CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

 

For three days, Crockett sat in Stitch’s truck and watched the place from around noon until midnight. For three days he sweltered under the sun during the day while squinting through the spotting scope, and peered into the darkness with his night vision range finder, eating sandwiches and drinking iced tea from a cooler and peeing into a bottle. Nothing. No sign of anyone, much less Shorty or Shorty’s truck. On the morning of the fourth day, he sat in the kitchen with Satin and Stitch.

“Shelly gone?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Stitch said. “Left about two hours ago, man. On the way over to someplace near St. Louis to see her folks. She’s a great kid. Gonna kinda miss her, ya know?”

“Why wouldn’t you?” Satin asked. “We all liked Shelly. She was a sweetie.”

“No shit,” Stitch went on. “Life takin’ an’ heartbreakin’ whore in the Corps. Dig it.”

“I need your truck for one more day, Stitch,” Crockett said.

“That’s all, man?”

“Yeah. I’m tired a this shit. I forgot how miserable long-term stakeouts were. Jesus. I have watched that place as long as I can. I’m gonna give it one more shot, and then it’s over. If Shorty’s around, he’s not around out there. I think Shelia Graham is fulla shit.”

“Want some company, dude?”

“You think I wanna be cooped up with you all day and half the night while you pine away for some little blond jarhead?”

Stitch grinned. “Do ya?” he asked.

“Lemme see. How do I put this? No.”

“Ha! Okay, man. You’re on your own.”

 

*****

 

By four o’clock, Crockett was fed up. He had no warrant to actually enter the cabin. Any evidence it contained would be fruit of the poisoned tree, as the lawyers put it. Hell, he didn’t even have a warrant to bust Shorty. Shelia Graham’s statement, if he even had one, would be worthless. At least as worthless as the last few days sitting in the truck. Screw it. If the fire has burned down to nothing, either let it go out or stir the coals.

He started the truck, drove out to the highway, and turned right. Nearly immediately he turned again, this time to the left and drove south across railroad tracks across the road from the conservation area. He locked the truck and continued on foot a little way into scattered stunted trees and scrub, and turned east, moving parallel to, and about a hundred yards south of, the gravel access road that ran by the three abandoned cabins.

It was tough going. The ground cover was thick and matted, dragging at his feet and legs. He moved slowly and carefully, taking advantage of cover, sweat burning his eyes and soaking his clothes as he dealt with cluster after cluster of gnats and biting flies. Several times during the trudge he wished for dusk and his Ghillie suit, longing to be cooler and invisible. He kept on and, after nearly an hour of sniper’s patience, could see the cabin about seventy yards distant through the post oaks, polk salad, and brambles. For thirty minutes he watched the place, squatting in the weeds, his back burning and darts of pain flashing down what remained of his left leg. Too old, son, he thought. This kinda shit is a young man’s game.

After seeing nothing unusual and hearing nothing unusual, for the hundredth time he wiped the sweat out of his eyes to clear his vision and began to creep toward the cabin. He jerked like a rookie when he flushed a rabbit twenty yards from the place, grinning at his ineptitude, and finally just stood up and walked to the house. He circled the cabin three times. No footprints, no tire tracks. The electric meter appeared to be dead. No recent garbage, completely dark interior. What had once been a rear door facing the tracks had long since been boarded up. The rafters above the porch contained a bird’s nest or two and several clusters of wasp and mud dobber dwellings. Shelia Graham’s description had been pretty accurate. The porch was maybe eight by twenty feet of cracked and littered cement, fronted by a four-foot high stone wall. A three foot opening at the west end allowed entry, and the door to the place was the length of the porch away in the wall on the east end. Dodging a wasp, Crockett stepped through the opening to the cement floor. He felt the burn on the top of his left shoulder and heard the shot at exactly the same time.

The porch floor smashed him in the side of his face and, for a moment, Crockett didn’t know exactly where he was. He had presence of mind to lie still, however, and a distant voice pulled him back.

“I gotcha, you sonofabitch!” it crowed. “I gotcha. I knowed you’d come, motherfucker. I been layin’ out here for five fuckin’ days, an’ I gotcha. Are ya dead?”

Crockett’s mind began to work. Shorty. The little bastard had been waiting for him. Goddamn. Suckered him in. Now he was shot.

Being careful to move as little as possible, he took inventory. He was on the porch, laying on his right side with his right leg pulled up and his left leg mostly straight. Part of his left calf and all of the foot remained in the open passageway and were still in the line of fire. The balance of his body was protected by the wall. He eased his right hand up to his left shoulder. It was wet and warm where the shoulder met the left side of his neck, and his left arm was burning pretty badly. He was bleeding, to be sure, but only bleeding, he thought. He couldn’t feel the blood actually spurting. That was good. The wound was past the initial shock and hurting like hell, but was probably not fatal, at least not for a while.

“Hey, dummy. Fuck with me an’ mine, will ya? Now yer shot, asshole. I gotcha! If ya ain’t dead, talk to me, Crockett. Maybe I’ll let ya live. Maybe we can work somethin’ out. Cocksucker!”

Shorty sounded too far away to have made the shot with his revolver, and he was too much of a coward to move forward unless he was sure Crockett was dead or unable to function. Crockett needed to enhance that impression. The wall, except for his lower left leg, protected him from any more shots as long as Shorty kept his distance. That was the answer if he could do it.

Slowly and very carefully, Crockett eased his bucknife out of its sheath, opened the blade, and began to saw at the left leg of his cargo pants. He felt the blade nick skin a few times, and tried to confine his movement to Shorty’s outbursts, knowing the little shithead would be less observant when he was yelling. Several minutes later, with Shorty still ranting, he succeeded in cutting all the way around the pant leg and severing the thigh strap that held his lower leg and foot in place. Using his right foot, he pushed at the top of the boot that held his stump until the suction was overcome and, pulling himself with his right arm and pushing with his right leg, he managed to drag himself away a few feet, leaving the appliance in the pant leg still visible in the open entry to the porch.

“You ain’t said nothin’, motherfucker.” Shorty shouted. “That whore was fun, boy. I played with her ‘bout half a day. Fucked her with my gun an’ my pistol, yew sonofabitch. You better hope yer dead, Crockett. You better hope yer goddammed dead. You belong to me now. Lord, god, I hate yer ass.”

Crockett dragged himself along the porch floor until he reached the end, and managed to push himself up the wall into a sitting position. Blood in his mouth made him realize he’d been biting his lip from the pain and he stopped that, grunting instead, hopefully low enough that Shorty didn’t hear him. His wound had made his left arm useless, and was still bleeding, but less than it had been, he thought. His blood-soaked sleeve and shirt front were alarming but, he reminded himself that a little bit of blood looks like a lot of blood, especially when it’s yours. He needed his cell phone. Free to call now that he was in cover, he’d have help on the way in minutes. Shit! His cell phone was in the side pocket of the pant leg he’d cut off and left in the line of fire. Cursing his stupidity, he pulled up his right leg, dragged the Beretta out of its holster with his right hand, and rested it on his knee as he listened to Shorty rant about the wrongs Crockett had done and how much the little man hated him.

“Me an’ my ol’ thirty-ought-six gotcha, shithead!” Shorty laughed. “You may a got my brothers, but ya didn’t get me, didja?” God, I hate you, you sonofabitch. Everthing was fine ‘til you showed up. I’m gonna blow your mailbox up agin’ when I done with ya. Maybe I’ll say hello to that slut that lives with ya, too. Maybe she’ll spend the day with me like that other whore done. You alive, boy? You still breathin’?”

All Crockett had to do was hang on and hope that Shorty would come and investigate the lack of response from the porch before he bled out. Shorty’s shouts and rants became more frantic and disjointed as time wore on. Crockett maintained his position and silence, fighting the need for sleep, trying to stay alert, battling the pain and blood loss. With only one leg, one arm, and no cell phone within reach, he was out of options.

As dusk came on, Shorty had pretty much gone off the deep end. His rants were more focused on how much he hated Crockett, as opposed to what he had done and was going to do to him. Crickets were beginning to chirp and whir, when Crockett jerked, realizing he’d dozed. Shit! Stay alert, dammit. He listened to Shorty’s grumbles and realized he could also hear the rustling of footsteps. Shaking his head to clear some of the fog, he put the Beretta back on his knee and waited.

“Yer dead, aincha?” Shorty mumbled, and Crockett could hear the rustling of dry weeds underfoot. “You been layin’ there a long time, motherfucker. Yer dead, an’ I killed ya. Me, you bastard, me! I done it. I killed ya. I hate you, motherfucker, Lord, God, I hate you.”

With a final scream, Shorty appeared at the opening of the porch, a rifle pointed downward toward where Crockett’s body should have been. Fifteen feet away, with the Beretta sighted on Shorty’s center mass, Crockett smiled.

“How do you like me now?” he whispered, pulled the trigger.