All around him, the night sounds chorused. An owl hooted. A distant frog sang a mating song. Hard as he looked, he could see no one in the thicket of trees ahead. Then a movement. The moon flickered. A boy running. A man running after him. Then the moon disappeared for good.

  He heard a scuffle. Something nearby. Grunts. Bob yelling. Maybe Bob going down. But where were they? He turned his head back and forth, squinting, hoping to see something. Black against black. The heavy night sky had lowered over the woods and absorbed them.

  “Give me that, you little bastard!”

  “Let go!”

  Paul moved to his left, seemed no closer. The sounds continued, here, there, everywhere was thrashing, brush flying.

  Then, a rush. Someone running away. Bob? Paul finally thought he had a lock on his direction. Oblivious to the noise he was making, he followed the sound.

  Then, another tackle, loud as a truck crash, and Bob went down, crying out, his voice wobbly, weak, from somewhere farther away than Paul had thought he would be. Bob was afraid, and Paul, somewhere in the woods nearby, heard the sound and felt his blood chill.

  “Hang on, Bob!” Paul called, pure reaction now, abandoning all discretion. “I’m on my way!” He gave himself one more second to listen, to find a path through the shadows, unable to remember ever feeling so powerless. Then, panting, feeling his own sweat shivering over his skin, uncertain about which way to turn, he shoved blindly forward, one hand tearing through the brush, first this way, then that, as the sounds of struggling reverberated off tree trunks and drifted around, an ambient swirl of violence and fear.

  Another shot blasted, coming from somewhere ahead of him. Then, dead ahead, a crack and a howl of pain. Deeper. A man’s cry. Not Bob’s.

  Someone running.

  He heard someone running, getting closer, then someone coming up on him. He had to make an instant decision. In the darkness, he could not identify the runner, but logic told him it was Bob. He let the first figure, light and fleet of foot, pass by. From no more than a few steps behind, sounding heavy as a lumberjack, another runner rushed through the woods.

  Paul stepped out from behind the tree and brought the base of his gun down on the passing runner’s shoulders. They fell together, the gun falling away into the darkness.

  A rain of curses. Rising onto his knees, wielding his crutch like a battle-ax, Paul pounded on the crouched figure before him.

  Something flashed. A knife?

  Paul hit hard.

  “Bloody hell!” said the man. Rolling swiftly out of reach he jumped up, and Paul tried to stand, but he couldn’t do it, the leg wasn’t going to let him this time. He was at his mercy . . .

  The figure hesitated, as if considering whether to attack Paul or catch up with Bob or cut his losses, and then moved on, slowly at first, picking up speed as he got farther away.

  His shadow faded into the trees.

  Then, appearing out of nowhere, another figure. Without the benefit of time to consider, Paul again wielded his crutch.

  A shotgun flew through the air, landing nearby. A body flopped forward and stayed down. Sobs muffled by the earth came out of it.

  Female, Paul thought, holding tightly onto his lame, useless leg, trying to hold the pain at bay. Must be Daria. But where was Bob now? He listened, hearing nothing but the skittering of night animals and grumbling in the sky over the mountains. Bob had been running fast. He was far away by now. He couldn’t catch up with the boy now.

  He couldn’t save him.

  Sucking air into his lungs, he cursed out loud and pulled himself up to lean against a tree.

  Daria quieted. Suddenly she arched, sat up, and scrambled around for the shotgun. When her hands found it, they found Paul’s good foot, too.

  “Won’t do you any good, you know,” he said, foot fast on the gun. “You only have two shots with this thing.”

  “Who are you?” she said. “Where’s Bob? If you hurt him, I’ll kill you, you bastard!” Lashing out, furious as a trapped animal, she beat on his leg with her fists, her vigor not a bit abated by an accompanying flood of tears.

  “Hey. Stop that now. I’m with Nina,” Paul said. “I’m on your side.”

  “We’ve lost him,” she said, almost incoherent, arms falling to her sides. “I should have shot the guy. I should have killed him.”

  “It was too dark. It was too
dangerous. You did exactly right.”

  “You should have stopped him. He came right by here. I heard him come right by here!”

  “Bob had a good head start. He’s fast. He got away. Don’t worry.”

  He was worried. Had it been enough, holding the man back? Had he given the boy enough time to get away? He was not at his best lately. He had a crick in his soul.

  Gathering his crutch to his side, he searched the area all around, found his gun, and tucked it safely away in his shoulder holster. He could not locate a knife. Had there been a weapon at all?

  “Bob!” Daria shouted into the sky, past the woods, out to the street, to the houses, to the birds sleeping in the trees. “Bob, where are you?”

  Silence.

  “Where are you?” only this time, her voice came out quiet, prayerlike.

  A wind murmured through the treetops and across the clearing, gathering momentum, gusting, hitting Paul in the face, harsh as a slap in the face.

  “C’mon. Get up. Let’s go find him . . .” Paul said.

  “Daria?” A voice from far away. Bob’s voice. “Is that you?”

  “Bob?” she called back, but her emotions got the best of her and the word came out choked.

  Paul picked up the shotgun and moved away from her. “We’re over here!” he shouted.

  In the distance, they heard a crashing through the brush heading toward them, then a long silence.

  Bob stumbled out of the woods into the clearing.

  “Are you okay?” Daria said. “Did he hurt you?” She was on her knees now, attempting to stand.

  Bob ran over to help her up. “I’m okay,” he said, waving toward Paul, hardly even seeming out of breath. Then, as if he had not just fought off an attacker, he made a polite introduction. “Daria, you know Paul van Wagoner?”

  “We met. He damn near broke my leg,” Daria said tearfully.

  “Sorry,” Paul said. “Bob. The guy who was chasing you . . .?”

  Way in the distance, up the long street, an engine burst to life. They turned their heads in unison toward the street, listening as a car roared away.

  “There goes our man,” said Paul.

  “Thank God you’re all right, honey,” Daria said, smoothing the hair on Bob’s forehead.

  “I’m fast, and I know these woods. I ducked around in circles. He couldn’t catch me.”

  “But he did,” Daria protested. “Twice, Bob. I heard it. I just couldn’t find you.”

  “I got away fast the first time. Then, he just flew at me, knocked me down. I think he had a gun or a knife . . .”

  “Oh . . . !” Daria wailed.

  “But he didn’t get a chance to use it, because just when he was starting to pull something out, pow, you fired! He just about jumped out of his skin. So I hit him with a branch. But he was catching up with me again,” he cleared his throat, gulping, “and then after that something slowed him down, because after that he quit chasing me.”

  Paul patted him on the arm. “Good going, champ.” He let his hand linger long enough to feel the boy trembling. “Let’s go inside, shall we? A few explanations are in order.” Paul handed Daria the shotgun to carry and they hoofed it toward the house, Paul bringing up the rear, as he so often did these days.

  Once inside with hot drinks on the table in front of them, Bob, Daria, and Nikki clammed up. No mention was made of any knife. Bob, with Daria and Paul’s collusion, was protecting his mother, which was just as well because Paul wasn’t sure about the knife, and involving a weapon upped the ante considerably. He would call the police right now, if he’d found a weapon. Instead, downing a couple of ibuprofen at the sink, he let Nina do the interrogating.

  “I don’t know who it was,” Nikki insisted, arms crossed, the very picture of stubbornness following her temporary lapse into emotional fragility.

  “He came to the door first, then went after Bob. We were scared to death. So I got Grandpa’s gun . . .”

  “Who was it? Why would he come here? Why was Bob out in the woods in the dark?” Nina asked.

  “I asked him to take out the trash . . .” Daria said.

  “He was moving his skateboard out around to the back . . .” Nikki said.

  “I went out to see the moon,” Bob said.

  The lies tumbled over each other. “There was no moon tonight,” Nina said.

  “It went behind the clouds, Mom, I swear! It was out before!”

  Paul asked the same questions plus one about what the man was trying to take from Bob, only presented in stronger language, but threats, arguments, and demands were deflected. Nothing disturbed the wall the three had built. They had said all they were going to say about the matter.

  Nina drove Paul back to his car, not saying a word to Bob, who slouched in the back seat.

  “What’s with you and Daria?” Paul asked. “You were shooting daggers at her.”

  “I was?” Nina said, surprised. “I didn’t know it showed.”

  “Well?”

  “I need to clear something up with her.”

  “And you don’t want to talk about that now.”

  “No. But, Paul, I do want to say I’m glad you were there,” she said. “Bob said if you and Daria hadn’t been there . . . You’re better on crutches than . . . I’m sorry I doubted it.”

  “No problemo,” Paul said. He started up the car, allowing himself the first small, safe moan of pain as he watched Nina’s door close.

  He hoped he could make it to the ER at the hospital before the screaming started.

  After fighting the impulse to no avail, Nina again made a circuit of the house with Hitchcock, this time touching Bob’s face to assure herself that it was he and not some camouflage body breathing so regularly in his bed.

  Troubled by the thought that tonight she had tripped over the biggest lie she could remember him telling, and wondering if it was the biggest lie or just the biggest one she had caught him at, she tossed in her bed, disturbing Hitchcock on his rug by the bed, who then decided to scratch at the door.

  Two in the morning. She let him out. She was up anyway. She punched in Nikki’s number.

  Nikki answered, sounding wide awake. “Is Bob okay?”

  “He’s sleeping,” Nina said. “And now I want you to tell me what it is he was digging up for you out there.”

  “Did he tell you?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nikki, listen carefully. If you don’t tell me right now, I’m off this case. Go find yourself another lawyer.”

  “Isn’t that unethical or something?” said Nikki, outraged.

  “So sue me. You put my son in danger. I want to know why, and I want to know right now.”

  “Okay. I was going to tell you tomorrow. Only it’s nothing. You’ll see. Just a buncha nothing.”

  “That’s hard to believe.”

  “Yeah, I don’t get it either. I mean why would my uncle bother to hide something worthless in such a slammin’ good place?”

  “Tomorrow, then.”

  “I’ll try to fit you in,” Nikki said.

  CHAPTER 16

  NINA WENT OVER to Nikki’s at nine A.M.

  The weather had turned. As she drove along the lake, black clouds scudded over the mountains, making for the basin. A couple of canoes battled their way into shore. The tops of the trees tossed and swayed, blurring to gray in the mist. As she turned toward Nikki’s house a powerful wind buffeted the heavy Bronco. She kept her hands firmly on the wheel, correcting its sway.

  Her client answered the door, dressed in a black T–shirt that hung down to her knees. As usual, the curtains were drawn tight over the front windows, blocking out all natural light in the living room. The place was so shabby and cold that Nina wondered if she had done the right thing requesting the home supervision. Anyone would be depressed being locked up here.

  In a corner a Macintosh computer monitor showed some windows, and Nikki coughed violently, as if the blast of fresh air through the o
pened door had shocked a system grown accustomed only to the musty indoors.

  Before closing the door, she looked up and down the street.

  “There’s nobody,” Nina said.

  “Of course there isn’t,” she said, pulling the door shut and locking it behind her. She led Nina through the living room and into the kitchen.

  Dark paneled cupboards inside and trees outside blocked most of the light that might have had a chance to squeeze through the window above the sink. The main illumination was provided by a dim bulb shaded by a fake Tiffany glass shade. They sat down at a small breakfast nook in a dark corner of the room. Nina said, “Where’s your mom today?”

  “Aunt Beth called. She’s not handling things very well. Daria went over to calm her down.” Nikki felt around in the pocket of a loose sweatshirt she wore open over her long T.

  Nina had hoped to see Daria but was coming to the conclusion that she would just have to chase her down, because she was never around.

  “It’s here somewhere,” Nikki said.

  “It better be,” said Nina without thinking.

  She got a glare in return. Nikki slapped a velvet bag onto the table and folded her arms. “That’s it. Uncle Bill’s big bad treasure. I took it from his house the night he was murdered and buried it in the woods. Then I couldn’t get back out to dig them up, so I asked Bob for help. Bob got the bag and slipped it to me last night.”

  “What’s inside?”

  “Open it.”

  Nina opened the drawstrings and dumped the contents of the bag out onto a piece of newspaper.

  “See what I mean?” Nikki said. “Freakin’ rocks!”

  It did indeed appear to be so. In a small pile of plain dirt about a dozen small chunks of rock had scattered. Nina picked one up. Black rock. Disappointment didn’t begin to describe her reaction. “But what is this?”

  “I’ll tell you what I hoped. I hoped it was like silver or gold ore. You know how in the old days, people mined for gold and silver up in Nevada? And we owned this land . . .”

  “I heard about the land. Your mother sold it to your uncle.”

  “That’s bull. He conned it out of her! Anyway, it was my Grandpa Logan’s and before that, it was his dad’s. My grandpa mined it out a long time ago, or so they said, so, when I first saw these rocks, I thought maybe they had silver in them and that was why Uncle Bill . . .” She frowned. “Well, you know. But they’re just . . . rocks! I showed them to Daria last night right here where we’re sitting. We rubbed some of them to expose that black stuff that looks glassy. She actually knows a little about silver and gold ore. She says it isn’t the right kind of rock. It looks like petrified wood or something, except for how dark it is.”