“You’re saying the killer was trying to hide him?”
“Exactly. And my question is,” Tom said, “who started that fire?” He looked out the window of the trailer.
“Someone doesn’t want us here,” Eddie said.
Tom looked out the window nervously before he said, “Where the fuck is that van?”
“You see those financiers?” Eddie said.
“The suits wearing Italian loafers? Yeah.”
“Don’t say anything, but Sam admitted to me he suspects they’re Mob.”
“Russian Mob?”
“I guess. He met them in New York. This movie is being financed all through cash, and …” Eddie said, fearing he’d said too much.
“Okay,” Tom said, waiting for Eddie to elaborate.
“Maybe someone’s trying to get back at them.”
“By spoiling their investment,” Tom said.
“Or by sending a message. Like The Godfather, with the horse head in the bed.”
“Do you think Patches breaking her leg was no accident?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s just my active imagination, but …” Then Eddie remembered the old geezer, Chuck, selling beef jerky on the side of the road. He asked Tom, “Did you see that old dude at the jerky stand on the way up here?”
“What dude?”
Eddie explained how he, Giovanni, Sheila, John, and Paul had all pulled over to a roadside stand and that he’d thought the guy had an interesting look, with mutton chop sideburns, and had invited him to be an extra. “The old guy seemed a bit eccentric, but not crazy. You never know.”
Tom asked, “You think the jerky he’s selling is not beef? Something else?”
“Cannibalism?”
“Sort of a Texas Chainsaw Massacre thing.”
“Hadn’t thought of that,” Eddie said, trying to remember if he had sampled the jerky.
“You tell the deputy about him?”
“Just thought of it now.”
“I bet she knows the guy,” Tom said, eyeing Martinez out the window. “She probably fraternizes with all the hillbillies living up here.”
“I’ll ask,” Eddie said. “But wouldn’t a cannibal come back for his trophy?”
“What do you mean?”
“If he’s killing to stock his supply, he’d need the body, right? He wouldn’t stuff it in the stagecoach. He’d haul it back and gut it, then salt and dry the meat out in the sun, or something …”
“Unless he’s saving it for later.”
“Maybe.”
“But why the horse wrangler?”
“The guy was probably just out tending to …” Eddie started in and then stopped himself, remembering, “Wait a minute … his assistant, Lucky.”
“Who?”
“That other wrangler. The weird one. He was showing me these snakes he’d brought, trying to get them in the movie and Jimmy came up and reprimanded him.”
“I saw snakes in an old pickup when I checked into the hotel,” Tom remembered.
“Those are rattlesnakes.” Eddie explained his encounter and the conflict between Jimmy and Lucky.
“So … where are these snakes now?” Tom asked.
“I don’t know.”
That’s when they heard Sheila’s scream.
Then gunshots.
They shared a look: What was that?
Eddie burst out of the trailer only to see Deputy Martinez with an arrow lodged in her thigh. She had her gun drawn and was firing out into the woods. She emptied the pistol’s clip and was reaching into her belt when another arrow struck her below the Adam’s apple. The impact spun the deputy around. Eddie could see the arrow was now sticking out of her back, protruding from her lower neck—skewered like a shish kebab.
Tom came up beside Eddie and said, “Holy shit!”
Giovanni, Sheila, and Luther cowered while Martinez, in full battle mode, continued to fire into the trees. The deputy stumbled to her patrol car when a third arrow struck her in the tailbone. She let out a yelp and fell forward, dropping into the muddy gravel.
“Holy shit!” Tom yelled.
The deputy was flopping like a fish out of water as Eddie moved in to help her. The next arrow whizzed past his head. It popped into the trailer behind him.
I’m next, Eddie thought.
“Fuck this!” Tom exclaimed before he ran for the cover of Tami’s trailer.
Chapter
TWENTY-FOUR
Martinez had emptied her second clip and was trying to get to the radio when she realized she couldn’t speak. The arrow lodged in her throat had crushed her windpipe and blood filled her mouth. When she tried to call out only a gurgle was possible.
Get the shotgun.
Next came the sharp pain in her lower back. Her legs gave way. There was the sensation of her face hitting the gravel as blood and bile came up from her stomach. She gasped for air.
Locate the threat. She’d been trained for this.
Martinez lifted her head, searched the trees but could see nothing. As much as she tried, it was impossible to get back to her feet, her legs useless. She feared the last arrow might have severed her spine. She’d seen those types of injuries, car accident victims. Or hopefully she was just in shock.
The horizon swirled.
If this was it, if this was how she’d die … she aimed the Glock where she thought the killer might be.
Breathe.
The pain was overwhelming, but Martinez had been there before, during childbirth. Nothing could compare.
Stay strong.
Multiple images flashed through her mind.
One moment she was in the hospital giving birth to Cesar. For some reason, in her mind’s eye, the pattern on the ceiling of the delivery room was above her now. Next, she was at peace and holding baby Cesar, the infant wrapped in a blanket, his eyes staring back at her in wonder. Next Cesar was the fussing toddler. Martinez was dressing him for church and putting on a clip-on tie.
The image of the Velvet Elvis came to her mind. But now Elvis’ tears were real, not just painted, actual streams running down the black velvet.
Now Cesar was standing in Mrs. Gomez’s apartment—I’ll be home soon, baby. Martinez reached out.
Then all went black.
Chapter
TWENTY-FIVE
Tom dove into Tami’s trailer and ducked at the base of the kitchen cabinets. Shit! He lay flat on the carpet and could hear the others shouting in panic outside. A moment later they all came bursting inside.
A loud crack sounded just above Tom’s head. Another arrow had shattered one of the trailer windows, shards of glass raining down on his head.
“It’s coming from the trees,” Giovanni screamed.
With everyone inside the trailer, Tom jumped up, pulled the door shut, and locked it tight. All spread out, hunched low, eyes glued out the windows. Tom could see the wounded deputy lying in the gravel, gun clenched in her hand, arrows sticking out of her as if she were a pincushion. He couldn’t believe his eyes and blurted out, “They killed a cop!”
“Did you see who it was?” asked Eddie.
“No,” Tom replied.
“You guys?” Eddie asked the others.
“No,” Giovanni said.
Sheila shook her head, speechless.
Luther barked, “Shit!” Then, shouting out the broken window, he screamed, “Motherfucker!” He went from window to window, face red with anger, adrenaline peaking.
Tom asked, “What happened?”
Voice cracking, Sheila attempted to explain what she’d just witnessed. “One second the deputy was talking to us and everything was fine. The next she was hit by an arrow and started shooting. Then there were more arrows, and …”
“Who was she shooting at?” Tom asked.
&
nbsp; “I couldn’t see.”
“Did anyone see anything?” asked Eddie.
There was a moment of silence before a loud pop made Tom flinch. Another arrow—this one puncturing the trailer as if it were mere cardboard. He stared at the black projectile lodged into the wooden kitchen cabinet above his head, the feathered end vibrating like a pitchfork.
“Motherfucker!” Luther screamed.
Tom wished he had run into the woods instead of hiding in the trailer. “This is a death trap, he said. “We’re surrounded.”
“Why are they trying to kill us?” sounded Giovanni.
Tom stated the obvious. “Someone doesn’t want us here.”
“Who?” asked Sheila.
Nobody had an answer. Everyone peered out the windows for a clue.
“I’m going for the deputy’s gun,” Luther said, pointing to her fallen body near the squad car.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Giovanni said, but it was too late. Luther threw the bolt on the door and was out.
“Luther!”
From the window, Tom could see Luther run toward the fallen deputy, then drop and scurry commando-style. “That kid’s crazy,” he said.
Luther was about halfway there when an arrow struck him in the hip. He cursed and reached back to grab hold of the shaft.
“Get back here!” Giovanni yelled.
Resilient, Luther tried to pull the arrow out, face scrunching in pain, but finally gave up. He pressed forward until he reached Deputy Martinez. Luther pried the pistol from her hand and turned back. Another arrow flew past, missing him as he hobbled, the arrow lodged in his hip slowing his progress. Halfway back to the trailer, another arrow struck him in the back. He arched and cried out.
“Luther!” Giovanni screamed.
But Luther kept moving, determined. He stumbled inside the trailer and Tom slammed the door behind him, locking it.
Luther held up the pistol victoriously, and, gasping for air, said, “I got it,” before he fell to his knees.
Giovanni cried, “Why’d you do that?”
Luther gave Giovanni the pistol, tears in his eyes, and replied, “I got it for you.”
“I didn’t ask you to—”
Then Luther coughed blood, the crimson expulsion staining the white carpet.
Giovanni gasped.
Tom could see how uncomfortable Giovanni was holding the Glock, so he took it from him. The pistol was still warm from having been fired moments ago.
“Probably a punctured lung,” Eddie said, helping Giovanni prop Luther up to a sitting position.
“How can you tell?” Sheila asked.
“Blood in his windpipe,” Eddie said.
Tears in his eyes, Luther coughed more blood and leaned over. He moaned as a stream poured from the side of his mouth, the deep red in stark contrast against the white carpet.
“Nobody asked you to be the hero,” an emotional Giovanni said. “Why did you do that?”
Luther heaved, trying to catch his breath.
In frustration, Tom snapped, “Where’s that fucking passenger van?” He hated that he had been forced to give up his seat on the first run.
“Know how to use that thing?” Eddie asked, motioning to the gun in Tom’s hand.
“Sure,” Tom lied. In truth, he’d only shot a gun in a play once, a prop gun loaded with blanks. How different could it be?
“Keep an eye out,” Eddie said, motioning to the window.
Tom turned his attention out to the woods. He thought he saw something moving and aimed out the window but smoke from the fire hindered his visibility. Where are they?
“These arrows,” Sheila said, kneeled at Luther’s side, “it’s freaky that they’re so powerful … that they go right through this trailer.”
“We’re not safe in here,” Tom said.
Eddie asked, “What was it that the Park Ranger said? Something about Vaseline on the tip?”
“Makes them penetrate deeper,” Tom remembered. “What kind of crazy fuck—” he started to say when another arrow slammed through the trailer. Tom flinched then instinctively fired out the window. He didn’t see anything but wanted to let the killer know they had a gun.
“What’d you see?” Sheila asked.
The smell of burnt powder flared Tom’s nostrils before he admitted, “Nothing,” surprised by the kick of the 9 millimeter. It was considerably more substantial than the recoil he’d remembered from firing the prop gun in that stage play.
“Save the rounds,” Eddie said. “We may need them.”
“Who made you the boss?”
“I’m just saying that—”
“I know what I’m doing.”
Eddie said nothing in return. Instead, he helped Giovanni with a towel in an attempt to slow Luther’s bleeding.
Tom returned his attention to the window, studied the woods before he said, “It’s so weird nobody saw anything.”
Giovanni consoled Luther gently, “Try to relax. We’re going to get you help.”
Luther moaned in pain, gasping for air.
Tom had to look away. He turned to Eddie and asked, “Think it’s that old man?”
“What old man?” Sheila questioned.
“The roadside jerky guy,” Tom said, and then back to Eddie, “Tell ’em your theory.”
“I was saying to Tom, maybe it’s that jerky guy mad at us for some reason.”
“Why would he be mad?” Sheila said.
“I don’t know.”
“Or maybe it’s cannibalism,” Tom offered.
“Cannibalism?” Sheila questioned.
“Possibly,” Eddie said. “Maybe that beef jerky is actually—”
“Someone’s coming!” Tom snapped. Out the window he eyed a beat-up pickup truck with a camper shell driving into base camp. Tom trained the gun on the truck and said, “Who’s that?”
“The jerky guy,” Sheila said.
“He’s the killer?” Tom asked.
“Don’t know, but that’s his truck,” Eddie said.
All were silent and watched as the pickup came to a stop. The driver side door opened and, as if on cue, jerky proprietor Chuck emerged. He scratched his white sideburns and looked around.
“It’s him,” Sheila whispered.
The old man stood with a confused look on his face. From his position, fallen Martinez was out of sight, lying on the other side of the squad car. He scanned the surroundings and said aloud, “Hello!” Chuck then squinted in their direction. It appeared as if he’d noticed them hidden in the trailer.
“Shit, he sees us,” Tom said. He aimed the Glock as the old man approached. I’ll kill him, Tom figured. Because the guy was moving, he was not certain he could get a clean shot, so he waited. What’s that saying from American history in school? The whites of their eyes? Then the old man stopped and looked beyond them as if sensing something was not quite right.
“What’s he doing?” Sheila said.
Now that the jerky guy had stopped moving, Tom was pretty sure he could hit him. He had the sights lined on the man’s chest. He was about to squeeze the trigger when an arrow struck Chuck in the upper chest. The old man cried out, grasped the shaft with one hand. His knees quivered and he dropped.
Tom lowered the Glock with, “Holy shit!”
Chapter
TWENTY-SIX
Sheila couldn’t watch. She had to turn away as the old man cried out in anguish. She couldn’t stand to see another person die. It was so cruel and senseless. Chuck’s cries seemed to agitate Luther, who wheezed in labored breath before he coughed up even more discharge. Sheila assumed Luther must be drowning in his own blood, felt helpless that they couldn’t do anything to help him.
“We need to go get that guy,” Eddie proposed.
“You can, but I’m stayin
g here,” Tom said.
A minute later Chuck fell silent.
“We go for that pickup,” Sheila suggested.
Kneeling by Luther, Giovanni said, “I don’t know if we can move him.”
Sheila considered Luther for a moment before she said, “Take the gun and give us cover. We’ll get the truck and pull up alongside the trailer.” She could see from the look on Tom’s face that he didn’t like the idea. It appeared the actor had grown possessive of the 9 millimeter Glock.
“What makes you think we can make it to the truck?” Tom questioned.
“They can’t hit us all,” she said. “We make a scattered break for it.”
“They?”
“Or he … it may be more than one,” she said, searching for a clue out the window.
“And take our chances? That’s crazy,” Tom said.
Eddie said, “I say some of us can go for the truck and others go for the patrol car. At the same time.”
“What if the keys aren’t in either?” Tom said.
Sheila considered that before she said, “They’ve got to be in either the ignition or the pocket of the driver.”
“Yeah … well, that archer is one hell of a shot,” Tom reminded all. “We saw what happened to Luther. Taking the time to dig keys out of that old man’s pocket … you’re a sitting duck. It’s a death sentence for sure.”
“Maybe he’s still alive,” Eddie said. “He can tell us where they are.”
Sheila peered outside to see the old man curled up in a fetal position, motionless. “It’s the chance we’ve got to take,” she said.
“You guys can go but I’m staying right here,” Tom said, holding up the Glock. “Sooner or later someone will come for us.”
“What about Luther?” Giovanni said. “He needs help. We’ve got to get him to a hospital.”
Tom replied, “You guys can do whatever you want, but death by grease-tipped arrow is not in my job description.”
“We’ve all got to stick together,” Sheila said. There was a moment of tense silence as she, Tom, Eddie, and Giovanni considered each other. Luther had begun to slip in and out of consciousness.
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