Lucy was a block away from Mason, moving east. South of where he stood, toward the hill and the highway, not the water. He watched her trot into the intersection and pause and sniff the ground, and he knew it was her, recognized the way she was running with her back in a hunch like she was scared, her nose low to the pavement and her tail tucked. Saw the leash dragging behind her and knew she was his dog, all right.
He started after Lucy, but she was already moving again. Continuing east toward Main Street, on a side road parallel to Mason’s own, and before Mason could run to her or call out, she’d crossed the intersection and disappeared from view behind somebody’s house.
Mason figured to cut her off. He cradled the shotgun and jogged east, past more quiet houses and trailers in various states of abandonment. He knew he should stay careful, stealthy, keep aware of his surroundings, but he didn’t want to lose the dog again. There was a vacant lot at the end of the next block, and he imagined he could angle across it and get in front of Lucy.
He ran, the shotgun heavy in his arms and his heart pounding in his ears. Made the empty lot and ran through tall weeds and bare dirt, dodging refuse and varmint holes. Slipped in the mud and almost ate shit, but he managed to stay upright and didn’t hardly lose speed. He cleared the lot and came out on the street where Lucy should have been, and she was right there where he expected, still trotting along on the other side of the street, heading for a destination Mason couldn’t conceive of.
He called out to her and she stiffened, and he thought he’d spooked her again, but then she turned and saw it was him and her tail wagged and her ears relaxed, and she looked east again toward Main Street and then back at Mason, and then, cautiously, took a step in his direction.
Mason met her in the middle of the street. Took the lead from the ground behind her and wrapped it around his knuckles, scratched Lucy behind the ears and leaned down and let her lick his face, and he could feel her relief in the way she nuzzled against him, and he wondered if she could feel how he was relieved too.
And it was about that moment that Mason’s focus expanded, and he became aware of the glare of the headlights and the roar of a Detroit motor as someone in a big black SUV bore down fast on them from the direction of Shelby Walker’s place, to the west.
* * *
Joy pressed hard on the accelerator, closing the distance between his Suburban and the widow’s friend and her dog. He’d let the dog lead him, and now Joy would reap the reward. He would use the ex-convict to lead him to the widow, and the widow would lead him to Okafor’s missing product. Joy was certain he could convince both parties to cooperate.
But first he had to relieve the ex-convict of his shotgun. And perhaps the use of his legs.
Joy sped his vehicle toward man and dog, washing the criminal in the bright white of his high beams. The criminal had been fumbling with the dog’s leash, but now he reached for the shotgun, swinging it toward the Suburban as the Suburban ate road. Joy didn’t waver. The Suburban would hit before the man could take aim. It would run the man over, maim him, kill the dog. Joy would interview the man as he lay bleeding in the street. Then he would kill him.
The man didn’t have time to mount a credible defense. Joy kept his foot planted. Smiled as man and dog disappeared beneath the nose of the vehicle, and waited to hear their bodies break beneath his wheels.
* * *
There was no time for the shotgun. Mason grabbed Lucy, shoved her away from the truck, and then leapt clear himself, dodging the wheels but clipping his knee on the bumper, bouncing off hard and skidding across gritty asphalt.
Lucy was running again. This time her leash hobbled her; she stepped on it and stumbled in her haste to get clear. Mason pushed himself to his feet, grabbed the shotgun, ignored yesterday’s aches and the fresh pain in his knee, and hurried after the dog as, behind him, the Suburban came to a hard stop. Mason reached the dog and took her lead in his hand without losing a step, without losing his grip on the shotgun. Dragged her off the street and up between two ratty trailers, heard a car door slam behind him and then footsteps as the driver gave chase.
Mason and Lucy cut between the trailers, reached a tangled and unkempt patch of grass in the back. He kept running, and Lucy figured out the game; she loped along beside him, then ahead, until she was dragging Mason forward and he was struggling to keep up.
They cleared the grassy patch and reached a tired shed at the edge of the property line and, beyond it, thin trees and a narrow, deep creek bed. Mason slowed Lucy before she could drop into the ditch, ducked behind the shed and raised the shotgun. Waited, listening for the sound of their pursuer.
He could kill this man now. Somehow Mason knew this was the man who’d murdered Shelby Walker. He’d wanted to shoot the man in the Walker backyard; now he would have his chance. Mason could hear the man approaching, hear him breathing. In seconds he would come around the side of the shed. Mason could put him down, easy.
You’re a killer already, he thought, in the eyes of the law. But he knew there was a difference, and he wished he wouldn’t ever have to find out what it was.
The man murdered Shelby Walker. He aims to kill you. But a shotgun would attract attention, wake people up and bring Kirby and his boys running. The shotgun would hamper Jess’s ability to get to Dixie.
Mason tugged Lucy deeper behind the shed until they’d reached the far wall. Turned the corner and strained to hear if the driver had followed, if he’d kept running into the trees and down into the ditch.
Beside Mason, Lucy squirmed, and Mason said a silent prayer that the dog would keep from whining. She did.
Around the far side of the shed, branches rustled, and then Mason heard rocks give out and slide and splash as the driver found the ditch and the creek at the bottom. And he knew this was their chance.
He nudged Lucy back toward the twin trailers and the road beyond, and together they ran fast across the grass and between the trailers to where the Suburban sat waiting in the middle of the street. The engine was running, lights on. Mason dragged Lucy to the driver’s side and hustled her into the cabin. Climbed in after her and shifted into drive and peeled away with the dog toward the harbor.