Bone Deep

by Randy Wayne White

  Owen had been wearing a blue shirt.

  I told Leland, “You’ll be okay,” although I had no idea if it was true. I got my hands under his arms and helped him sit, then laid him on his side, fearing he would aspirate. I ripped his shirt open, Leland saying, “Hurts like hell to breathe. Harris . . . he darted us both.”

  The man sounded drunk.

  I said, “You mean shot you.” A pneumatic cattle dart would have knocked him unconscious, and it didn’t explain the blood.

  From outside the fence, I heard a door slam and looked to see Quirt carrying a box away from the red truck. Then he dropped the box, smaller than a footlocker but heavy. He stuck the stainless pistol in his belt and knelt for a closer look.

  On Leland’s sternum, a tiny black dot appeared when I wiped blood away; I found another bruised spot low on his chest, right side, that might have shattered a rib. Not holes, more like needle marks. A gun designed to dart cattle would hit with a hell of an impact, but why was there blood on his face?

  I said, “Open your mouth. Did you call nine-one-one?”

  Leland shook his head, mouth wide, and let me look—no obvious internal bleeding—then insisted, “I’m okay. But . . . Owen. Go check. And where’s Toby? Harris shot him, too, used a real rifle.”

  “Are you sure you were darted?”

  He groaned, attempted to get to his feet, and fell back. “The first one bounced off . . . hit bone. I pulled out the next one but got dizzy as hell. He shot Owen in the back, though—is he okay?”

  He turned toward the pond where his stepson lay hidden by cattails, not moving.

  I asked, “Where’s your phone?”

  He had trouble processing that. “Harris must have took it. Or . . . maybe in the office. That’s where I passed out.”

  I said, “Shit,” then jogged toward Owen but stopped a few yards away. There was nothing I could do to help him—that’s how obvious his injuries were. Harris might have darted his old college buddy, but something else happened to finish the job.

  Leland was waiting for an answer when I turned, but was spared the bad news by a gunshot, then another—Quirt trying to shoot the gate open, the biker furious when he inspected the lock. He waved the pistol, yelling, “Hoss! Drag that tall bastard up here and make him open this damn thing. You hear me . . . Hey, Ford!”

  I ignored that and was soon kneeling by Leland again, him asking, “How is he?”

  “Owen’s still out,” I said. “We need a phone.”

  From the gate, Quirt hollered, “Screw the combination. How many volts you say this fence is?”

  We both turned. The biker was reaching his bionic hand toward the middle cable. Leland struggled to sit up, a panicked expression that told me Owen had lied. The fence wasn’t harmless, might even be lethal, which fit with what Leland had said after watching me dive through the thing.

  You’re not burned?

  I whispered to Leland, “Quiet,” then waved Quirt toward us, calling, “It didn’t hurt me.”

  “Goddamn thing’s sizzling, hoss.” The biker lowered his bionic hand, threaded the .357 pistol through his belt, and stepped back. “Where’d you say the combination is?”

  Leland tried to sit up. “It could kill him.”

  Voice low, I replied, “Good. I’ve got to find a phone before he kills us both. Leland, you’ve got to trust me—I want you to play dead no matter what happens. At least unconscious. Can you do that?” Then I yelled to Quirt, “It’s high voltage but low amperage.”

  “What?”

  I said it again, adding, “Why even bother? He already called the police. Harris shot Owen and they’re both in bad shape.”

  “Goddamn greenhorns.” Quirt stomped his boot on the ground and walked toward my truck—fleeing, I hoped.

  Leland grabbed my shirt and pulled me closer. “You’ve got to help Owen. I should have listened to you. Harris talked him into robbing me, but now he wants to square things. Harris turned on us both. He might come back and kill my son.”

  “Stop talking,” I warned, and forced his head back. The crazy biker, instead of leaving, was returning with his Winchester. Maybe more firepower to shoot the lock off—something that seldom works.

  No . . . I watched him stride to the fence in bulletproof mode, shoulders wide, while showing his face to the world. He reached the rifle out as if to test the middle cable, then decided, Screw it. Used his bionic hand instead, extending his arm, pincers open, and whooped like a drunken cowboy before he clamped down hard. A fireworks of sparks . . . then a sizzling boom when the cables fell . . . and Quirt reappeared through the smoke, his face aglow in the sunset light.

  The crazy biker was right about the way he pictured himself:

  Frankenstein.

  • • •

  COMING DOWN THE HILL, Quirt hollered, “Woo-wee! I am a miracle of space-age plastics!” Then, midstride, swung his rifle at me. “We got work to do. Is that the head honcho?”

  “He’s unconscious,” I said, stepping away from Leland.

  “I don’t give a shit if he’s dead. Grab his wallet.”

  Albright allowed me to roll him on his side so I could, then I tried to decoy Quirt by walking toward the pond. “The cops are on their way. You should cut your losses. I’ll come along, if you want.”

  He didn’t understand at first, then said, “Oh, and show me where you hid them Pelican cases. Ain’t that sweet—but it won’t stop Deon from doing a number on your hippie friend. I’ll get what you stole anyway.” Quirt was taunting me, in good spirits again. His head pivoted along the pasture until he saw one blue arm protruding from the cattails.

  “Owen’s out,” I told him. “Harris shot the elephant, too. The elephant probably ran off and Harris went after him—into those trees, most likely.”

  I wondered how Leland would react to that, but I kept my eyes on Quirt. He was angling toward the open garage, the rifle shouldered, his finger on the trigger. “What, you got X-ray vision now? I ain’t leaving until I get what I came for—half a million dollars’ worth. That prissy bastard could be hiding.”

  “Where? Have you ever seen an elephant?”

  “Seen three of ’em a couple days back; made a wrong turn and damn near got arrested. Not an inch of ivory on them, though, or that would be my next stop.”

  He also had encountered security at Florida Elephant Rescue.

  I started to repeat my lie about the police, but he cut me off, saying, “Hey . . . look what we have here.” And plucked a chain saw from the grass. Sniffed it, inspected the blade and approved, before returning his attention to me. “Hoss, I don’t like the way you keep pushing. Instead of running your mouth, get your flippers on and find what’s in that pond.”

  “What did Harris promise you?”

  “Ivory, dumbass, and some other goodies somewhere hidden on the bottom. A great big bag, he said. Now, get your butt in gear while I have a look around.” He placed the chain saw where it was easier to see, reseated the pistol in his belt, and continued walking.

  An ambush from the garage, that’s what he suspected. It was obvious from the way he hunched down, taking slow hunter strides, his attention on the open garage. He poked his head in, then disappeared. It gave me an opportunity to whisper to Leland, “Stay down. Call police the moment I get him out of here.”

  Seconds later, Quirt reappeared from the office doorway, hollering, “Who you talking to?” and held up a cell phone he’d found. “Is this what he used to call the cops? Slick, I believe you been lying. Makes me feel better about you being my sixth notch. No”—his eyes found Leland—“my seventh.” Then smashed the phone against the wall and swaggered toward us, raising the rifle to his shoulder.

  I stepped in front of Leland. “Shoot him, you have to shoot me. Then who’s going to dive for that bag?”

  Quirt made a snarling sound that resem
bled a wolf and fired over my head. Spun the rifle one-handed and fired again. This time, the bullet kicked sand near my shoe and damn near hit Leland in the head.

  I jumped away, yelling, “Is this your idea of a gunfight?” then took a few steps toward Quirt, who was closing the distance.

  “You still got your trigger fingers, don’t you?” he cackled, and shot twice more, both slugs threading the space between my legs into the dirt—not accidental. The former quarterback was a good shot.

  My instinctive reaction was to stoop. Instinct gave way to a flooding anger that leached colors from the sky and tunneled my vision. Suddenly, I could see only Quirt in his biker vest, his damaged face and eyes that glistened—a hopeful look, staring at me—while he spun the rifle to shuck another round.

  Behind him was the concrete building, the garage open like a cave. He flashed a silicone grin and yelled, “You ’bout ready to do this thing?”

  This was the showdown he had been wanting.

  I said, “I’m done with your bullshit, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I can see that, hoss.”

  “Rifle or the pistol, I don’t care—throw me one. You promised me a chance.”

  He held out the Winchester. “You mean this?” One-handed, he leveled it from twenty yards away, chest-high, to kill me, but let the barrel dip just before he shot. The slug skipped off something to my left and tumbled toward the water, a buzzing sound that faded.

  I flinched, despite my anger, and reassessed: A short-barreled carbine. Winchester 94, a western classic, with a magazine that held . . . I didn’t know how many rounds. Fewer than nine but more than five, obviously. And probably four rounds left in his stainless .357. If he wanted to shoot me, though, he would’ve done it.

  I kept walking.

  “For a big ol’ nerd, don’t he got style?” Quirt looked beyond my shoulder, and it took a moment to realize he was speaking to Leland Albright. Leland had stopped playing dead, was struggling to get to his feet, while the crazy biker, unsure he wanted an audience, watched. Then Quirt welcomed him, asking, “Hey . . . you ever see A Fistful of Dollars?”

  Leland’s expression swung a question toward me: Why is he doing this?

  It gave me an opening.

  “His brain is more screwed-up than his face,” I said. “If he had balls, he’d cut my fingers off first. That’s what he does. But I’m not some idiot kid.”

  Use an audience to manipulate behavior—an effective tactic.

  Quirt’s facial scars flushed white, but he regained control and pretended it was funny. Said to Leland, “Ain’t he something? He left this ol’ boy I know two miles offshore to drown. Sharks everywhere, but he didn’t give a shit.” Then leveled the Winchester again, fifteen paces away, and ordered, “Stop right there or I’ll shoot your tall friend.”

  Leland, now on his feet, resembled a drunken crane as he staggered toward Quirt, intending to help me . . . but then surrendered and stumbled toward Owen. Quirt tracked him with the rifle until I intervened by calling, “Hey—are you backing out?” Then flipped my middle finger at him. “Cut this one off first, then give me the shot you promised.”

  The insult exceeded my diving skills, and I’d gone too far. Quirt appeared to shudder, his mood change was so abrupt. His voice changed as well, raspier, and oddly more articulate, the sham cowboy displaced when he said, “You don’t think I know what you’re doing? Psychological bullshit won’t work. You just killed your buddy, Ford—one piece at a time.”

  He raised the rifle to shoot Leland . . . but then lowered it when Leland stumbled and fell, the last of the Albright males still far from the cattails where his stepson lay dead. Quirt, for some odd reason, saying, “I’ll be damned. Look at that—ivory on the hoof.”

  Which made no sense until I followed the biker’s gaze to the hill where a Conquistador had once camped on bones of mastodons. An elephant was there—Toby, blood sluicing from his rear quarter. His eyes were fixed on Quirt, a man holding a rifle that might have been a spear. Wobbly, obviously wounded, but the elephant’s brain was still working.

  The biker hooted, “He ain’t what you’d call smart, is he?” Then used bionic pincers as an aiming post and almost fired his sixth round . . . but reconsidered. A Winchester packs a punch, but it wasn’t elephant-worthy—not from point-blank range, let alone two hundred yards.

  “We gotta get closer,” he said; swung around and ordered, “Grab that chain saw or I’ll shoot the head honcho. Help me harvest that ivory, I might go easier on you both.”

  “Chain saw,” I said, already picturing it as a weapon. “If that’s what you want.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  What was Toby, the lifelong captive, thinking?

  I watched the elephant as I followed Quirt. Old black eyes tracked us, exchanging data with an ancient brain, as we drew nearer. Ears flapped, but Toby’s trunk dangled like a hose; limp, not bothering to wind-scent our progress.

  The animal was in trouble. Harris had shot him with at least one heavy-caliber slug, his rear quarter black with blood and swarming flies. Alert, though—something had to be going on inside that massive head.

  Something was. As we rounded the pond, Toby made a snorting sound and lunged, stiff-legged—a warning—then pivoted and lumbered toward the trees. Not running away . . . more like he didn’t give a damn if we followed. Not concerned about the fence either—he bulled right through it, cables that had lost their sizzle falling like strings.

  The biker fired a quick shot that caused the animal to buck but not stumble. Then Quirt held up his hand like an Indian scout and said, “Shit, hoss . . . he’s a big ’un, huh? Wouldn’t matter if I did hit him—not in the ass, it wouldn’t.”

  “He’s ready to go down,” I lied. “See the blood?”

  “If Harris was worth a shit, he’d already be dead. What we heard back there was shots from a big-bore rifle. That’s what I need to finish that bastard. Wonder where it is?”

  The biker turned and motioned a warning. “You keep your distance, hear? Any closer than ten paces, I’ll shoot you in the belly. Harris . . . he probably got scared and run off,” then he refocused on the elephant, who was entering the trees.

  I carried the chain saw by the handle—get close enough, I would throw it, then rush the crazy bastard . . . or startle him by yanking the starter and lobbing it at him. A screaming chain saw would have an effect.

  Quirt’s euphoria was fading into uncertainty. Good. Owen was dead. Nothing I could do about that. But Leland needed medical attention, and Toby might survive bullets that had missed his brain and vital organs—if I got help.

  Quirt was rattled by the size of the animal. Not just rattled, he was scared. Rather than pursue, he chose to dawdle, saying, “Figured he would charge us. Like in the movies, an elephant charges, a man has to stay cool and wait for his shot. You ever seen that? That’s what I would’ve done.”

  “Really?”

  “Go for a clean shot to the heart. Drop down on one knee and squeeze the trigger at the last minute.”

  I motioned toward the trees. “Then what are you waiting on?” Said it with an edge.

  “For a sport killer, you don’t know shit. I grew up killing mule deer, elk. You give an animal some time before following a blood trail.”

  “A live coward’s better than a dead hero, huh?”

  Quirt made his wolfing noise again and raised the rifle. “I’ve just about had it with your snotty mouth. What I think I’ll do is—”

  “How many rounds do you have left?” I interrupted. “Maybe you forgot to count. You won’t get close enough to use that pistol, and a .357 wouldn’t stop him anyway. Now you’re going to waste a bullet on me? Police will nail you for murder—never mind what happened in Nevada.”

  Quirt said, “You know that tall bastard didn’t call the cops,” but touched the pistol in his belt anyway and
muttered, “Damn.” Thinking about how many times he’d fired or what to do next.

  I said, “How about I give you an excuse to turn around? Instead, I’ll dive the pond, but under one condition . . .”

  “Oh, I’m gonna take that big boy’s ivory. Just you watch.”

  “Listen to me,” I said. “When I surface with the bag, you put your phone on speaker so I can hear. Have them send an ambulance . . . and a vet. Give the location. I’ll swim the bag to shore, but you have to leave your weapons by the gate. After that, you can be on your merry way.”

  My reasonable offer registered in Quirt’s brain as a challenge.

  “I ain’t scared, dumbass—or are you worried about that poor ol’ elephant?”

  I was more worried about Leland, who was on his feet again and searching among the cattails for Owen. Quirt followed my gaze and aimed across the water but then remembered he was low on ammo.

  “What we’re going to do is,” he said. “As of now, you’re leading the way. I’ll follow you into the trees. If that big bastard charges, you better hope I get a clean shot—and don’t tell me you never saw it in a movie.”

  Minutes later, crossing the knoll where a Conquistador had camped, a man’s howl spanned the distance.

  No point in looking back.

  Leland Albright would be standing near the son he’d never had.

  • • •

  WALKING FAST, I descended the hill and didn’t slow until tree shadows cooled the air: moss-draped oaks, some cypress, the canopy dense enough to choke undergrowth and dilute sunset into dusk.

  Quirt, lagging yards behind, hissed, “Hold up.”

  I did, transferred the chain saw to my left hand, then waved him ahead, saying, “Here’s his trail.” I kept going, worried the biker might shoot before I got to the trees.

  Splotches of blood on the ground—I followed them. In sand, Toby’s tracks had the girth of telephone poles but were soon absorbed by the soggy forest floor. High above, broken limbs also marked the way. Every few steps, I peered ahead. I didn’t want to surprise a wounded bull elephant. The silence troubled me—no bulldozer crack of shattering wood. Toby was close, though. His musk clung to the trees like mist.