Teri pulled the trigger. The man at the rear dropped.
A fusillade of shots rang out. The survivor apparently decided a spray of gunfire would help him avoid the fate of his compadre. And it might have, had there been any reason to the shots. Instead they sprayed wildly, none of them even coming close to her location. The only purpose they served was to allow her to home in on the source.
She cocked her head, listening. Aimed carefully. And squeezed the trigger again.
The shooting stopped.
CHAPTER 51
Chad had not covered his face as thickly as he should have. Sky peeked through the leaves and, when he opened his eyes again, he had a clear view with one eye of the man who sat on the tree trunk. Perspiration had plastered his shirt to his chest, but his heavily groomed hair remained in place, notwithstanding the rivulets of sweat that coursed down his temples.
Chad could see him, but could he see Chad? That was the question. Chad was tempted to brush a few more leaves over his face, but he knew that moving, with the accompanying rustle of dried leaves, was the absolute worst thing to do right now. He had to lie perfectly still and hope that his eye, if that’s all that was exposed, would simply be invisible against the bed of leaves.
From a distance, a gunshot split the stillness, followed a brief second later by a flurry of shots. Then a second shot like the first, followed by silence again. Chad recognized the sound of the rifle; Peggy had taken the first and last shots, spurring and then ending the intervening gunfire. He listened hard for any answering shots after Peggy’s second. Nothing but silence. That meant that the gunmen had been rendered incapable of returning fire.
The man on the tree jumped to his feet at the sound. He, too, seemed to be listening, anticipating even. At the ensuing silence, he frowned, his countenance visibly darkening. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, held it high, and stared at it, as if willing a connection. He turned slowly in a complete circle, phone held aloft. Chad knew his endeavor was doomed to failure. If ever you wanted to retreat to the good old days of the non-existence of technology, ninety percent of this ranch in Bandera County, Texas, was just the place to be.
The man punched buttons on the phone, the ineffectual beeps and boops infuriating him.
“Goddamnit!” he said as he flung the phone to the ground—right on top of Chad’s chest. It skittered slightly, then slid under the leaves and came to rest at Chad’s throat.
Chad held his breath. Could the man tell the difference in sound from throwing a cell phone into a pile of leaves as opposed to hitting something solid? He hoped not. And God forbid that he should seek to retrieve it.
The man looked north, as if trying to see what had transpired where the shots had been fired. He stood statue-still for a good five seconds then cocked his head, as if he had heard something.
Or as if there had been a delayed reaction in his brain to something that happened earlier. Five seconds earlier.
He looked at the pile of leaves where he had thrown his phone. A blank expression replaced the frown. He took a step toward the depression and looked down. At the edge, he flexed his knees slightly, bent, and stared. It seemed as if he was staring directly into Chad’s eye. He squinted, leaned closer.
Chad willed himself not to blink, hoping the darkness of his eye was obscured by the leaves. Or, if worse came to worst, an unblinking eye might convince the man that a dead animal lay beneath the leaves.
The man dropped to one knee and reached forward. Chad watched in horror as the hand reached the leaves on his chest, then disappeared beneath the surface, feeling for the cell phone. Fingers touched Chad’s shirt.
“What the hell?” The man’s eyes widened, his brows lifting damn near to his hair-line. He raised his gunhand and pointed the weapon directly at Chad—
Who grabbed the hand touching his chest and yanked with all the strength he had remaining in his one good arm. It was enough to pull the man off-balance and into the depression, directly on top of Chad. The gun went off, and Chad felt a sting of pain along the side of his head, then a deafening thud as the bullet embedded itself in the earth beneath him.
His left arm useless, Chad struggled to force the man’s body off to the other side, and then he scrambled to his knees. He reached into the morass of leaves while the other man got to his feet. Chad homed in almost instantly on the small saw Peggy had left with him. His vision blurred as he straightened and tried to focus on his enemy. It was more than just dizziness and pain that obscured the view. Blood gushed from his scalp, pouring into his left eye. Between that and the wound in his shoulder, the left side of his body was virtually worthless.
The man pointed his gun at Chad, while Chad struggled to raise the saw, wielding it like a sword.
“Goddamn, veterinarian, you think that’s a match for a gun?” Bozarth asked. He laughed. “I think you’ve been spending too much time with animals.”
“I’ll take animals any day over the likes of you.”
The excitement of the moment must have frayed the man’s thoughts. He adopted the same pose he had earlier, when thinking about the sound of the cell phone hitting Chad’s chest. Then he asked the question that Chad knew was coming.
“If you’re here, who are my men chasing? Teri Squire?”
Chad smiled.
“I don’t know what you’re so happy about, veterinarian,” Bozarth said. “Did you hear those gunshots?”
“I did.” Chad’s smile broadened.
“Then what the hell are you so happy about?”
“You don’t spend much time around guns, do you?”
“I leave that for others.”
“It’s a shame. If you did, you’d know that the first and last shots came from a rifle.”
The import of the words hit Bozarth like a punch in the face. “Bullshit.”
“Two shots, two men. The next bullet will be for you.”
“Again, bullshit. She’s an actress, for God’s sake.”
“She’s a ranch girl. She’s been hunting in these woods around here since she was a little girl. And she’s been shooting competitively since she was ten. She won that rifle at the county fair when she was fifteen. She’s the best—”
A shot rang out. Bozarth spun in a half-circle and dropped to his knees. The gun flew from his hand and landed a few yards away. Blood painted a broad swatch down his wilted white shirt, starting just above his right breast.
“—shot in Bandera County.”
Bozarth slumped to his side and pitched down the slope from the ridgeline. He flipped head over heels then sprawled onto his side, continuing to roll until he came to rest against the dead deer.
Chad looked back along the ridgeline. Peggy ran toward him, carrying the rifle in front of her with both hands.
Blackness washed over him, and he toppled back into the depression of leaves.
Teri knelt beside Chad and felt for his pulse. Weak, thready, but there. She crawled to the edge of the ridge and peered down, careful not to
show too much of herself. She knew she had shot Bozarth, but she didn’t
know if the shot had been fatal or even disabling. Was he still armed? Was
he waiting for her down there? She had to make sure.
It was hard to see in the dark, but all she could make out down below
was the deer.
She crawled south along the ridgeline, endeavoring to get a better
line of sight around the cedars on the slope. Still nothing. How long had it
been? Surely no more a minute from the shot until she reached Chad,
checked his pulse, and then looked down the hill. He couldn’t have gotten
far. But what if she had missed him? What if this was just a trick, designed
to lure her closer and get her to drop her guard.
No, that was impossible. She didn’t miss. She didn’t miss. She knew,
because she never missed.
She backed up until she was beside Chad again. He was stil
l out, but
breathing. She slid into the depression beside him.
And waited for Bozarth’s next move.
CHAPTER 52
Nichols and Stillman followed in their rental car as Bandera County Sheriff Waggoner led them in his squad car along the state highway that bordered Chad Palmer’s ranch. The speed limit signs said “65,” but Stillman viewed that as more of a dare than limit. No way you could hit that speed, much less maintain it, on this road that serpentined its way through rough, craggy hills on both sides, with constant elevation rises and drops. A blue haze hung over the valleys, adding to the 3D effect as you looked in the distance.
Waggoner spoke on his cell phone. Nichols, in the passenger seat, held his phone between his partner and himself, the speaker on.
“This land has been in Chad’s family for a hundred years. They used to run cattle and horses on it. His folks died in a car wreck about ten years ago and left it to him. He still runs horses, but not so much cattle anymore.”
“How do you do any kind of ranching in these hills?” Stillman asked.
“We’re about to level out and hit the meadows and pastures,” Waggoner said. “Most of the hills are just for show. The ranching takes place in the valley up ahead.”
“How many acres?”
“I don’t know exactly. Five thousand, maybe. Main gate’s up ahead.”
Sure enough, they descended a hill and reached a broad expanse of flat land, an anomaly in the area. Horses roamed a pasture on one side of the road, while the other was just an open meadow.
“Beautiful,” Stillman said.
The main entry consisted of white rock pillars on either side, with a wrought iron archway that proclaimed “Palmer Acres.” The gate was open, so the sheriff slowed and entered, followed by the detectives.
“Don’t be surprised if you lose cell service in here. It’s spotty, at best.”
“That gate always open?” Stillman asked.
“Chad generally keeps it that way during the day. In case anyone needs to bring an animal to see him.”
“So this is where his vet office is?”
“Most large animal vets are pretty much just visiting doctors, so not much need for an office. But Chad takes on all comers. Dogs, cats, squirrels—”
“Squirrels?” Nichols asked.
“More than once, someone hit a squirrel crossing the road, but didn’t kill it, so the driver or someone coming along later picked it up and took it to Chad.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Nope. Chad’s an animal lover, and everyone—”
Waggoner cut out in mid-sentence. Nichols pocketed the phone. “Guess we’re out of service.”
They rode silently for just over another mile before Waggoner slammed on his brakes, threw open his door and got out. Nichols pulled up and stopped behind him, and he and Stillman joined Waggoner by the fenceline. They saw instantly what had grabbed his attention: a body, with blood covering his throat, splatters on his face.
All three men pulled guns from holsters as Waggoner led the way through an opening in the fence. “Been some traffic through here recently,” he said. “Tire tracks look fresh.”
He pointed across the meadow toward three pick-up trucks, barely visible in the shadows next to the trees about a half a football field away that marked the beginning of dense woods. “That’s Chad’s truck. Don’t know who the others belong to.”
They reached the body. Waggoner checked for a pulse then shook his head.
“You know him?” Stillman asked.
“Never seen him before.”
The report of a gunshot echoed across the valley. The two CHP detectives instinctively ducked, but Waggoner remained standing.
“Could just be hunters,” Waggoner said. “Gunfire’s not uncommon out here.”
“And could be whoever’s in those other two trucks,” Stillman said.
Waggoner nodded. “I’ll call for back-up.”
He hustled back to his vehicle, spoke into the radio, then motioned for the detectives to follow. They retreated to their rental, got in, and followed Waggoner as he slowly drove across the meadow to the three trucks. A quick once-over of the newer model vehicle and the one next to it revealed nothing interesting, but Chad Palmer’s truck was a different story.
“That’s a lot of blood,” Stillman said.
“I just hope it’s not Chad’s,” Waggoner said.
“I think we better find out,” Nichols said.
Waggoner nodded. The radio chirped in his car. He slid into the front seat, spoke briefly, and then returned. “Back-up’s on the way. And Chad’s not answering his landline at the house.”
“Let’s move out,” Stillman said. He led the way into the trees.
Bozarth ran through the woods as if his life depended on it. And given that a dead-eye Texas bitch with a rifle, who had already put one bullet in him, was after him, there was a good chance it did. The whole thing was unraveling faster than he dreamed possible. With the screenwriter gone— both the real one and the fake one, whichever was which—and then the agents gone, the hype over The Precipice was building to a crescendo, and he and his investors stood to make their entire investment back in the first weekend. The only nagging loose end was Teri Squire. It appeared that she might have a conscience, and consciences were troubling, especially when there were skeletons to keep in closets, secrets to keep buried, and money to keep untraceable.
Add to that the additional hype that might accompany her death or disappearance—who knew how many box office dollars might be attributable to folks jumping on the “See Teri Squire’s last movie” bandwagon?—and the obscure contractual provision that would make him, as the sole survivor of the production team, the big winner of the profits, and she had to go. It was simple: Profits divided by three were less than profits divided by two, which were less than undivided profits. All that had to happen was for Teri Squire to simply disappear. She didn’t even have to die, at least as far as the world was concerned; just disappear.
Now it looked like he might be the one to disappear.
His foot hit a tree stump. He staggered, his legs weakened by loss of blood from his chest, but strengthened by adrenaline. When he grabbed a tree branch to steady himself and catch his breath, he heard rustling sounds of leaves.
Hell!
She was chasing him.
He looked back and cocked his head to listen. It was already too dark to see anything in these damn trees, but the sounds seemed close. And, strangely, they seemed to come from in front of him instead of behind him. Close. Very close.
He spun around and found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.
“Douglas Bozarth,” the man holding the gun said. “I’m California Highway Patrol Detective Stillman.”
“A little out of your jurisdiction, aren’t you?”
“I get that a lot.”
“They’re with me,” a second man said. This one wore the uniform of a Texas sheriff. A third man stood beside the sheriff. All three had guns pointed at him.
“You’ve got two options,” Stillman said. “You can decide to test your luck in court, or you can be carried out in a body-bag. Which is it going to be?”
Bozarth raised his hands over his head and dropped to his knees.
“Where’s Teri Squire?” Stillman asked, while Waggoner handcuffed Bozarth.
“And Chad Palmer?” the sheriff asked.
“Behind me, on a ridge,” Bozarth said. “I’d be careful if I were you. She’s deadly with a rifle.”
Waggoner jerked Bozarth to his feet and led him out of the woods. Stillman and Nichols went in search of the girl with the gun.
Teri lay silently on the ridge, rifle aimed below. She listened for sounds to tell her where Bozarth might be and from what direction his attack might come.
Minutes passed. Maybe even thirty minutes; she couldn’t tell—she had lost all sense of time. Then she heard movement. She leaned forward on her elbows, vision vir
tually nonexistent. Multiple footsteps, coming closer.
Then a man’s voice. “Ms. Squire? It’s Detectives Nichols and Stillman. CHP.”
She remained quiet. It could be a trick, though the voice certainly sounded familiar, and it wasn’t Bozarth’s.
“We’ve got Bozarth. We need to know if you’re all right. And Dr. Palmer.”
She’d only heard the detective a time or two, but that was definitely his voice.
Still...
“Ms. Squire? This is Detective Stillman. We’re going to step forward slowly. We understand you’ve got a rifle and are a pretty good shot with it.”
“She’s goddamn Annie Oakley!” Chad yelled from behind her.
That drew laughs from the two men below. Even Teri had to smile.
“You’re out of your jurisdiction,” she said.
“Damned if we’re not.”
She stood. “We’re up here. Chad needs a doctor.”
“Okay,” Stillman said. “We’re coming up. Don’t shoot. We’re the good guys.”
“I know that,” she said in a soft voice.
CHAPTER 53
Teri rode with Stillman and Nichols to the hospital, while Sheriff Waggoner carted Doug Bozarth to the Bandera County Jail. Teri sat in the back seat, her eyes glued to the night sky, watching the helicopter heading toward San Antonio, forty-five miles southeast of Bandera. Although Bandera had several good medical doctors in town, and a good emergency clinic, Chad’s wound, especially with the blood loss, was deemed too severe for the town’s limited facilities, so the helicopter was summoned to deliver him to the closest hospital with the kind of trauma care facility that his injury demanded.
“I’m sure he’s going to be okay,” Nichols said. He sat in the passenger seat while his partner drove.
The Bequest Page 26