“I’ve never fired a pistol. Just a .22 rifle, when I—”
“I don’t care. You point it, and you pull the trigger. Use both hands if it helps. Aim just a little low. Don’t jerk, but use some force when you pull. Simple as that.”
“You can do it,” Clea said.
“All right.”
“Now we’re going out the back,” Horn told them, “before they have a chance to get around us. Follow me, and try to stay low.” He hoped they couldn’t hear the tension in his voice.
Hands outstretched in the dark, they made their way to the rear of the cabin, where a single dirty window faced the back slope. Horn wrenched it open, stuffed the Colt in his belt, climbed through, and dropped to the soft ground, then helped the others, Clea first.
The bulk of the Packard blocked their way. Reaching through the window, Horn felt for the keys and found none; they were doubtless in Sykes’ pocket. Remembering that he had left the gate unlocked, he briefly considered piling everyone in the car, hot-wiring the engine, ducking low, and hoping to get past their pursuers and down to the canyon road. But he hadn’t enough time or the proper tools. So he led the other two around the car to the path that wound its way up the hill. “Single file,” he said in a low voice. “No talking.”
The first five minutes were rough going, since there was almost no light in the trees. Horn knew the path, but occasionally the other two would stray off it and have to claw their way out of branches that swiped at their faces. Halfway up, he stopped to listen. At first there was nothing; then, far behind, he heard a voice calling out, somewhere near the cabin. The voice was answered by another. However many there were, he thought, they would eventually figure the cabin was empty and begin moving up the slope. He led the other two on.
Minutes later they came out on the plateau and were walking along the weedy ground where he had wielded his scythe just a few days ago. They could make out the pale, indistinct shapes of what remained of Ricardo Aguilar’s estate—the great house, outbuildings, pool and tennis court.
Mad Crow could do little for them, Horn concluded. He hoped that when his friend arrived, he would assess the situation and have the good sense to stay out of it and call in the police. Their only hope, he reasoned, was to keep climbing and make it quickly to the north-south path that traveled the crest of the canyon’s west wall, then follow it south toward the ocean. After a half-mile they would come to other houses, some with telephones, and could make their own attempt to call for help.
He led them around the ruins of the big house to where the ground began to slope downward slightly, and there they found the path and turned left. Soon the trees closed in again. Behind him, Horn heard Fairbrass breathing heavily. “We’re doing fine,” Clea whispered to him, but her own tone sounded anxious.
Suddenly Horn heard something. “Shhh,” he said. A few seconds went by, and there it was again—up ahead, a voice calling out. It sounded less than a hundred yards away. The answer was not long in coming. It sounded more faint and came from behind and to their left. Finally, another voice answered from even farther away; Horn could not place the direction.
They were outflanked. One of the men had made it quickly up through the darkened underbrush south of the path in order to cut off a possible escape. There were three of them, and they had spread out, going about their task in a smart and methodical way.
“We have to go back,” Horn said quietly.
“Oh, no,” Fairbrass said hopelessly.
“Come on.” Moving even more quickly, they headed back toward the estate. The three pursuers were closing in on them. Horn could think of nothing except taking cover. Maybe the darkness would shield them until help arrived, he hoped. But he knew better. The three men out there in the dark would find them.
As they walked across what had once been Aguilar’s sprawling front lawn, he quickly fixed on a plan. “This way,” he said. “Be very careful.” They climbed over the broken, hip-high wall that marked the front of the main house, then threaded their way among a jumble of old concrete, jagged tile and charred beams that were all that was left of the mansion. From his daytime explorations, Horn knew the approximate shape and layout of the place. They were now in the living room, which contained the ruins of a stone fireplace. The smell of ashes told him that bums and other casual visitors still built fires there. To the left would have been the hallway that led to the dining room and kitchen. Halfway along the remnants of the hall, feeling his way, he stopped them. “Here.”
The door had burned away from the masonry frame, leaving a black and gaping hole only partly blocked by charred wood and other debris. Horn cleared away the largest pieces of stone and wood, then stepped tentatively down into the hole and gestured for them to follow. They descended a dozen stone steps to the bottom, then stood there, breathing cooler air.
It was Aguilar’s stone-walled wine cellar, and it had survived the worst of the fire. Others had discovered it too, of course, and the wine was long gone, some of it carted off, other bottles smashed by vandals. The place had an overpowering sour smell. It was pitch-dark down there, but Horn had once looked around it by flashlight and knew the dimensions of the room.
“Careful of broken glass,” he said. As all felt their way like blind persons, he led them to one of the far corners and had them huddle under a crazily tilted set of shelves. “Stay here and be quiet, and you’ll be fine,” he told them with more confidence than he felt. “I’m going up there to keep a lookout.”
“Do you know who they are?” Fairbrass asked hoarsely.
“Well, they’re obviously sent by your friend Vinnie,” Horn said. “But do I know their names? I’m pretty sure I know one of them. I guess I expected to run into him again someday.”
He reached out for Clea and encountered Fairbrass’ hand, which was reaching for his, as if asking for reassurance. Awkwardly, he squeezed the other man’s hand, then found Clea in the dark. He cupped her cheek for a few seconds, feeling its warmth, then heard her say, “Be careful,” and left them.
Outside, he peered around, trying to recall the layout of the ruins, looking for a place to take cover. He remembered something and moved off in a northwesterly direction for a few dozen yards until he came to it. One of Aguilar’s guest houses had once stood here. Now all that remained were parts of the outer wall’s foundation. The nearest corner formed a waist-high V. The apex faced the big house, and one of the two arms, each roughly six feet long, afforded him cover from the man who would be approaching up the trail from the south. This would have to do. He settled in behind the wall and tried to make himself comfortable.
It was still pre-dawn, and the young moon, now nearing the horizon, was too slender to give off much light, but the sky held a layer of haze that reflected the far-off lights of the city, casting the faintest illumination onto the ground. Pale objects, particularly the crumbled marble and granite remnants strewn about, seemed to glow. The pieces that stood upright or leaned against each other looked to Horn like tombstones in a neglected cemetery.
He glanced down at his arm, noted that his white shirtsleeve gave off the same glow as the stone, and cursed himself for not considering it earlier. He stripped off his shirt, then his undershirt, and rolled them into a tight bundle. Carefully, he laid the Colt on its side atop the wall, barrel facing outward, and tried to think of anything except dying.
The gun that won the West, he mused, looking down at the Colt. I just hope this one can handle a single job here at the Villa Aguilar. They say Wyatt Earp used one of these at the O.K. Corral. Did he have any trouble holding it steady?
He listened, straining to hear anything from the path. He heard nothing but the crickets and an occasional voice in his head.
What are you doing, John Ray?
What the hell do you care? You’re dead. But since you ask, I’m listening for some guy who wants to kill me as dead as you
are.
I think he’s on his way. Others, too.
I know that. I’m kind of busy right now, Scotty.
Just trying to be helpful. You know, this sounds like the big shootout in the last reel, where you always—
Goddammit.
Sorry. Anything I can do?
Horn felt the sensation begin to grow, just as it had during that fierce Italian winter among the rocks and ice. As before, it started in the pit of his stomach, where it fluttered like a flight of demented butterflies, and spread to his arms and legs, where it turned muscle into jelly. His right hand began to shake ever so slightly.
Someone was coming to kill him. He sat on the ground and leaned forward, hugging his knees, trying to squeeze the feeling until it died. But he knew it had dug in and would only grow, would speed up his breathing and heartbeat and bring palsy to his limbs. The fear had returned, like an old enemy he had tried to forget but who had never forgotten him.
Scotty?
Yeah.
Were you afraid when you died?
Was I ever. But that’s not a fair question. It’s hard to be brave when you find yourself suddenly flying out a window, you know what I mean? Let’s talk about you instead, cowboy. If anybody knows a few things about being strong, silent, and heroic, it should be you.
Doesn’t count. That was just acting.
You were in the war. You even killed a few Krauts.
Doesn’t count either, and I’ve already told you why. At your funeral, remember?
All right, look at it this way: If you can’t handle these guys, you’re going to be as dead as me.
Now you’re making it even worse.
How about Clea?
What do you mean?
If you can’t stand up and do what you have to do, what do you think happens to her?
Horn’s eyes scanned the tree line as he thought about Scotty’s words. Or were they Scotty’s? Funny, he could hear Clea’s voice too: I’m tired of being afraid. I’m going to stop it.
He saw her under their Christmas tree the year he became her father. He saw her astride Raincloud that first time, and the carousel horse. He saw her reaching for the ring, her face screwed tight in little-girl concentration.
He saw her dead.
He shifted position in the dirt, kneeling forward, leaning on the broken stone. Something eased inside him, something warmed the muscles that had felt so chilled, something steadied the hands that rested now on the wall.
He would not see her dead.
The fear was not gone, but it had receded into a tight little lump. It huddled down there, somewhere in his stomach, waiting for the day when it could return. In some wonderment, he flexed the fingers of his hands. They felt not palsied but strong.
Horn realized that the shapes out there had taken on a few more degrees of definition. The irregular pillars of jumbled concrete were more distinct, and as he turned his gaze to his left, the sky looked faintly pale over the silhouette of the big house and, farther off, the eastern rim of the canyon. It was first light.
As his eyes swept back across the plateau, he saw a movement where the path broke the tree line about a hundred yards away. It was the man. He carried a pistol, not a rifle, and slowly entered the clearing at a crouch. His white shirt was pale in the dim light.
They may be slick and dangerous, Horn thought with satisfaction, but they’re city boys, and they’ve never chased after anybody in the woods at night.
Don’t forget: A single-action has to be cocked before it’ll fire. It takes extra time, but that’s the price you pay for having an authentic gun in your movie. Wouldn’t mind having my old M-1 with me right now.
He slowly pulled back the hammer on the Colt until it clicked, then sighted down the
long barrel and waited. The man had left the path for the high grass and was not approaching directly but angling slightly off to the right. His route would eventually take him into the ruins of another guest house, where Horn would lose sight of him. Before that happened, Horn reckoned, the man would approach within twenty or thirty yards of him. Not close enough to guarantee results with a handgun, but he would have to take the shot.
He waited. The man approached the ruins, head swiveling back and forth, moving more easily now. Instead of the cautious gait of a hunter, he walked with a near-swagger, arms swinging loosely. To Horn, there was something familiar about him, but he had no time to think about it. At the last moment, just before the figure was obscured, Horn pulled the trigger.
Amid the quiet, the gunshot was explosive. The Colt bucked in his hand, more than it did when loaded with blanks, and he berated himself for not allowing for that. As the figure dived to the ground, Horn knew he had missed. The answering shot was quick. Horn saw the muzzle flash from near the ground just before he shut his eyes and ducked behind the wall.
A few seconds went by, and Horn peered over the jagged top of the wall, re-cocking the gun. Nothing at first, then he spied a pale smudge in the grass where the man had gone down. He drew a bead on it, but before he could fire, the man sprang up and dashed for the nearest pile of rubble, where he took cover. More seconds elapsed, then suddenly a shot from the rubble, and Horn heard the slug plow into the front of the wall. He knows where I am.
Breathing heavily behind the wall, Horn wondered how he could draw the man out. He carefully peered over the top, searching out the pile of ruins, but saw no movement. Don’t want to waste shots, but I need to make him move. He aimed at the largest mass of ruins and fired, watching the slug kick up chips and hearing it ricochet away with a keening sound. But nothing moved.
Suddenly another shot, this one from a spot twenty yards to the right, and Horn ducked again. Sonofabitch. He moves each time he shoots. Maybe that’s how I’ll get him.
He felt along the ground until he found a foot-long stick. He poked its end into his wadded up shirt and undershirt, then used his left hand to move it slowly above the top of the wall. It only took a few seconds before another shot boomed out. It missed, and this time Horn forced himself to keep his head high, eyes sweeping the area. There was the man, loping from a chunk of rock toward the ruined guesthouse he had been approaching when Horn took his first shot. Horn squeezed off a quick shot, knew he had missed; then, trying to lead the running figure, he pulled the trigger again.
He heard a cry.
The man was down. “Goddamn!” Horn heard him yell across the distance in a high-pitched voice. “He shot me!”
Horn stood up. He saw the man writhing in the grass. He knew him now: Dominic, Bonsigniore’s nephew, the one with the smart mouth who wasn’t allowed to sit with the big boys but was nonetheless sent out to kill.
“Oh, shit!” the young man groaned. “Gabe! I’m shot!”
That’s right, Gabe, he thought. Come and get your boy. Come over here and let me—
Just before he heard the crack of the rifle, he felt the slug whiz past his ear close enough to rip the air. He ducked behind the wall instinctively even as he realized with dread that the shot had come from behind. He swiveled around on his knees just in time to see the silhouette of the rifleman against the lightening sky where he stood atop a pile of rubble only twenty yards away, taking aim. The second shot plowed into the dirt between Horn’s knees. Reflexively, almost panicky, he raised the Colt, but he had forgotten to cock the single-action weapon and lost a split-second doing so before he could fire back, and he barely had time to aim. He pressed himself back against the V of concrete, trapping himself, knowing there was no place to go.
The third shot blasted a hole in the wall only inches from his face, stinging his cheek and filling the air with the smell of grit and dust. Horn fired again, knowing his shot was wild but desperately trying to throw off the other man’s aim. Then, clearly, as if he and the gunman stood in the same room, Horn heard the man lever
the next shell into the chamber. Aiming more carefully this time, Horn pulled the trigger but heard the hammer fall on an expended cartridge. No more bullets. As if in slow motion, he saw the other man raise the gun, imagined he could look all the way down the dark barrel to the shiny lead projectile just before it—
He shut his eyes tight, feeling frail and foolish but knowing that no man wants to see the bullet that kills him. He waited. A second passed, then two.
When he opened his eyes, something had changed. The silhouette on the skyline had become two, both in violent motion. Then they sank out of sight, and Horn heard a hoarse, brutal exhalation that was cut off as soon as it began. After that, nothing.
He stood up again, ashamed at the weakness in his legs. But he had no time to reflect on what had happened, because of the scream. It came faintly from behind him, and the voice was Clea’s.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The scream was followed quickly by gunshots—one, two, several more, wild firing.
Horn clambered over the V and scrambled through the debris that led to the house, then over the low outer wall into what had been the area between living room and hallway. At that point he could see the door to the wine cellar. There was an unsteady light within, and the indistinct form of a man framed in the doorway.
As Horn drew near, he saw that the man was holding a flashlight and shining the beam down into the cellar. A figure moved into the beam. It was Paul Fairbrass. He held Sykes’ gun in his hand, aimed at the man in the doorway, and Horn could hear the dry clicks as the trigger was pulled, over and over. Then Fairbrass’ face twisted and he howled in what sounded like rage. He flung the empty gun at the figure and then threw himself on the man, swinging his fists.
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