Haunted (25 page)

I didn’t miss. The bullet hit Oliver beneath the cheek, severed one clamshell ear, and tumbled him backward toward the flames. He didn’t move when I helped Belton to his feet, a man who was too angry to go into shock.

“Is he dead? That son of a bitch!” Belton charged toward the creature—possibly to kick him—but collapsed after a step, groaning, “Damn . . . my leg.” Sat there and embraced his knee while I studied Oliver, who was on his belly and still breathing.

I looked back at the opening in the flames, hollered, “We need help!” then placed myself between Belton and Oliver. His pelt smoldered while his ribs expanded and contracted. I watched ten bare toes flex as if testing mobility. His right hand moved, then his left arm. “Crawl away,” I told Belton.

He did. I slid sideways, following.

Because the pistol was empty, the slide had locked back to show its empty chamber. I thought,
He can count, but he can’t see through metal,
and I slammed the slide closed as if I’d just shucked a bullet.

Oliver’s head tilted to focus his only ear. An amber eye opened. It fluttered as if fighting sleep, or death, and rotated toward me.

I walked at him with the pistol. “I’ll shoot you again if you move.”

Oliver exhaled a low growl and lay still, but his eye continued to track me.

From behind, Belton sounded a note of surprise. “Hey . . .
Hey
,
someone’s coming. Is that a horse?”

I took a quick look: blurred by heat and flames, a man wearing a cowboy hat had dismounted. He hunkered low to summon his nerve, then charged through the smoke, calling, “Are you the idiots who started this fire? By damn, I’ll leave you here to burn if it was you.” He switched off his flashlight and pocketed the thing. A bandy-legged man in his sixties.

Mild disappointment. I had hoped it was Joey Egret I’d seen approaching on horseback. Worse, the man was not carrying a rifle as cow hunters often do.

Belton tried to stand. “Call the police—that thing’s a goddamn killer. I’ll explain, but not while it’s still alive. Do you have a gun? We need a gun if he’s not dead.” Talking too fast, Belton’s tone communicating fear.

Oliver’s brain processed the words, his eye absorbed details. He got a knee under him and was positioning a hand when I leaned
with both arms extended. “This pistol is all we need—now lay still, damn you.”

The man said, “Hey, now!” and his boots clomped him closer. He removed his hat, slapped it clean of ashes while his eyes adjusted, looking from Belton to me, and then saw the heap of smoldering fur. “What the hell’s going on here? That one of my calves? Y’all going to jail if you kilt one of my—” He stopped a few steps from Oliver. “Good lord, this here’s a damn monkey. Why’d anybody want to hurt a monkey?”

Oliver’s eye fluttered to consciousness and glared at me while he appealed for help by imitating the mewling of an injured puppy. The man said, “This ol’ boy’s in bad shape,” and reached to stroke Oliver’s shoulder but was unnerved when Belton and I both yelled out warnings.

A low growl and one dulling amber eye tracked me while I backed the man a safe distance, far enough to say into his ear, “Is there a rifle scabbard on your saddle?”

Cow hunters are prone to stubbornness. “I’m not known as a monkey killer,” he replied. “The way you keep that handgun pointed, why do you need my rifle? Poor thing’s about dead anyway. A veterinarian is what he needs, then we’ll let the law sort this out.”

“Police will be more interested in a corpse you’ll find down by the river—most of his face missing,” I said.

That got the man’s attention. I told him my name, and added, “I’m a friend of Joey Egret and probably a dozen other people you know. My uncle was Jake Smith, and I’m related to the
Summerlins. I’m not asking for your blessings, sir. Just the loan of one bullet.”

In rural areas, surnames are tribal and carry weight. Instantly, the man’s sympathies shifted and I was granted temporary rank in his cavalry of one. Mr. Harney—that was his name—kept my Devel pistol trained on the monkey but first wanted a question answered. “The other woman, where is she?”

I assumed he had mistaken the wailing cry of fire and wind for a human voice.

“No,” he insisted. “When that big pine went up, she waved for me to come. Sort of looked like you, but longer hair and wearing a bright red shirt. She ain’t here? Or . . . or maybe it
was
you.”

In the fire’s heat, I felt a chill and could not answer until I’d returned with the rifle, a Winchester .30-30. I said, “Mr. Harney, in my SUV—if we find it—I’ve got a picture I’d like you to see.”

Then I shucked a round and finished the
job.

•   •   •

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