A False Dawn

SEVENTY-NINE

“It’s okay, Max,” I said. “I’ll be right back. No barking.” I locked her in the house, shoved the Glock under my belt, and stepped out the screen door into the dark.

I tried to put myself exactly where Santana sat. I’d drive by the home, not too fast or too slow, see if lights were on, maybe a car in the drive. Then I’d return with the headlights off, park a good distance away, move stealthily under the cover of darkness, and enter the home. It was all about surprise.

But I wasn’t Santana. And I couldn’t be sure how he would plan the assault. If surprise was part of it, I’d already removed that element. I jumped up to a low-hanging limb of a live oak tree and pulled myself to a thick branch. I climbed another ten feet until I had an open view of the road from both east and west directions.

The moon was higher, the soft light almost beaming through the tree limbs. Shadows from the oaks connected like gnarly fingers interlacing across my yard.

A horned owl called out, its series of hoots traveling up from the river. The call seemed to come from somewhere near my dock. Horned owls always sound like they are chanting, who’s awake…me too. I wondered if it was the same owl that had captured the cardinal, the owl that had pointed me in the direction of Angela. If it was, maybe the bird would point me toward Santana.

The owl called out again, stopping after only two hoots. I’ve heard these owls often, and they always finish their statements. This one stopped in mid-sentence.

I saw the headlights in the distance, three-quarters of a mile away, coming toward my house slower than the speed limit. I touched the Glock and watched the car. The interior was too dark for me to make out whether Santana was behind the wheel.

It was a Ford. The driver kept the same speed while the car passed my house. But before the road began to curve, I could see the brake lights tapped.

The driver slowed and turned around. The headlights went off. The car moved stealth like, inching its way back toward my house. Within about fifty yards of my driveway, the driver pulled the car into a wooded area, state property.

There was no movement. I saw a tiny orange glow. The diver must have used the car lighter to light a cigarette. Why would Santana be smoking if he were about to kill me? Calm a nicotine itch? Something didn’t feel right. I dropped from the tree and stayed in the shadows to move toward the car. I stepped every few feet to simply listen. Nothing. Not a sound from a horned owl. Not even a sound from a mosquito. In less than a minute, I’d slipped up on the car and approached the driver from the rear.

The window was open. He was a silhouette in the moonlight. He tossed out the cigarette, the red ash sparking in the night. Dumb move.

I came up from a crouch and touched the barrel to Santana’s left ear.

“Put both hands on the wheel! Now!” I ordered.

Santana immediately lifted both hands to the steering wheel. I jerked open the door. “Get out! It’s over, Santana.”

“Don’t shoot, man! Who the hell’s Santana?”

A young black man was visibly shaking.