Bitter Recoil

Chapter 24

I screamed something-I don’t remember what-then lunged for my revolver, snapped it up, and yanked the trigger. I fired twice, so blinded by the muzzle flash from the two-inch barrel that I lost the target.

I tried to stand, lost my balance, and fell to my hands and knees, the revolver digging into the dirt. I heard the scuffle of feet on pebbles. I straightened up and held the revolver in both hands. I saw the ghost of motion and fired twice. The rifle crashed out again, and this time the blast corona was perfectly symmetrical, with me in the focus.

The rifle bullet jerked me backward. The revolver flew off into the night. I landed hard on my back and felt an agonizing stab of pain as the automatic pistol I’d picked up and shoved into my belt dug into my spine.

I heard scuffling in the rocks down by the first of the springs. I tried to inch my right hand around to the automatic, but that arm wouldn’t work. Someone cleared his throat and I froze, waiting.

His feet on the pine duff didn’t make much noise. A circle of light poured over me.

I heard a “tsk,” like a man sucking on a toothpick as he surveys the remains of a big feast.

“Ah, you people,” H. T. Finn said passively. He “tsked” again. The light moved out of my eyes, and I could make out the rifle that he now rested on his shoulder as a deer hunter might. Both my hands were in sight and they both were empty.

He bent down and picked up my handgun, then flung it so hard I heard it clatter on rocks on the other side of the swale. “Such a waste, isn’t it?” he murmured and then moved off. I was able to twist my head a fraction and grimaced against the pain. He walked to the tent. He looked down at Estelle Reyes for a brief moment, then nudged her out of the way. He bent down, picked up something, and threw it off into the darkness.

“Ruth?” he called softly. “Ruth, it’s all right. You’re safe now.” He knelt at the door of the tent, holding up the sagging nylon and broken support rod. The little girl emerged. It was too dark to see her face. She wrapped her arms around Finn’s neck. He stood up, lifting the girl effortlessly. “That’s my girl,” he said. “So brave.” He ran a hand through her hair. “So brave.”

She whispered something and Finn said, “I know. I know. But let’s finish here.” He moved away from the tent and bent to let Daisy stand on her own. He took her by the hand and they walked down the swale toward the boulders. He said something else to her that my fuzzed brain didn’t understand and then returned alone.

I managed to find my right arm…it felt detached and jointless… and pulled it across my stomach for support. I rolled to my left side. Finn stood quietly for a minute, watching me. “Perhaps a little struggle will be good for your soul,” he said, hefting the rifle.

“You son of a bitch,” I mumbled, but he wasn’t interested in conversation. And maybe when it came to face-to-face bloodletting he couldn’t stomach being as efficient as Arajanian.

He walked quickly past the tent, his flashlight beam darting far ahead. He headed up the slope and reached the kid’s corpse. I saw his light moving this way and that on the ground. I had the pistol and silencer he was looking for and had to figure a way to pull it out of my belt. My right arm was useless, and I was lying on my left.

I started to push myself up by levering my forehead against the ground. That didn’t work, and I collapsed back. Finn returned to the tent. He was no longer carrying the rifle. Maybe he was planning to return for it another day.

In a moment he emerged from the tent with two gallon cans, the kind that contain white gas for camp stoves and lanterns. With a can in each hand, he walked down the swale toward Daisy and the big boulder where Estelle and I had first met Robert Arajanian. I couldn’t see him after that.

There was only one reason for taking the gasoline. I drove my head hard into the ground, humped my back, and pushed with my left hand. Balanced on my knees and my left knuckles like an old, crippled gorilla, I looked uphill. I shook my head to clear my vision. Estelle Reyes’s dark form still lay at the corner of the collapsed tent.

I crawled forward, first moving my left hand and then scrunching my knees. I had no flashlight, but the moonlight was peaceful on the side of her face.

Balancing carefully, I rested my fingers against her throat. “Oh, Christ, Estelle.” There was a pulse and a strong one. I put my hand under her cheek, turning her head slightly so I could see her face. Her eyes were ground shut, closed so tightly her forehead was creased with a thousand wrinkles.

I hunkered closer. Her hair on the right side was heavy with blood, and it had begun to pool on the ground under her. I swore and groped for my handkerchief. It was in my right hip pocket. I rocked backward and reached behind my back, grabbing my belt.

Using that as purchase, I walked my left hand around my waist until my fingers found the pocket. I pulled out the handkerchief and made a mess of folding it against my thigh. I changed position again and crunched my knee down on Estelle’s flashlight. I breathed a sigh of relief, dropped the handkerchief, and grabbed the light.

Her thick hair made it impossible to see her scalp, especially in the uncertain light. But it appeared that the bullet had hit near the crown of her head on the right side, nearly a hand’s spread behind and above the tip of her ear. I had no way of knowing what damage the rifle bullet had done, but she was breathing and had a strong pulse.

I curled my arm and tucked the light in my armpit. The wadded handkerchief was a lousy bandage, but it might stop some of the bleeding. I gently pressed it against her skull. Estelle groaned faintly.

“Come on, hardhead,” I whispered. “You can do it.”

Estelle made a small whimpering noise, and one of her hands started to crab up toward her skull.

“Can you hold it in place?” I asked as her hand found mine. I hoped my voice was soft enough that it wouldn’t crash around inside her already busted skull.

“Eh,” she whispered, and I felt her fingers close on the cotton.

“I’ve got to help Paul,” I said urgently. I eased her head down, leaned back, and, using the flashlight as a short cane, pried myself to my feet. I swayed like a drunk, but my ankle was too numb to care. I turned carefully, playing the light past the tent. Paul Garcia hadn’t moved.

There was nothing that I or anyone else could do for the deputy. The rifle bullet had struck Paul Garcia high on the left cheek, just under his eye. Most of the back of his skull was missing.

I straightened up, sick at heart. The radio. A small part of my brain that was still working remembered the hand-held radio. I staggered back to Estelle and saw that the radio holster on her belt was empty-the hand-held was what Finn had tossed so negligently off into the trees.

“Run,” I thought aloud, trying to will my words downhill and into Deputy Al Martinez’s mind. “Run the other way.” But he wouldn’t do that. He would have heard the shots. Maybe he would have radioed for backup-radioed to a dispatcher seventy miles away. But he wouldn’t wait. He’d immediately charge up the trail, right into Finn’s gun. I swore, feeling helpless, checkmated.

I desperately wanted that radio and swung the light this way and that, trying to remember how Finn had been standing when he pulled it out of Estelle’s belt holster. It was impossible. I saw Estelle’s magnum and made my way over to it. By collapsing back down to my knees, I could pick it up. What the hell good it was I didn’t know.

It would take us a week to crawl down to the parking lot-by the time help arrived from Albuquerque, the vultures would have us. Maybe Al Martinez would play it smart. Like hell he would. I swore again-about all the expertise I could offer.

And then I sucked in my breath as another sound caught my attention. Behind me the pine forest was alive with a symphony of cracks, snaps, and a background beat that was a pulsing, loud, ominous roar. I turned and saw the light through the trees and at the same time felt the air fleeing uphill, nudging my cheeks. I don’t know why I was surprised. Maybe I’d been hoping H. T. Finn would change his mind. Maybe I’d been hoping he was a human being. But he hadn’t changed his mind. He’d probably even talked little Daisy into lending a hand.

The Smokey Bear signs along the highway warned about a careless match or cigarette. Smokey hadn’t met H. T. Finn. The bastard had used two gallons of white gasoline to set the mountain on fire.