Another shot slammed into the bedroom. Sugarfoot was still in the orchard, still letting Wyatt know he was there. He had a clear view of the entire northern side of the house and would notice if Wyatt left by either the back or the front door.
Wyatt walked through to the bathroom. It faced south. He opened the window above the bath, knocked out the insect screen, and squeezed out. He moved slowly, conserving energy.
The land on the southern side sloped down to an area of scrub fronted by blackberry bushes. In the distance was Shoreham, then the sea, where black and grey clouds seemed to bunch up before scudding in over the coastline. Wyatt had been calmed by his rest in the house. Now he realised how cold and damp the day was.
A choked path wound through the blackberry thicket.
Wyatt made slow time, thorns catching at his clothing and tearing his skin. He emerged where the blackberries met the scrub and picked his way through it, dodging branches and whipping twigs and leaves.
At the bottom corner of the scrub he broke cover and ran doubled-over to the edge of the pine plantation. Sugarfoot might be back in the pine trees, so he paused before he advanced too far in. The trees were tall, planted close together in neat rows, their upper branches woven together, screening out the meagre light of winter. There was no undergrowth, and few inhibiting lower branches. Pine needles carpeted the ground. One could move through here almost unseen and unheard.
Wyatt stood against the flank of one of the larger trees, the.38 cocked in his hand. He stood for five minutes, listening, adjusting to the dim, resinous atmosphere.
It was midday now. People would be coming home from church soon. If they’d had a chance to compare notes about hearing heavy-bore rifle shots earlier this morning, they might now decide to do something about it.
Wyatt was in the corner of the pine trees that faced the back of his house. That put him at a disadvantage if Sugarfoot advanced along that flank from the other end and drove him back into the inadequate shelter of the scrub and the black-berries. He headed away from the house for a hundred metres and then turned north, making a long, slow circle around to where the pine trees ended and the apple trees began. He wanted to come in behind Sugarfoot.
Then he saw him. Sugarfoot had not wasted time doubling back from the orchard. Sugarfoot saw Wyatt, too. He stopped, swung the big rifle around, and fired. The sound was flat in that enclosed space. A wedge of bark flew off the trunk of a tree next to Wyatt. But it was blind firing. Sugarfoot didn’t have the time or manoeuvrability for a clear shot.
Wyatt turned, ran crashingly towards the orchard for several seconds, stopped, and slipped quietly to his left. He waited. If Sugarfoot circled around, expecting to intercept him, he would follow.
Suddenly Sugarfoot shouted, ‘You’re finished, Wyatt.’
The mug was actually giving away his location. Wyatt stood still, tracking the voice. As he’d expected, Sugarfoot had turned and was cutting through the pine trees toward the orchard. He set off after him.
‘You hear me, Wyatt? You hear me?’
Sugarfoot was now making no effort to be quiet. The cowboy boots drummed on the pine needles, the skirt of the long coat caught on the tree trunks. He was alternately shouting and muttering.
‘Cunt! Didn’t have to kill him. Ivan never hurt you. He fucking put work your way’
The voice dropped again, muttering and complaining.
Wyatt listened and watched. He had Sugarfoot pinpointed now, and began to stalk him. Sugarfoot had dumped the rifle. He was carrying a long-barrelled pistol. From this distance it looked like a Colt Woodsman; not a bad choice, light and accurate. But its slender modern lines and sculptured grip looked incongruous, for Sugarfoot was prowling like a Clint Eastwood caricature, the broad hat low on his brow, the long coat giving him the look of an avenger.
Suddenly he yelled, ‘You’re gutless, Wyatt,’ and swirled around, snapping off random shots.
It didn’t seem to be panic shooting. He’s asking me to face him, Wyatt thought. It’s his moment of glory, the poor thug.
Wyatt waited. Sugarfoot turned and again moved off through the trees, heading toward the border with the orchard. Wyatt followed. He was about twenty paces behind Sugarfoot now. The challenges were becoming more frequent. ‘What are you, Wyatt? Scared? Too piss-weak to show yourself?’
Wyatt began to close the distance. The pines were beginning to thin out and he could see Sugarfoot more clearly. He was facing away from him. Wyatt saw him put his hand to his mouth and cry, ‘You’re gutless, Wyatt. Show yourself like a man.’
Wyatt stepped out, steadied the.38 with his left hand, and shot Sugarfoot Younger in the back of the head.
He cocked the gun again, and waited. But Sugarfoot had pitched forward and dropped and hadn’t moved.
He released the hammer and lowered the gun. His energy seemed to drain into the ground.
When the voice called to him from the path running along the fence, he jerked as if awoken from sleep. He thumbed back the hammer, raised the gun, almost fired.
‘Mr Warner?’
It was Craig. He came closer. He hadn’t seen the body yet.
‘Mr Warner? What’s going on? Are you all right?’
He looked concerned. He’d been running. Then he noticed the body spread face down in the grass, frowned, trying to make sense of it, and turned a shocked face to Wyatt.
Wyatt lowered his.38 again. Craig saw the movement, saw the gun. He started to back away, mouthing something, and Wyatt realised it was ‘No, please, no.’ With a last wrenching look, Craig turned and began to run.
It was a bursting, fearful run, as if he expected the punch of bullets in his back. But Wyatt had begun to stumble back through the trees to his own house. He was galvanised by Craig’s expression of natural horror. It told him he’d lost everything here. All he had in the world was a short head start and seventy-five thousand dollars and far to run.