Vigilante

CHAPTER 49

Lester was limping without his cane but making damn good time. I was struggling to keep pace.

We made our way between two houses and exited a back gate to a wilderness area behind the designer development. I saw Lee Bob loping across a large field of dry, brown grass cover. He was almost a quarter mile away, heading toward a three-hundred-foot rock cliff. If he got over the top, he could disappear into the mountains. He was barely lit by moonlight as he got to the rocks and began climbing the craggy surface, using his ropy build to pull himself effortlessly up.

Lester Madrid knelt in the dirt at the edge of the brown grassy meadow and watched Lee Bob scale the cliff.

“Fucking little spider monkey, ain’t he?” Lester said.

“I don’t think I can make that climb,” I said, as I dropped in beside him. “I don’t know what drug that nut-job gave me, but my coordination is shot.”

“With this leg I sure as shit ain’t gonna climb no rock wall,” Lester said. “Come on.”

We moved out into the field, breaking through tinder-dry brush, and hurried to close the distance to the cliff face.

Lee Bob was now almost halfway up, moving faster all the time as the degree of ascent lessened near the top. He must have heard us crashing through the brush below, because he paused and then turned to look down. He studied us for a minute, hanging from the rock face, then resumed his climb.

“If he gets over that ridge, he’ll be gone,” I said hotly. “We gotta do something.”

“Fuckin’ calm down. He ain’t getting over no ridge,” Lester replied. Then he licked his fingertips and moistened his gun sight.

“You can’t just shoot him in the back,” I said.

“Suggestion box is open, Dudley Do Right, but you better make it fast.” I couldn’t come up with anything. The Cajun was almost at the top of the cliff as Lester carefully sighted down the barrel and slowly began to squeeze the trigger. It was a tough shot. Problem was I needed Lee Bob alive to make my case against Nash. I certainly didn’t want this retired SIS gunfighter dropping him.

Without thinking, I lunged at Lester’s gun hand, trying to throw off his aim. My speed and coordination were still way off. Lester saw my move coming and swung the Glock at me, slamming the barrel into my head. I fell sideways.

As I struggled to get up Lester barked, “Stay down,” then retrained the 9mm on Lee Bob.

Batiste had just arrived at the top of the cliff face. He turned for a minute to look back at us. I could see him pointing a gun. A plume of dust kicked up a foot to the right of where we were. The sound was a bit slower and a second later we heard his distant gunshot.

“Adios, motherfucker,” Lester said, and triggered off one shot.

Lee Bob was almost five hundred yards away and a hundred feet above us. Under optimum conditions it would have been a tricky shot. Out here, under moonlight, it was pretty much impossible.

As soon as the retort on the Glock sounded, Batiste straightened up from the impact. The bullet must have gone through him without hitting bone, because instead of blowing him backward, the recoil from the through-and-through shot tumbled him forward.

He took one hesitant step toward the ledge, as if to look down and check the height. Then he continued awkwardly forward, finally taking a swan dive off the top, waving his arms and yelling as he fell. His high-pitched scream cut the still night like a predator’s cry. It was cut off abruptly as he thudded into the dirt.

“Not bad for a lousy three-inch barrel,” Lester said.

When he looked over at me I saw the moonlight glint in gray eyes. No emotion, no feeling. Like Lee Bob’s they displayed a remorseless soul. Shark eyes prowling in shallow water.

“Let’s go spit on the carcass,” Lester said.

He moved off, heading toward the place where Lee Bob fell. I got to my feet and followed.

Batiste’s body was sprawled at an unnatural angle. His neck was broken, skull crushed. His orange hair was beginning to darken, turning red with matted blood.

He lay there in the dark, waiting for the loup-garou.