That was her signal. She threw every switch on the doorway panel, clicking into service every single light along the front of the house, including a pair of high-beam spots that caught the visitors by surprise.
They seemed a motley bunch—older, younger, pudgy, lean, dressed in everything from jeans and pearl-buttoned plaid to hunting cammies, jeep caps, boonies, a variety of well-worn Stetsons, and they carried an equally haphazard array of weapons—deer rifles, pump guns, wicked looking semi-auto carbines, military grade—with only two, maybe three at most wearing Kevlar. Good sign. At last, a little luck.
The strangers stood exposed, wincing in the sudden glare. To their credit, it took no more than a heartbeat for common sense to click in. One by one, some quicker than others, they crouched even lower behind the SUV, which just kept advancing, engine a droning throb, gravel crackling beneath the massive tires.
Given this sudden shift in preoccupation, they failed to notice the two marines, Chalky and BBK, slipping into position a little behind, twenty yards to either side, ten-and-two o’clock, just beyond the perimeter of darkness.
The wind had died. As though the sky itself could sense this was it.
***
Lisa lifted a hand against the sudden shock of light but kept walking, easing forward tentatively until she stepped with relief onto the smooth concrete skirt at the foot of the stairs leading up to the porch. Like a slo-mo base runner tagging home. If only that meant she was safe.
The stairs were broad and white and, on any other day, under any other circumstances, would have seemed utterly welcoming. At this particular moment, however, the barrels of two guns pointed out from behind the thick white pillars at the top—not at her, thankfully. For the moment, anyway.
Lisa called up to the invisible gunmen, “I’ve got nothing to do with these…guys, yokels, men, what have you…behind me. Frankly, I haven’t got a whole heck of a lot to do with you, either. Not anymore, I guess. Unless you want to use me, lie to me, one more time. Anyway, for now, I’m just kinda-sorta stuck in the middle, right? So, question of the hour, what’s it gonna be—do you guys shoot me or do they?”
From behind, Littmann’s voice hissed through a narrow opening in the SUV’s passenger-side window, “Tell them to throw down their weapons.”
She resisted another impulse to laugh. He sounded like an angry playwright hiding behind the curtain, tongue-lashing an ingénue paralyzed with stage fright.
From the opposite direction, up the stairs, the one with the scalded face, Rags: “Tell them: weapons on the ground, step out from inside and behind the vehicle, arms in the air. Ones in the truck bed, too, come out from under the tarp.”
Progress, she thought. We’re negotiating.
She called out, “You probably heard—what he just said, I mean, Littmann—about you putting down your guns, too. First. Whatever.”
A soft spate of laughter, then Rags said, “Oh, yeah?”
“Pretty much. So I gather.”
“Well, if you can hear me, so can he. Not gonna happen. All due respect.”
“I’ll pass that along.”
Littmann thundered through the gap in his window, the words muffled by the thick tinted glass. “They’ve already killed three men. Maybe more. That makes them murderers. Tell them!”
“They say—”
Rags cut her off. “Yeah, yeah, I heard. There’s blood on both sides. Besides, we plead self- defense. His guards when we got here, that man up on the ridge, they can claim their pelts too, how about that? One more time, and only one: Weapons on the ground, hands in the air, everybody out where we can see.”
“They put down their guns first! I’m done talking.”
Adrenalin—or maybe it was testosterone—crackled through the air like a kind of current, at which point she came to grips with her lone source of power: acceptance. What can they do? Beyond the obvious, of course. Sooner or later, nobody gets out alive. Dig it.
A few seconds passed, minus an eternity or two, and then a voice—Tuck’s voice—called out quietly from the porch, “Walk on up the stairs, Lisa. Nobody in here wants you hurt.”
Imagine that, she thought.
“Honestly? You weren’t the ones I was all that worried—”
“Just walk!”
“Okay then.”
She put the first foot forward, lifted the second—then Littmann’s voice, quieter than before, almost intimate, like a bullet in the back. “Last chance, Ms. Balamaro. Get them to hand up their guns, or you can blame yourself for whatever happens after that.”
Oh, screw the bunch of you, she thought, shivering with rage. “Somebody’s going to have to put down his weapons first, or everybody’s going to die. Who wins then?”
Not that it would matter at this point. Men never take death seriously.
“How about this? Everybody aim at me.” She dropped her shoes and raised her arms, turning in a slow circle. “First one to shoot loses. After that, do whatever the hell you want. Like I’ll care at that point.”
That was when she heard the two telltale sounds. First a dull ping. Then a slow ratcheting click.
Or was it the other way around?
From what ineffable instinct, she didn’t know, but something drove her to her knees then pressed her flat to the concrete. She curled into a ball, knees tucked up to her waist, arms wrapped around her head.
***
BBK had taken up position behind a weed-stubbled knoll on the gunmen’s right flank, so close he could smell their bad luck. He had free access to the target, not only for the men hunkered behind the giant SUV, maybe six in all, but whoever popped up from beneath the tarp in the truck bed.
Done right, done to plan, no surprises, a firefight shouldn’t last half a minute, he thought, and that includes mop up.
That’s when he heard the unmistakable sound of someone clearing the chamber of a single- action rifle. Not Chalky. Closer than that, and Chalky wasn’t that dumb. Someone who’d walked up unready for the fight. And from the slow soft sound of the bolt sliding back it seemed the shooter was trying to hide his mistake, be sneaky.
All warfare is based on deception.
Wait’s over, BBK thought. Spot your target. Commence fire.
With his Belgian weapon on full auto, he sliced down the three nearest men in the first short left-to-right arc, the rest on the return. Whining yelps of stunned pain and full-throated screams. Weapons hitting gravel just before the men themselves. He’d aimed for the knees first, knowing a few of the men had vests, wanting to take them all to the ground, then made short work of the tangle of fallen bodies with follow-up fire, quick bursts, aiming for torsos, crotches, then heads.
Sure enough, the tarp in the truck bed fumbled to life—like a tent had collapsed on a pack of bears—and he dropped his spent magazine, jammed in another, let rip. These screams were muffled by the canvas.
With plans dark as night, fall upon the enemy like a thunderbolt.
Every man outside the vehicle was down, some finished off by Chalky, working from the opposite flank.
Now for the cowards inside.
He changed out the second clip for a third, and as he checked to make sure the magazine had clicked in secure he felt a round cut into his shoulder, spinning him sideways with the impact.
The sniper on the ridge. So far away, but no slouch, a bona fide killer. He’d spotted on muzzle burst most likely, or he had a night scope like Chalky’s—why wouldn’t he?
Chalky would be safe—the house provided a barrier from the sniper’s line of fire. Good to know. No need to shout a warning.
A second round hit—the hip this time, knocking him down.
He tugged his pistol from its holster and prepared to take out any survivor who managed somehow to rise up from the gravel, stagger out from beneath the tarp, step out of the SUV’s four-door cab.
Keep focused, keep fighting. Stay frosty.
The third round was the kill shot—side of the head. By that time Cardale Shipm
an, Black Buddha Killer, was already inwardly reciting his death chant.
***
The instant he saw the muzzle burst from BBK’s weapon, Chalky had begun his own methodical slaughter from where he’d found cover beneath a cottonwood tree. The men froze for just a second at the first recognition of incoming fire, then hit the deck. Like that could save them.
One by one, with speed resulting from long practice and sheer hunter instinct, he sighted each target in the scope’s reticle, searching out movement, exhaled, squeezed the trigger, registered the cushioned slug of kickback in his shoulder, slid back the bolt to eject the spent casing, slid it home again to lift the next round up from the magazine. Five more after the first kill, six in all. Enough.
He aimed for the groin if the man wore a vest, easier to hit than the head—unless, of course, the head in that instant presented the fatter target.
When things at last seemed still, he rose, left the M40, now spent of rounds, where it was, drew his pistol, cupped his left hand to the base of the grip, supporting his right, and eased forward in a crouch toward the oversized SUV.
A soft grunting thud to his distant right distracted him momentarily—BBK, falling. The distant bark of a rifle’s report echoed across the valley from the fire-lit ridge.
Chalky crouched lower, sped up his gait, headed for the SUV, now more intent than ever to make them pay, all of them. Then get over there, tend to the big fella. Mind his wound.
Sudden movement from one of the men on the ground—no time for thought, Chalky put a bullet in him. Which was why he reacted an instant late as the driver’s door swung open.
The long barrel of a vintage Colt six-shooter appeared in the gap between door and cabin.
They fired more or less simultaneously, though Chalky realized he’d lagged just enough to have his shot sail wide due to the impact from the incoming round creasing his temple. He recovered quick, refreshed his aim though one eye stayed blurred, and charged forward. Move to contact. He got three shots off even as the driver dove to the side, down onto the center console. Chalky reached the door, swung it back, two more shots. The man cried out like a kicked dog, catching one right beneath his bearded chin.
Glancing up, Chalky saw the judge, Littmann, still dressed in his suit, necktie loose at the collar, aiming his own pistol. Last round in the clip, he thought, make it matter. He caught the man square in the ribs, though at that point he himself was already trying to grip the door, falling from the second hit, the one in his eye, courtesy of an unseen shooter in the back of the cab.
The door, gripped with his left hand, helped steady his fall, which allowed for a soft landing in the gravel about the same time he noticed the towering circular web of lights, the swaying carriages, the faceless giddy nighttime screams—and in the distance, the wheezy oom-pah-pah trumpets and tinny cymbal-crash of a calliope in the sugary heat.
Grunting slam of a wind-milled sledge, the mocking silence of the untouched bell.
And the girl, of course the girl: wheat-brown hair held back with a ribbon, pink dress with the white scalloped collar—narrow at the waist, flaring around the thighs—turned-down cotton anklets and scuffed saddle shoes, about ten yards ahead in the sweaty, laughing, hat-fanning crowd, glancing over her shoulder, a gimlet-eyed smile, tongue arching out like a serpent’s toward her glistening strawberry cone.
***
Tuck watched the bloodbath from his perch of safety, feeling a rush of spiteful hope as the bad men fell. Like spraying poison at a nest of wasps, he thought, admiring the marines, their talent for mayhem, one eye trained on Lisa curled up into a ball at the foot of the stairs.
Then came the helpless, heartsick fury, seeing first the one they called BBK, then the other, Chalky, fall.
At least they died like men, he thought. Meaning what—killed in a pointless cause?
Okay then—two against whoever’s left, all of them inside that fat-ass glorified pickup truck.
Including and especially You Know Who.
First, though…
He called out, “Lisa, stay put, lie still. I’m coming down to get you.”
From the opposite side of the stair, behind his pillar, Rags signaled no. Stay put.
Tuck said, “I’m not letting her lie there during what comes next.” He shouldered the semi- auto shotgun, dragged himself up and onto his feet, hip aching from its ancient wound. “Now I told you, let me draw fire. You get ready to take out any dimwit that pops his head out.”
He trained the Benelli on the passenger-side door, hoping Littmann would be arrogant enough to come out firing, then began easing down the steps, moving crablike, one step, then another, slow, easy.
The door that opened wasn’t Littmann’s—opposite side, and rear, not front. One man, or was it two—dropping to the ground, scrambling out of sight, using the vehicle for cover. From behind, Rags opened fire to pin down whoever it was, then hissed: “Speed it up.”
Tuck did his best, scrambling down to the foot of the stairs, reaching for Lisa’s nearest hand, locked tight to its opposite atop her head, tangled in her hair.
“Quick now,” he said. “Come on. Up. Gotta get you inside.”
She didn’t budge—her body stiff, like fright had inflicted a kind of premature rigor mortis. Or had she been hit?
“Seriously, I mean it, Lisa. Please. Move.”
He didn’t see it at first, the inching open of Littmann’s door. By the time the movement registered in the corner of his eye, the first bullet had carved its way into his shoulder, lodging deep into the muscle, knocking him down.
That’s when the second unwelcome fact registered—it had been, indeed, two men who’d crept out of the SUV. One popped up and managed to nail Tuck a second time, this wound in the side. Rags took that man out a mere second later, but that emptied the M4’s magazine. He dropped the carbine, letting it clatter down the steps as he went for his pistol, just as the second man swung around the back of the SUV for a better, clearer angle of fire.
The bullet entered Rags’s thigh with a scary eruption of airborne blood, but he didn’t fall—using his pistol to return fire, three quick shots. Having chosen to expose himself, the man had no chance.
Neither, as it turned out, did Rags. As he leaned down, pressing his hand to the gushing wound, Littmann unfolded his tall rangy body from behind the passenger-side door. Firing first at Tuck, if only from spite—and being a solid shot, hitting his target square in the chest—he then trained his pistol on the brave, quiet, love-struck marine with only half a face.
The judge’s bullet entered the skull, throwing the head back helplessly.
***
Dropping the parcel of letters from her lap—they meant less than nothing now—Rayella struggled to her feet, rising from behind the door where she’d watched and suffered the bloodbath’s rise and fall, trying her best to honor the command to stay put, guard the door, protect Wander—who’d slipped into unconsciousness almost the second the others left him alone. Lifting her pistol, holding it in both hands, she marched through the doorway onto the porch, face streaked with nightblack, tangled hair a ratty fright, aiming at the man who’d just shot dead the only person she’d ever really loved.
Littmann raised his own weapon as she began to empty hers—one, two, three, four shots, at least one hitting home before his bullet buried itself in her brain.
***
At the first eruption of gunfire, Lisa found herself not just physically curled into a ball but psychologically and emotionally as well, as though she’d withdrawn beyond a high wall into a garden of inner abstraction, taking comfort in the illusion of tranquility even as she realized, at some level, that she was dissociating.
The sound itself was something she’d previously known only through film or TV shows, and how different it was in the here and now—so much louder, like a train rattling past only inches away, but more menacing, terrifying, wrong.
And yet at the same time, it seemed strangely hollow—or was that a t
rick of the mind, a distortion caused by the closing down of consciousness, the narrowing of the aperture to the outside world—the closing of the garden’s thick gate?
She entered something not unlike a wakeful dream, except she was fully aware of not being asleep. A sense of self-reckoning hovered in the background, and she could sense her own presence just outside the frame of her thoughts, a phantom skimming the edge of things.
This created an uneasy sense not just of duality but weightlessness—utter anonymity, no gravity of self. None of us are who we think we are, she thought, identity’s a trick, a contrivance, a hoax.
With that, she suffered a sense of being trapped inside an elaborate illusion, the impression that she and everyone else, not just here but everywhere, throughout all of history since the first spark of time, weren’t real. We’re just pieces in some pointless game the universe can’t stop playing, over and over. Why? We’ll never know. But there’s no way out. To be alive is to be a shadow wandering a maze. And to die? The dissolution of that shadow, nothing more.
Then the inner atmosphere seemed to shift. If there were such a thing as sunlight of the mind, she detected a tenuous ray of it leaking in through a crack somewhere, even as the impression of outside violence intensified, growing nearer, and—unless she was mistaken—a rough hand started tugging on her own.
There is just life, and it must be lived.
With that, as though waking not from her own dream but that of a twin, she gradually emerged from the imaginary garden. After a moment, opened her eyes.
***
What she saw was the back of Gideon Littman—same suit as in court, a little the worse for wear. He was standing only a few feet away, holding a pistol in his right hand, aiming it at Tuck, who lay gritting his teeth near the bottom of the stairs, blood-soaked shirt marking the wound in his chest, another in his side. A shotgun lay just outside his reach. He wore a strange smile, half hateful, half resigned, while Littmann clenched his free arm against his side—at which point Lisa realized he, too, was bleeding.
The Long-Lost Love Letters of Doc Holliday Page 25