“I know,” Timmy said. “You did what you had to do.”
Wendell said, “Were you still making sandwiches, Mom?”
“Oh, almost forgot,” she said. “I was bringing the tray over, and when I heard the commotion going on in here, I put it down outside, ran back and got my gun. Just a sec.” She slipped out the door and was back ten seconds later, the tray of sandwiches untouched by any creatures of the night.
Wendell and Dougie rushed her. “Which one’s without cheese?” asked Dougie, who was already lifting the lids of the various sandwiches to check.
“This one,” Charlene said.
Dougie grabbed it, shoved a quarter of the sandwich into his mouth, his cheeks bulging out. Wendell did the same.
“Nothing for you?” Charlene asked her husband. “I made you one without mustard, just like you asked.”
Timmy shook his head, glanced back at Lawrence Jones on the floor, slowly twisting and turning. “I’m a bit worried about him. I don’t figure he’d be out here working alone. It was Walker’s son brought him up here from the city.”
Wendell and Dougie, looking like squirrels hiding nuts to take back to the nest, stopped chewing a moment to take in the significance of this comment. Charlene said, “You think he might be around here, too?”
“Why don’t we go ask?” Timmy said, and walked back over to Lawrence. He bent over slightly, and said, “Who else is out here with you?”
I began slipping back toward the open door, which meant I couldn’t see what was going on, but I could still hear.
“I said, who else is out here with you?”
Quietly, “Nobody.”
“I don’t believe you. Dougie, come over here and give this man another taste of your boot.”
Up above them, nearing the door, I could hear the kick.
Lawrence said, “Unnhhh.”
“Now let me ask you again. Are you out here alone, or is there someone with you?”
As it turned out, Lawrence didn’t really need to answer the question. I answered it for them when, as I slipped out the door, my foot pressed down on a twig and snapped it.
It wasn’t a loud sound. It was hardly anything at all. But it must have been enough to prick someone’s ears.
“Up there,” Charlene Wickens said. “Someone’s up there!”
“Wendell!” Timmy shouted. “Dougie! Go! Go!”
I now embarked on the “run like hell” part of my plan. My legs started pumping, carrying me back in the direction I’d come from, along the inside of the fence, looking for the place where I’d hopped over, because I knew the terrain back down toward the cabins from there pretty well.
I glanced back briefly, and when I saw the shadows of the two brothers appear in the light of the barn door, I dropped to the ground, flattening myself to it. Each of them was armed with a shotgun, and as soon as they were standing outside the barn, they stopped momentarily, reminding me of the pit bulls when they stopped to determine where the smell of fish was coming from. They hadn’t seen me, didn’t know where I might be, and were wondering which way to go. There were a lot of choices, standing under that starry sky.
One of them, I couldn’t tell which, pointed and said to the other, “You go that way!” That one disappeared behind the far side of the barn. The one I could still see, and it was beginning to look to me now like it was Wendell, started off, slowly, in my direction.
As long as I pressed myself to the ground, I felt he couldn’t see me. Unless of course, he happened to come right toward me.
Charlene Wickens came out of the barn, an empty tray in her hand, and walked briskly back to the farmhouse.
Don’t let the dogs out, I thought. Please, please, please do not let those dogs out. Wendell might not be able to see me in the dark, but I had every confidence in the dogs’ collective ability to sniff me out.
She went into the house, let the door slam shut behind her. Upstairs, a light went on.
Wendell was moving my way.
I felt a small rock under my right hand, gripped it. I rolled over onto my back and threw it, as best I could from that position, back toward the barn. It hit the ground, and just as I’d hoped, Wendell stopped and turned. He was holding his breath same as I was, I suspected, listening for any sound. He decided the noise was worth investigating, and went slowly in that direction.
I got to my knees, almost in a sprinter’s starting position, and then bolted, trying to keep low. I got to the spot where I’d hopped the fence, grabbed hold of it, and the metal wire twanged softly as I got my feet into the openings and threw myself over.
Once my feet were planted on the other side, I looked back, and saw that Wendell was running my way now. Running hard, the barrel of the shotgun wavering back and forth in front of him as he ran toward me.
I ran into the woods wildly, not as sure of my bearings as I’d thought I would be. And even had I known exactly where I was, I couldn’t decide where to go, or what to do. I could run back to Dad’s cabin, but he wasn’t going to be able to protect me from a guy with a shotgun. We could put in a frantic call to Orville, but how long would it take him to get out here? And once he’d arrived, how much help would he be? Hadn’t the Wickenses intimidated him more than once before? Could you expect your life to be saved by a guy who couldn’t even hang on to his hat? Or his gun? If Timmy Wickens told him to take a walk again, wasn’t there a good chance he would?
And what could Betty or Hank Wrigley do, or Bob Spooner, who was-
Wait a minute.
Hadn’t Bob mentioned having a gun in his tackle box? Hadn’t be made a comment about a Smith & Wesson? Could I make it down to his boat before Wendell caught up with me? If I could get my hands on the gun, would I have a chance of being able to use it against him? And would it even be there? Wasn’t it likely Bob took his tackle box into the cabin at night? Well then, couldn’t I burst in there and get it from him?
And would I be able to get back to the barn before the rest of the Wickenses did any more damage to Lawrence Jones?
I kept running, branches armed with pine needles coming out of nowhere, slapping my face, disorienting me. I thought I could hear footsteps coming behind me. I reached into my pocket for the bear spray, and without even looking back, started shooting it over my shoulder, hoping that if Wendell was back there, some of the pepper would waft into his face somehow.
I came upon an opening and there, in front of me, was the open pit of fish guts, which Lawrence had refused to cover with the cottage shutter. I leapt over it at the last second, nearly falling in, started stumbling headlong, then regained my footing and kept going.
I was cutting left, then right, looking for the lights from the cabins, still spraying wildly over my shoulder, and somewhere behind me I heard, “Shit!”
It sounded a ways off, so I slowed, listened some more. “Fuck! What the fuck is this?”
Wendell, evidently, had not navigated the pit of guts as well as I had. I gave myself the luxury of a half-second smile, then kept on for the cabins, thinking of nothing else but getting my hand on Bob’s Smith & Wesson and-
“Hold it.”
My heart felt like it had been struck with a sledgehammer. There, in the darkness, was Dougie. Standing directly ahead of me, the shotgun raised and pointed straight at my forehead.
I stopped.
“Wendell!” he shouted. “I got him! Over here!”
The can of bear spray was still tucked into my hand. I slipped my index finger over the button at the top, kept it there.
Dougie stepped forward. He had a dopey grin on his face, and his dirty teeth glowed in the moonlight.
“You put your hands up,” he said.
I did as I was told. As my arm went up, I aimed the spray at Dougie’s face and hit the button.
The can went phisss briefly, and then died.
“What’s that?” Dougie asked.