“That damn dog don’t like me,” said Fish.
“That old bitch don’t like nobody.”
I couldn’t imagine a better chance of getting Fish than now, but I was going to need a diversion. I left the shed and ran in a crouch up to the back of the smokehouse. There was only one door into the building, and it was on the side facing the cabin. A pungent odor wafted from the old building; inside I could hear something bubbling away. Several of the boards on the back side were warped and loose. I pulled gently on one. Other than the slight hiss of a nail pulling free, it made no noise as I removed it. The hole wasn’t big enough to get through, but now I had a good look inside, where a rack of gallon metal cans lined one wall. The cans were puffed up like they were about to explode. White plastic buckets sat around on the floor bubbling and hissing. One corner was full of flattened empty boxes from cold tablets. A propane stove sat in the center of everything. My eyes followed the black rubber hose that led back to a silver propane cylinder next to the wall where my hole was. I reached in blindly, pressing my face against the boards. I could feel the hose with my fingertips. Stretching as much as I could, I got my hand around the hose and pulled it toward me.
I heard footsteps and a shadow appeared in the doorway. I kept my shoulder pressed against the hole. I wasn’t moving a muscle; I didn’t dare breathe. I could see the shadow through a crack. He came forward just enough to pick up two more buckets and walked out again. His eyes didn’t have time to adjust to the dark interior. I pulled my arm out and went to the corner where I could see him.
I jerked my head back as the door of the cabin opened. The one in overalls leaned out the door. “I heated up the beans for breakfast,” he said.
“Beans all we got?”
“Tiny’s ’sposed to go to the store.”
The guy with the buckets peeled off his gloves and apron, and the two men disappeared into the cabin. I slipped around to the front and went into the open door of the smokehouse. I saw what I needed right away. One method of cooking methamphetamine requires red phosphorus. Meth cooks get it from matches or road flares. I grabbed a flare from a box and ducked back out the door. I went around to my hole and reached inside the old smokehouse. With my pocketknife I sawed on the gas hose until I heard a satisfying hiss. I pulled the cap off the road flare and scratched it across the end. The flare burst to life, spitting a bright red flame into the cool morning air. I tossed it through the hole towards the other side of the building and ran for the outhouse, pulling my gun from behind my back as I ran.
Delbert Fish was just opening the door of the outhouse when I hit it with my shoulder. I jerked the door back open to find him holding his nose, blood already running down his face. He was groaning, and while he was still dazed, I ran the action on the gun and pointed the muzzle right at the bridge of his nose. His eyes widened as he looked down the bore of the forty-five.
“Stay quiet and you may live through this,” I said. He just blinked as I grabbed a handful of filthy undershirt and jerked him out of the outhouse.
I was expecting a spectacular explosion and fireball about now, a diversion so I could get Fish out of there, but what I heard was the distinctive rumble of a Harley as Tiny Buckman rode out of the woods on the four-wheeler trail on an old Panhead Harley-Davidson. A look of consternation wrinkled his brow, and quickly turned to blind rage as he recognized me. He reached down and brought out a short-barreled, lever-action rifle from a scabbard on the bike; he stepped off the Harley, letting it fall. I turned to run, shoving Fish back against the outhouse. He grabbed onto me as the whole outfit tipped over the side of the hill. The drop-off was steep and our combined weight splintered the small building. I lost any grip I had on Fish as we both tumbled head over heels down the steep slope. Small saplings and underbrush slowed our descent, but the rocky hillside took its toll on exposed flesh. I came to an abrupt stop, flat on my back, staring up through the canopy of oaks at a darkening sky. I turned my head to see Fish lying in a heap next to me. The steepness of the slope was interrupted by an old logging road that had stopped our tumble.
A loud whoosh and blast sent sheets of rusty tin and weathered boards raining down through the trees. The propane had finally ignited. I hoped that it would distract Tiny and buy me some time. I grabbed a dazed Fish by the arm and pulled him to his feet.
“I can’t breathe!” he managed to say. He was holding his side and wheezing, his face screwed up in pain.
“You’ll live,” I said. “We’ve got to move.” His knees started to buckle, so I gave him a hard kick in the butt.
“You’re gonna kill me!”
“No, dumb-ass, I’m going to keep you from getting killed. Etta Mae hired me to find you.”
His face was smeared with blood and dirt; a green sumac leaf was stuck to his cheek. I started to put his arm over my shoulder to help him, but he came to life and jerked away from me. He looked confused. He didn’t know whether to believe me or not.
A clap of thunder echoed through the valley. Fish and I stared at each other. We both heard the rush of feet on the soft leaves followed by a low growl. I reached behind my back for my gun, but it was gone. I must have lost it in the tumble down the hill. I watched helplessly as a brindle-colored ball of teeth and muscle shot out of the woods, rocketing toward Fish. He put up an arm even as he screamed. The dog launched itself at his throat, catching the arm instead between powerful jaws. Fish went down on his back, howling in pain and terror. The dog had its tail end toward me as it jerked its massive head back and forth, pulling on Fish’s arm as if to tear it off. With the classic two steps of a punter, I kicked up between the dog’s legs with a heavy thump that even sounded like a football. The dog yelped as it flipped up over its victim, landing in the trail where it lay thrashing in agony, its testicles crushed.
I grabbed Fish by his good arm and pulled him up. “Let’s go!” I yelled.
We both heard it at the same time, something else coming noisily through the brush. I caught a glimpse of another dog, this one struggling, dragging a length of chain that was catching on the foliage, slowing the dog’s progress.
“Oh God, it’s Rosie!” Fish looked at me pleadingly, his arm bleeding and useless, hanging at his side.
“Down the trail,” I yelled. “Run!”
He didn’t have to be told twice. Fish was surprisingly fast, and I was right behind him. The old logging road was dim and overgrown, but it was much easier going than bushwhacking through the timber. It curved around the brow of the hill toward where I had tied the mule.
The dog was gaining on us. The road was easier running for Rosie, dragging her chain. I was looking back at her when Fish stopped so suddenly, I almost bowled him over. He bent over with his good hand on his knee, coughing and wheezing, trying to get his breath. Fish was winded and bleeding so badly that even I could follow the trail he was leaving. He wasn’t going to make it. Not like this.
Rosie barked and growled; she slowed and crouched slightly as she squared up at me. I knew that I should find a weapon and stand my ground, but I couldn’t help myself. I turned and ran straight down the side of the mountain.
The dog came crashing after me as I started down the hill. I jumped over a deadfall, nearly going down. The dog tried to go around and the chain momentarily snagged. I kept running, but the terrain was getting steeper, and I was doing more falling than running. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move off to my left. At first I thought it was a deer; it startled me enough that I lost my footing and tumbled headlong down the rocky slope. I landed hard against a big oak tree.
The dog was almost on me. I knew that I couldn’t get away from it now. I picked up a rock the size of a softball, hoping to crack the demon’s skull when it came.