Sixty

Joy didn’t drop the rifle. He stood still, eyeing the deputy over his busted shoulder, watching the man’s gun, and trying to calculate his odds.

“You didn’t think I was just going to let you walk away after what you did to Bryce, did you?” Whitmer was saying. “I mean, shit, you shot him in the head in his own goddamn kitchen, Joy. You didn’t even give yourself a chance to get to know the poor miserable bastard.”

Joy said nothing. He kept his grip on the rifle. He would have to duck and turn, fast, he decided. Throw himself to the ground and come up firing. He had reloaded with a fresh magazine when they came into the woods off of the boat; if he played this right, he could surprise Whitmer, take out his legs. The deputy had relaxed a little bit. He was already thinking he’d won.

Stupid.

“Got nothing to say for yourself, huh?” Whitmer continued. “I guess where you’re from, that kind of behavior is normal. You all just kill a man, instead of talking things out.”

“It worked,” Joy replied. “You and your colleagues needed motivation. I provided it, and now we’ve nearly solved your problem.”

“My problem.” Whitmer spat. “Mr. Joy, I don’t give two shits about that product you all are trying to move. You attacked my family, and if Okafor takes offense with how I choose to deal with that, he’s welcome to come up to Makah County himself to square up with me like a man. But in the meantime, I’m fixing to solve my problem right now, with this gun in my hand.”

Joy kept his voice calm. “If you lower that pistol now, Deputy, I’ll forget this happened. We can continue to seek out the widow and her companion, and we can find your missing shipment. I won’t bring this back to Mr. Okafor, and you and your friends can carry on with your lives. If not…”

He shrugged, and the pain in his shoulder was real, though he forced himself not to show it.

“If not, Deputy, then I’m afraid you won’t like how this problem is solved.”

Whitmer sneered. “You’ve got a real way with words, Mr. Joy,” he said, advancing a step. “But I’m afraid you can’t talk yourself out of this one.”

Now was the time. Joy tightened his grip on his rifle, tensed his legs, and prepared to drop. Found a nice place to land, a clear patch of dirt. Whitmer was still speaking. Joy tuned him out.

Three.

Two.

BOOM.

A gunshot. Deafening. Joy ducked, instinctive, rolled away like he’d planned. Came up twisting around on his wounded shoulder, swearing from the pain, curling around with the rifle to find Whitmer and bury him. But Whitmer was gone.

Correction: Whitmer was already on the ground, howling and clutching at his midsection. He’d dropped the pistol, his hands bloody where he gripped at his stomach. He writhed on the ground, screaming. Another explosion, and a sapling near Joy’s head disintegrated.

Whitmer hadn’t fired, Joy realized. Those weren’t pistol rounds.

This was a shotgun.

*  *  *

The last thing Mason had expected to see when he reached the isthmus was two of Harwood’s boys pointing guns at each other, but when he’d made his move on Dale Whitmer, he’d realized a little late that it wasn’t Jess Winslow the deputy was trying to preach to. It was the new guy, the other guy, and Whitmer had him in a hell of a bind.

By that time it was too late to change strategy. Mason followed Whitmer’s voice and figured he had to act fast, spotted a faded orange fishing slicker through the woods and knew it had to be his man. He came in hot, stopped as close as he dared, aimed the shotgun through the trees and prayed, and pulled the trigger.

Whitmer went down, dropped his pistol, and focused on trying to keep his guts in his stomach, but Mason figured out pretty quick he had other problems to deal with. He stepped out into the clearing toward Whitmer and caught movement to his left, turned with the shotgun just in time to see the new guy coming up from the ground with that M4 in his hands.

What the what?

Mason let off another blast from the shotgun, missed the new guy but sure taught that tree, and then the new guy was firing back, and Mason was ducking away and searching for cover.

Damn it, this idea had gone ugly, and it’d gotten there real fast.

*  *  *

Joy let off a burst and watched Mason Burke fall back. He stayed low, found cover behind a massive fallen spruce, breathed in the moss and the smell of gunpowder as he searched the forest through his scope for any sign of the murderer.

Dale Whitmer was still crying out like a gutshot man ought to. But if Mason Burke was hit, he wasn’t making any noise about it. Joy scanned the forest, but the forest was thick. Burke had dropped away, out of sight, and he could be dead, or he could be playing possum.

One thing he wasn’t doing was shooting. Joy thanked his stars the murderer wasn’t much of a shot; at that range, with the shotgun, any half-competent gunman would have blown his head clean off. As it was, Joy imagined it was a small miracle the murderer had managed to hit Dale Whitmer. He’d at least solved that problem, anyway.

Now let me properly express my gratitude, Mr. Burke.

Burke wasn’t coming. Joy realized he would have to hunt the murderer. He wished he had something for the pain in his shoulder; his left arm was going numb, but that fall to the ground had still hurt like fire.

Be a man.

Joy used the barrel of his rifle to lever himself into a crouch behind the fallen spruce. Slowly, stealthily, he eased his way around the far side to where Whitmer lay dying. He leaned down for the pistol, tucked it into his jacket. Stared down at Whitmer a beat and wanted to say something, but from the look in Whitmer’s eyes, Joy could tell the deputy already knew.

Hate. Frustration. Anger. Fear. The deputy would die hurting, and he would die unhappy.

But he would die nonetheless.

“Goodbye, Deputy.” Joy stepped across Whitmer’s body toward where Mason Burke had disappeared. Somewhere out there the murderer waited, and Joy intended to find him.

Then Whitmer coughed behind him. Rasped something out that Joy didn’t quite catch. Joy turned back.

“I beg your pardon, Deputy—”

BANG.

This time Whitmer didn’t bother with soliloquies. He’d dug another pistol from somewhere Joy didn’t know about, and with the last of his strength, he’d unloaded the weapon into Joy’s midsection, sending Joy staggering back into the trees and down into the brush.