Finding the shotgun provided him with a brief rush of gratitude. But the good feeling wouldn’t last. He dug in his coat pocket for his cell phone, meaning to again call 9-1-1. It wasn’t in his right pocket where he’d thought he had put it and it wasn’t in his left. Frantically, he dropped the Benelli and began to search all his pockets. After a moment, he stopped. He had to accept that the phone had fallen from his pocket, that it was gone. He swung his light across the snow but saw no sign of it. He dropped to his knees and began pawing through the snow with his bare hands. His sense of failure and mortification was like a painful swelling in his gut. At last he picked up the Benelli and got to his feet. He decided that the cell phone must have dropped from his pocket when he’d fallen from the bedroom window.
Hurrying back through the snow to the house, Charlie leaned the shotgun against the wall, took off his gloves and began to search the area beneath the window. He crawled around on all fours, holding the flashlight in his mouth. He tried to be methodical, but he was too panicky. He dug through the snow, throwing it around him. He sifted it through his fingers. He patted the ground. After several minutes he stopped. He knew that Paulie Durkin was somewhere nearby, as were Emma and Artemis, as, in fact, was Victor. Were they even alive? If so, then surely they were in great danger. He had to find them, cell phone or no cell phone. The danger, or his personal danger, couldn’t matter. This was something he had to repeat to himself. Otherwise he was afraid that his fear would lead him to forget it.
Soon he was again trudging toward the two barns with his flashlight in his left hand, the shotgun tucked under his right arm and his right hand in his pocket. The snow came down as hard as ever. The murdered sheriff’s deputy was gradually being covered up. Charlie looked down at the man as he passed, but there was nothing he could do about him. Moving forward in a crouch, he kept sensing someone behind him. He’d spin around, raising the shotgun, but he saw no one and such turns only got him off track. Shortly, with all his turns and adjustments, he no longer knew the direction of the barn. Shining his light and turning in a circle, he saw only the shifting wall of snow.
Then he heard a whisper. “Charlie, over here.”
He jumped and nearly fired the shotgun, but it was Victor. He moved in the direction of the voice and felt hugely grateful. “Where are you?” he whispered. He still couldn’t see his friend.
“Right here, in the hedge.”
Charlie moved forward until he fell into it. The hedge was unpleasantly prickly. “You’re under the hedge?”
“Exactly.”
“How’d you crawl under it?”
“Willpower.”
Charlie crouched down on his knees. His pants by this time were wet from his socks to his belt. “Why are you here?”
“Come on, Charlie, you know perfectly well why I’m here. Someone wants me dead. So I’m staying here till daylight, or till the cops come. You fucking misled me about what might happen, like I could get killed.”
“Aren’t you cold?”
“I got my snowmobile suit. I’m as toasty as a bedbug in a whorehouse.”
Charlie began to say that he didn’t know Victor had a snowmobile, but then he asked, “What happened to your car?”
“I was having a little snooze when somebody snuck up and hammered on my hood. I nearly shat my pants. It was a young guy with a big knife. My gun was in my lap and I fired, but I didn’t hit him. He’d ducked down out of sight. After a minute or two, I went to look for him. Like I had my gun and my light and I felt pissed that I’d put two bullets through my own fuckin’ windshield. But I didn’t see him again, at least not then.”
“What did he look like?” But Charlie already knew it was Paulie Durkin. Who else could it be?
“I don’t know; he was agile and tall. I didn’t have time to study his face. I got to the house, but couldn’t find anyone. Then the lights went out. Scared the shit out of me. I had my flashlight, but it was spooky. The guy was playing a game with me, making me use up my bullets. When I was in the sunroom, he threw something at the glass. I saw him outside and shot at him and he disappeared. That gave me two more shots. So I got out of there. I’d thought my days of speed were over, but I moved pretty quick. I’d fall, get up and run some more, then fall again and run some more till I ran smack into this hedge. Then I scooted underneath.”
“You call 9-1-1?”
“I had a long chat with Rosemary an hour or so ago and I’m outta battery. My charger’s back home. How ’bout you?”
“Dropped my phone in the snow. Couldn’t find it.”
Victor laughed. “We’re a pair, aren’t we?”
Charlie felt comforted by his friend’s laughter. “Don’t tell anyone.”
“Fat chance. You see Artemis or Janey? I saw the busted bedroom door and the open window.”
“It was Emma. Janey’s not here. Emma took her car so she could go riding in the morning.”
“That doesn’t sound good.” Victor lowered his voice, indicating his fear. “You think they’re okay?”
“Don’t even ask that.” Charlie paused. “I got to think they’re okay.” He paused again. “At least you’re okay, that’s something.”
“Don’t go all sweet on me, Charlie. I’m a happily married man.”
Charlie couldn’t see Victor, though he guessed his head was about ten inches away. He kept getting whiffs of garlic. Squinting, he could make out a dark blur that was maybe the tip of Victor’s nose. He reached out and touched it.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Victor sounded indignant.
“I was just wondering if that was your nose.”
“Who the fuck’s nose did you think it was?”
“Well, I’m sorry, and I’m sorry I put you in such danger. You know the sheriff’s deputy’s dead? He’s lying over there in the snow.”
Victor jerked back enough to make the hedge rattle. “Franklin? I was just talking to him earlier. Was his throat cut?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Victor was quiet and then said, “Charlie, why do you do this shit? Are you trying to be a hero? You got us into a pickle.”
Charlie thought in vain for an answer, but maybe there wasn’t an answer. He was cold, depressed and scared, and that seemed bad enough for the time being. Better to keep his mind blank. He leaned back against the hedge and brushed snow from his face. Right then he heard a shout, more of a yell, from the direction of the barn. The hairs on the back of his neck shot up again.
Victor grabbed Charlie’s wrist. “Jesus, who is it?”
Charlie pulled back. “It’s a female voice. I’m going over there. You coming?” Charlie was already moving away when he’d finished speaking.
Victor didn’t move. “Can’t do it, Charlie. I’m scared shitless. I’ll stay here and defend the fort. I got just two bullets, ’less you want to swap and give me the Benelli.”
“How in the world would you think . . . !” Crossly, Charlie had started to insult his friend. Then he stopped. It was senseless to blame Victor. “So maybe I’ll see you later.”
“Yeah, let’s hope so.” Victor made a throat-clearing noise. “Sorry, Charlie.”
Charlie plodded away through the snow and kept his light off. The position of the hedge and direction of the cry had given him a better idea where the barns might be located. He tried to hurry, but he kept stumbling. He didn’t want to think of the yell and who had made it and what it might signify.
He calculated that the smaller of the two barns where the horses were mostly stabled was about a hundred yards away. The larger dressage barn was on the other side of the paddock. He kept his head down, shuffled forward and at last he found the smaller barn by walking into it with a thump. He fell back into the snow, making sure not to drop the shotgun. Charlie sat a moment, rubbing his head, and then got up again. He stood listening, but heard nothing.
Making his way around to the front of the barn, he found that the wide sliding door was open, though he couldn’t see anything. Charlie stepped inside onto the concrete aisle and curbed a desire to turn on his light. A horse stamped in its stall and there was the drip of water from the roof, but otherwise there was no noise. He was tempted to call out for Emma, but he knew that was the worst thing he could do. Instead, he put his back to a wall and waited. A second horse was shuffling about.
“Charlie, is that you?”
It was a man’s voice. Charlie ducked down and tightened his grip on the shotgun. “Who is it?”
“Richie.”
Charlie turned on his light, which reflected off Richie’s face. Richie put up a hand to cover his eyes. “Hey!”
Charlie pointed the light at the floor. It was Paulie, or rather Paulie and Richie were the same man. He raised the shotgun. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m looking for Artemis. I thought I heard her yell. None of the lights work.”
Charlie decided to play along for a bit. “You see anyone else?”
“Just you. The whole place is empty.”
“A sheriff deputy’s dead. His body’s lying in the snow. His throat was cut.”
“You’re fucking kidding. D’you know who did it?”
“A young guy by the name of Paulie Durkin.”
There was a pause. Then the man said, “Never heard of him. You think he’s around here?”
“I’m pretty sure of it.”
“Wow, what kind of gun is that?”
Charlie shone his light on the shotgun. “It’s made by Benelli in Italy. A shotgun. The marines use them.” He seemed to be bragging.
“That’s incredible! Can I see it?”
Charlie raised the light to the man’s face. He squinted and turned his head, but he was smiling. Light brown hair stuck out from under a Yankees cap.
“You’re Paulie Durkin,” said Charlie, evenly.
Right away, the man raised his arm and threw a small shovel that hit Charlie’s light, sending it clattering down the barn floor until it banged against something and went out.
At the same second, Charlie jumped to one side, found the trigger and pulled. The explosion ripped through the air. There was a flare from the muzzle and then the dark grew doubly dark. Horses whinnied and stamped in their stalls. Ducking down against the wall, Charlie fired again in what he thought was Paulie’s direction. He moved farther along the aisle into the barn. He stopped to listen, but the horses were making too much noise: snorting and stamping. There was a neigh like a high scream. Charlie waited.
Then came a quiet voice. “Missed me.”
Charlie fired again in the direction of the voice. The blast again scared the horses. There was more neighing and snorting. Charlie scooted farther along the concrete floor, crouching and holding the Benelli in front of him but close to his body. He stopped and leaned back against the wooden wall. The shotgun held three more shells, though Charlie had others in his pocket. He made no sound, tried not to breathe. The noise of the horses made it impossible to hear what Paulie might be doing. Charlie considered saying something to the other man, something about his father and what had really happened. Then he thought how stupid that was.
The horses remained fearful: kicking out and rustling around. There were three of them. One in a stall across from Charlie gave a high whinny; another snorted and stamped. Edging several feet to his right, Charlie bumped his head against a post projecting about four inches from the wall. Exploring it with his free hand, he found it was a ladder that went up to the loft above the stalls. He grabbed a rung and began to climb. When he reached the loft, he crawled forward. Then he turned and sat with his legs crossed. He didn’t think Paulie had heard him, but he couldn’t be sure. He slipped three more shells into the shotgun.
Then came a voice from the floor below, almost a whisper. “You killed my old man.” There was no anger in the voice; it was simply stating a fact.
Charlie began to answer, but stopped. He gripped the shotgun and tried to calculate where the voice was coming from. The horses were quieting a little, but their restless agitation, pawing the floor and snorting, still hid Paulie’s movements.
When the whisper came again, it was from the second loft, directly across the aisle from Charlie. “You and that bitch and Fletcher Campbell—yeah, I know you didn’t knife him, but you killed him just the same.” The voice was like the quiet rasp of a file.
Again Charlie was tempted to speak, but kept silent. Absurdly, he worried that Paulie could hear the beating of his heart. It seemed deafening in Charlie’s ears. Stop being foolish, he told himself. He steadied his breathing and tried to listen.
The whisper came a third time, but now it came from the loft on Charlie’s side of the barn, somewhere near the big sliding door. “You don’t think you need to be killed like the others? It’s fast, Charlie. You’ll hardly feel it.”
Charlie raised the shotgun and fired twice in the direction of the voice. The row of windows above the barn door shattered. Horses whinnied. At the same time, he heard a startled cry from somewhere behind him—not loud. It was more like an abrupt intake of breath. Still, it was loud enough for him to know it was a woman’s voice and that it belonged to either Artemis or Emma. He guessed it was Emma. Wouldn’t Artemis have more self-control no matter how frightened she was? But maybe Emma and Artemis were together. He wanted to call to them, but the folly of the thought scared him.
Then the whisper: “Missed again, Charlie.” Silence and the whisper again: “It’s painless, Charlie. A quick cut, a little thrashing and that’s all. Both of you, and then I’ll be done.”
Charlie fired, aiming lower, thinking that Paulie might be lying flat on the floor. There was more breaking glass and more upset from the horses. Then he scooted backward across the loft above the harness room. It was scattered with hay, which made a rustling noise. He slid six more shells into the Benelli. Maybe he had three more shells left. At this rate, they’d hardly be enough. “Both of you,” Paulie had said. Did that mean he didn’t know about Emma or didn’t mean to include her? And if he didn’t know about her, where was she?
A minute passed in silence. Had he hit Paulie, or was Paulie sneaking toward him? Charlie kept crawling toward the back of the barn, each movement taking several seconds as he made himself stay quiet. His hand bumped some harder object. It was a hay rake. Picking it up, he threw it down to the main floor. It banged and slid along the concrete aisle. There were more horse noises. Would Paulie think he was down there, or was he still creeping forward? Charlie reached the back wall; he could go no farther. He lay down on his stomach with the shotgun pointing in front of him. Surely the police must be coming, but he knew that what seemed an hour to him was only about fifteen minutes. Even so, they had to be close. But did he have any good reason for believing that? He fought off the temptation to shoot several rounds in Paulie’s direction. Maybe he had hit Paulie with those last shots; maybe he was wounded or even dead. Maybe. But he knew that was what Paulie would want him to think—the illusion of safety.
One of the horses began to whinny and stamp the floor; then another began, then the third—stamping and kicking at their wooden walls. Charlie couldn’t think what was wrong, till he smelled the smoke. Paulie had set fire to the hay. Now Charlie saw a glimmer of light. He heard a noise above him and rolled over, ready to shoot. But it wasn’t Paulie. In the dim light from the fire, he saw Artemis on one of the beams above him; then he saw Emma on another, both hanging on like scared cats as they scuttled forward on their stomachs toward a support post.
Charlie looked around for Paulie, but didn’t see him. The smoke was growing thicker. Artemis was about a dozen feet above him. “Hurry,” he called to her.
“Get the horses out!” she cried. “Open their stalls!”
Charlie had gone to the ladder, but hesitated in the loft
at the top. He kept looking for Paulie, who, he thought, might be directly beneath him in one of the empty stalls or he could be just outside the sliding door. In fact, thought Charlie, he could be anyplace. All Paulie had to do was wait until the fire forced them to run from the barn.
“Hurry!” cried Artemis, running toward him across the loft. “Make sure you cover their eyes or they’ll run back.”
Charlie climbed down several rungs and then jumped, aiming for the middle of the aisle so he might see Paulie. He landed and fell forward on his face, letting go of the shotgun, which slid forward a few feet. He leapt forward to grab it. His face hurt and he’d scraped his hands. Paulie was nowhere in sight.
Artemis sprang past him and ran to the double door of the first stall. Emma ran after her to another. Charlie kept turning around, trying to see the entire barn. The fire made a flickering light; through the smoke Charlie saw flames toward the front. If Paulie was going to kill them, this would be the perfect place, though maybe he’d be satisfied to burn them alive.
“Charlie!” called Artemis.
He moved along the wall to the first stall door. Artemis was holding on to a horse’s halter with both hands as it tried to rear up. Emma was in the next stall.
“Give me your scarf!” cried Artemis.
Charlie was still peering down the aisle of the barn toward where he thought Paulie must be. Then he undid his scarf and tossed it to Artemis, who wrapped it around the horse’s eyes. It stopped rearing up, though it kept neighing and stamping. She pulled it by its halter toward the door of the stall, whispering in its ear. The fire was now burning in the loft, with flames shooting toward the roof. “Help Emma,” Artemis called as she hurried with the horse toward the barn door.
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