by Sean Lynch
“You sure are a good fellow,” he told the Labrador, who followed him inside. He left the door ajar in case the dog wanted out.
Leaning against door was a shotgun. It was a 12-gauge Remington model 870 Wingmaster with a twenty-six-inch ventilated-rib barrel. It wore the scars of many seasons’ hard use but had been lovingly cared for. Kearns envisioned Elsa’s husband squatting in a duck blind, waiting for game birds to take flight. He wondered if he’d ever hunted with his son Mark before his untimely death.
Kearns loaded the shotgun’s tubular magazine to capacity with four 00 buckshot shells, leaving the chamber empty and the safety off. The government .45 he slid under the pillow of the bed. He stripped off his shorts and slid under the covers, looking forward to the bliss of sleep. Cody, uninvited but nevertheless welcome, hopped up on the bed and lay at his feet.
When Kearns awoke, it was dark. He sat up with a start. Cody was gone, and the cottage door was wide open. He sensed a presence in the room. With his heart pounding, he guided his right hand under the pillow and over the grip of the pistol resting there. He peered into the darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim light.
When his eyes finally focused, he relaxed. Standing inside the doorway, silhouetted by the moonlight, stood Paige. With the light behind her, her face was shadowed and he couldn’t make out her expression. She was wearing a short robe and standing motionless.
“Paige,” he began. “What–”
“I thought about this morning,” she said, quieting him. Her voice was almost inaudible, even in the hushed silence of the cottage. She approached the bed. Throwing back her shoulders, she let the robe slip off. Beneath it she wore nothing.
Kearns blinked, unsure of what he was seeing. The moon’s illumination danced across her features, lending Paige an almost otherworldly glow. Her hair was down and her face, now visible, was calm.
Wordlessly, she peeled back the covers and climbed into bed. Kearns could feel the heat emanating from her body. She placed her hands on his shoulders, and he let her push him back down. Paige leaned over him and pressed her lips against his.
Still in shock, it was several seconds before he responded. Paige’s body was hard and hot, her lips and tongue a moist inferno. There was a barely subdued urgency in her embrace. It was as if Paige had been suppressing an uncontrollable need and suddenly unleashed it. Kearns put his hand on the small of her back, lifted, and turned his body around hers, placing her underneath him. Their mouths melted further. She reacted with fervor, arching her back, leaning into him.
Much later, when the wave subsided and both lay out of breath and entwined in each other’s sweat-soaked limbs, she snuggled against him. A long time passed with nothing spoken.
“You must think I’m crazy,” she finally said.
“Not at all. I think you’re enchanting.”
“Enchanting?” She propped herself on one elbow to face him. Her eyes were wide in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
He smiled. “I know it sounds corny–”
“I’ll say.”
“–but the term applies.”
Kearns thought she was going to argue with him, but instead, Paige resumed her snuggling position. She ran her hand over the scars on his chest and abdomen.
“These are from the child killer Vernon Slocum, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“He almost killed you, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you go after him? Why didn’t you let the police handle it?”
“It was mine to do.”
“What made it your responsibility?”
“These aren’t the only scars he left me,” Kearns said, touching her hand on his chest.
“I’m not sure why I came here,” she said, as if an explanation was necessary.
“Wasn’t that you wanted to enough?”
“It’s out of character for me.”
“Only because it’s been a long time since you let your guard down and relaxed. Is that so terrible?”
Another long silence came on. Eventually, Paige broke it. “You took a big chance today, kissing me,” she said into his neck.
“I couldn’t help myself; I like you.”
“I think I’m starting to like you too, Kevin.”
“Starting?” he mocked. “When will you know for sure?”
“Maybe tomorrow morning,” she said mischievously, climbing on top of him.
Afterward, she fell asleep in his arms. Not long after Paige succumbed to slumber, Kearns drifted into sleep as well. He awoke to Paige’s cries and found her in the throes of a nightmare. Her fists were clenched and her body drenched in cold sweat.
He held her tightly and swept the matted hair from her eyes. The nightmare abated. She never woke up, and soon fell back into undisturbed sleep.
Kearns did not fall back asleep, electing to remain awake and stand vigil against her nightmares.
CHAPTER 40
Ray Cowell was not a happy camper.
The last twenty-four hours had passed in agonizing slowness. His body hurt more and his mood darkened with each passing minute. He craved a cigarette so badly, he physically ached. The previous day was the longest stretch he’d gone without smoking since he’d picked up the habit in his fifteenth year.
He’d almost allowed himself the pleasure of a cigarette once or twice, but each time he did, the faint scent of chlorine from the pool below would waft by. Ray decided not to risk the distinct smell of burning tobacco divulging his presence.
What Ray presumed would be a relaxing day of observation and preparation had instead become a miserable period of almost unbearable torment. The sun had poured down on him mercilessly all yesterday, baking his body, soaking him in sweat, and magnifying his craving for a smoke exponentially. His makeshift campsite/observation post, composed of a sleeping bag and camouflaged tarpaulin, had provided shade but no protection from the blistering heat.
Ray emptied his only canteen by early afternoon and cursed himself for not bringing more water. He presumed one canteen would be more than enough. He hadn’t anticipated how thirsty he would become lying immobile in the heat of the Napa Valley. And the salty snacks he’d brought along, crackers and beef jerky, which he gobbled incessantly since he couldn’t smoke, heightened his thirst even more.
The fatigues he wore were hot and restrictive. When his overheating skin could bear them no longer and he shed them, he found the fleas and mosquitoes more than willing to feast on his exposed flesh. Even the fleeting pleasure of masturbation, which he indulged in as he watched the slut frolic at the pool, was no consolation and left his throat and mouth dryer than ever.
Ray had, during the eye-opening past twenty-four hours, become acutely aware of the disparity between reading military texts and actually carrying out the maneuvers described in them.
His generally poor physical condition didn’t make matters any easier. Ray’s thin body was flaccid from his sedentary lifestyle and chronic lack of exercise, and his two-pack-a-day cigarette habit augmented this weakness. The uphill hike through the woods from his car to his vantage point over the Callen property the previous morning, under the weight of his loaded duffel bag, left his legs trembling and his breath coming in gasps.
The night, though somewhat cooler, had passed no more quickly. While he welcomed the sun’s departure and the decline in temperature it brought, Ray did not receive the increased insect activity with the same eagerness. He spent a fitful night slapping at his face and neck and again cursing himself, this time for not having the foresight to anticipate a need for mosquito netting.
By the time the sun began to crest the horizon, Ray was a mess. His muscles were stiff and cramped from lying motionless for so long, his skin was a mass of insect bites and stings, and his throat was as dry and scratchy as the weeds covering the dusty hillside below him. And his lack of sleep for nearly thirty-six hours sparked a steadily rising tide of fury along with his mounting exhaustion.
<
br /> Ray squinted through his binoculars, his jaw clenching behind cracked lips. He grunted in satisfaction as he watched the whore and her boyfriend jog away from the ranch, taking the same route as yesterday. He was beginning to think they were never going to leave.
He checked his watch. He’d timed their run the day before, which lasted just under fifty-five minutes. He had plenty of time. He waited until they rounded the first turn and were out of sight to make his move.
Ray got shakily to his feet, his muscles screaming in protest. He felt light-headed and blinked several times to clear the cobwebs from his brain. He put on a pair of gloves and picked up his carbine, which he stared at in disgust. Once again, he became irritated at his lack of foresight and failure to give attention to detail its proper place in his planning.
Ray had replaced the standard stock of the M1 some weeks before, modifying it with a pistol grip and sling for concealment under his coat. At the time, he thought the modification quite clever, ideal for an urban environment where carrying a rifle around grabbed attention. But out here, in the country, he would much rather have had the full-length stock in place where he could shoulder the weapon for an aimed shot if needed. As it was, the carbine’s accuracy was greatly diminished by the fact that it could now only be fired like a pistol.
He pulled back the bolt of the M1 carbine and let it ride forward to chamber the first cartridge. It had a thirty-round magazine in place. He was also armed with his 9mm Glock pistol in a holster at his waist and a hunting knife. Ray looked around at the remainder of his gear scattered in the makeshift hide.
The original plan called for Ray to pack all his gear back into the duffel bag, shoulder it, and take it with him down the hill. There, he could discard the bag before entering the house. Once his mission was completed, he would take one of the cars, possibly the new-looking Jeep the slut had arrived in, load his duffel bag into it, and drive himself back to where he’d stashed his own car.
But as he stood up on shaky feet to ready himself for the final phase of his plan, his body weak from lack of water and sleep, and the previous day’s torturous vigil, he decided to amend his plan. Ray realized he didn’t have the strength to carry the duffel down the hill and still maintain the necessary energy needed for what lay ahead. He elected to leave his gear on the hilltop; he could always retrieve it later after he’d eaten and drunk from the kitchen below. He put on his hat, crouched low, and began to descend the slope toward the house.
His plan was quite simple. With the slut and her boyfriend gone, Ray would enter the house and deal with the old woman quickly and quietly. Then he would wait in ambush for the lovebirds to return and take them by surprise. That had been the original plan; how things were supposed to have unfolded at the Judge’s house in Alameda. But then the idiot in the Porsche had showed up and ruined everything. As a result of that unforeseeable occurrence, Ray hadn’t been able to finish the Judge and was lucky to make his escape. Sometimes, even the most careful plans could go awry, Ray had discovered.
Nothing was going to go awry today, because Ray was taking no chances. He planned to cut the boyfriend down first, using the carbine, since by then, noise would no longer be a consideration. Then he would deal with the whore.
That would take a while.
Ray felt his groin tighten at the thought of being in the house alone with the slut, with no one to intervene and all the time he wanted. Images of her begging helplessly flooded over him, and he shuddered in anticipation of what was to come. She was going to make up for yesterday.
For all his yesterdays.
Ray covered ground rapidly, getting a second wind. His anticipation triggered an adrenaline jolt, and he found himself picking up his pace. Within minutes, he was at the edge of the patio, and the cool blue water of the pool reminded him of his burning thirst. He resisted the urge to stop and take a drink, as the open ground between the patio and the back of the house was easily visible to anyone looking out through the rear windows. He remembered the woman was an early riser and had breakfast ready when the slut returned from her jog the morning before.
Ray tiptoed across the stone patio and put his back to the wall adjacent to the sliding-glass rear door. The door was open. He could hear movement from inside as well as music.
He took a moment to glance at his watch. He’d used twelve minutes to descend the hill. Ray was well within his preplanned time parameters for setting up in the house before the slut and her boyfriend returned. He peered around the doorframe into the home’s interior.
The kitchen came into view. He could see the woman’s back as she faced the stove. She was wearing a long flowered robe and slippers, and her hair was down past her shoulders. The smell of bacon cooking made Ray’s mouth water. The serene sounds of classical music emanated from somewhere within.
Ray slung the carbine over his shoulder by its web sling and drew his knife. He held it low, with the blade facing out, as illustrated in William E. Fairbairn’s Scientific Self-Defence. The distance between him and the old woman was perhaps twenty feet. He entered the kitchen as quietly as he could.
Ray moved deliberately, willing her not to turn around. His heart was racing, and he was gripping the knife handle so tightly, his hand was cramping. He had only to pass a series of waist-high cabinets and he would reach her. Three or four steps at most, no more.
He was almost upon her when all hell broke loose.
The big yellow Labrador leaped at his midsection, a snarling juggernaut of animal ferocity. Ray screamed and tried to back up, but the dog was already on him. He staggered rearward as he felt canine teeth sink deep into his left thigh. The dog must have been curled up on the other side of the cabinets, hidden from sight at the woman’s feet.
The woman whirled on him. Ray was on one knee, slashing at the dog with his knife, trying to fend off the furious attack with his other forearm. He could see his own blood on his arm and leg. He felt the knife sink into the animal’s flesh, but the dog gave no quarter. It continued to growl and chomp, the onslaught of its jaws savage and relentless.
He released the knife and began fumbling for his pistol. The Labrador shook its head back and forth with Ray’s forearm locked in its mouth, spraying droplets of blood throughout the kitchen.
While struggling desperately with the dog, Ray forgot about the woman until it was almost too late. He saw her swing the pan at his head and ducked at the last instant. As a result, he avoided the impact of the cast-iron cudgel, but instead had the left side of his face and neck drenched in sizzling grease.
Ray howled in anguish as the blazing hot liquid burned into his skin. The pain was overwhelming and he fell back to the floor. His brain was momentarily numbed from shock and his vision blurred. His body still reflexively thrashed against the marauding dog.
Ray was vaguely aware of clearing the pistol from its holster and raising it up. He fired as fast as he could, convulsive jerks of the trigger that emptied his pistol of all eighteen rounds in a matter of seconds.
Suddenly, all was quiet. Ray became conscious of his own labored breathing and struggled to sit up. The Labrador lay motionless across his legs. He had to squirm to get from beneath the animal.
The old woman was lying face down and not moving. Blood leaked from her head and created a small pool on the floor. Ray pulled himself up by the cabinets. He could barely stand. He assessed the damage to his body.
His thigh was bleeding badly, and his fatigue trousers were soaked in his blood from crotch to knee. His left arm was in no better condition; the sleeve of his camouflaged shirt was shredded and torn away. The flesh underneath was a jagged series of gaping wounds. Both thigh and arm throbbed in agony.
His face, however, produced a pain level making his other injuries pale in comparison. He gingerly raised a hand to his left cheek. What he felt there evinced a guttural sob.
His ear was shriveled and tender, and he couldn’t find his eyebrow over his left eye. The flesh surrounding his jaw and neck was moist and tack
y, and deposited a glistening combination of fluid and cooked skin on the fingers of his gloved hand.
The dog! How could he have forgotten the dog? He’d seen the animal yesterday, trailing along behind the slut’s boyfriend as they completed their early-morning jog. Yet he’d failed to notice the animal’s absence this morning, when he’d observed them again jog merrily up the trail at first light.
How could he have been so careless? How could he have made such a mistake? It must have been the lack of sleep, or the sun, or the thirst, or the bugs, or not smoking, or being too eager to execute his plan. In any case, it didn’t matter now. He’d been stupid, blind, and clumsy, and his mistake had cost him the mission. He had no choice but to abort. He would be lucky to get away before the whore and her boyfriend returned. He certainly knew he was in no shape to deal with him again.
He looked once more at his watch. He had to scrape the blood away with his right hand to read the dial. He didn’t know how much time he had before they returned. Ray hadn’t planned on having to resort to his pistol to take out the old woman. It was a certainty the whore and her consort had heard the barrage of gunshots.
He momentarily pondered searching the house for the keys to the Jeep outside and fleeing in that vehicle, but quickly discarded the idea. Ray hadn’t brought his auto-theft tools with him, and now knew he hadn’t long before the duo either returned or summoned the police. Searching the large house for car keys he may never find was now out of the question. He knew he had to make his escape, and fast, before the wounds to his arm and leg rendered him immobile.
He picked up his knife, reshouldered the carbine, and limped out the way he’d entered, through the rear sliding door.
Ray left an easily discernible blood trail behind him as he staggered along as fast as his excruciatingly wounded leg would allow. He bit his lip to stifle his cries of pain as he hobbled across the patio. He felt weak and nauseous and fought the urge to vomit, knowing the act would weaken him further. He knew it would be much shorter to climb the steep hill and go past his observation post and directly to the fire road where he stashed his car. With his badly damaged leg impeding his gait, however, he was forced to take the well-worn cow-path, an indirect but level route.