“Beretta?” Larry asked. His silly grin vanished, and he retreated as if to use Caldwell as a partial screen. “Dude, for what you’re paying me, all you had to do was ask. Or do some reading. If this woman’s got a gun, she’ll use it. She’s freakin’ nuts.”
“What is the final tally, Raymond?” I asked, and for the first time stepped toward him. “I bet you got a pretty good laugh by asking me how many women you’ve assaulted. Know what the answer is to that? None-starting today.”
“See!” Larry said. “Stop screwing around and shoot her in the foot, or something, to put her down.”
Caldwell’s attitude: calm; amused by my temper; this mouthy female hick too pissed off to be afraid. In a way, he was right. Since thinking about Sarah, I’d been getting madder and madder. Anger was elevated to fury when he said to Larry, “She’s a fool. The Beretta won’t fire. I took out the slide spring before I came ashore. Here, watch.”
He looked at me. “Go ahead, open your pack and get my gun out. See what happens. When you’re convinced, drop the machete and humor us by explaining why you’ve been kneeling in dirt.” His eyes moved to the knees of my pants. “A woman so damn anxious to get to her boat, that tells me you found an orange tree. Where is it?”
I removed my right glove, stuffed it into my back pocket, then placed the shoulder pack at my feet. “The tree’s too big for one person to carry. That’s why I got the shovel and came to find you.”
Caldwell laughed at this obvious lie. “Came to find the idiot who doesn’t know what an orange tree looks like, huh? Okay, I’ll let that pass-as long as we leave here with at least two or three healthy ones. Afterward, when we’re in the boat, out in open water”-he glanced at Larry to communicate his true meaning-“we’ll stop and have a little something to munch on. I’m hungry. How about you?”
“Make her open that goddamn pack,” the bass pro said, “to be sure she’s not carrying. I’ve watched her grab treble hooks out of the air, and the bitch didn’t even flinch.”
Caldwell angled the shotgun toward my ankles and got ready. “Dump the bag on the ground, please-if nothing else just to shut him up. Move. I mean it, I’ll blow your foot off just like he suggested.”
I’d had enough. I kicked my pack toward them and followed it. “Is that how it’s playing out in your head, Raymond? Shoot me before you’ve had the fun of scaring me so bad, I’ll do any damn thing you tell me?” I reached back for the glove but changed my mind. “What about you, Buddy Luck? My guess is, you’ve been down this road yourself. Ever strip the pants off a girl whose foot has been shot off? She wouldn’t be much of a dancer.” I kicked my pack again. “Know what I’d like to see just once? Someone with the grit to make cowards like you strip their clothes off first.” We were separated by ficus streamers and ten yards of rot. I stepped over the bag and walked toward them, my hands at my sides.
The bass pro gulped. Caldwell stared. Neither knew what to make of this, but then Larry decided, “Maybe we should talk this over before she gets the wrong idea.”
Caldwell said, “Fuck that,” and told me to stop, not to take another step.
I did as he said; dropped the machete, then reached behind me as if for the glove. Then, as if isolated in a tunnel, I watched the man’s expression change when my hand reappeared holding a silver 9mm pistol, not his useless black Beretta.
Caldwell, startled by the suddenness of it all, stumbled back and pulled one of the shotgun’s twin triggers.
CLICK! The gun didn’t go off-a failure to fire, not a misfire.
I took aim, my knees bent slightly, right leg back: the Weaver stance had been comfortable at the gun range. Automatically, I squared myself for balance. With both hands on the grips, a push-and-pull adjustment steadied the pistol. Beyond the front sight, the man with the Hemingway beard pointed the shotgun at my face and tried again.
CLICK! Another failure to fire.
Caldwell’s eyes widened as I advanced toward him; a touch of wild panic there that reminded me of Lonnie Chatham’s rearing horse. Larry hollered, “Shit!” turned, ran… tripped and sprawled forward on his face. My left eye tracked him over the barrel when he got up; my index finger, light on the trigger, but not light enough because of adrenaline pumping through me.
BAAP! The pistol jumped in my hands, startlingly loud. I hadn’t meant to fire; could not bring myself to shoot a fleeing man, which is why I’d aimed above his head.
Larry looked back in shock, his skin paler beneath streaks of soot. After an instant of indecision, he bolted away, his progress through the brush similar to the noise an elephant might make.
The pistol’s front sight was an iridescent white dot. It pivoted toward Raymond Caldwell’s forehead, then located center mass on his chest. I watched him snap open the shotgun, stare up at me, then look again in disbelief at the gun’s two empty chambers.
“You… bitch,” he said.
“An unarmed dumbass shouldn’t call names,” I replied. “The shells are in my pocket, Raymond. I did it while you were tying your boots.” The pistol’s front sight led me forward-slow, measured steps to keep the barrel from bouncing. “Run, if you want. I’ll aim for your legs, and finish up after I’ve asked you a couple of things.”
“You don’t have the nerve.”
I stopped and took aim.
“Hey… whoa, now. Ask me anything. That’s what I’d prefer to do… yeah, talk this over.” He tossed the shotgun on the ground; his big hands came up in partial surrender. “I wouldn’t’ve shot you. You know that. What? Face a murder charge?”
“Another murder charge,” I corrected him. “You would’ve done something worse. That never crossed your mind, did it? How scared those girls were. How scared they’d always be, the ones you let live. How many were there, Raymond? You never did answer the question.”
He began to back away. “What’s that matter to you?”
“Let’s pretend it does. I’m waiting for a number.”
Something in my tone, or my eyes, spooked him. “Uh… none. Really. None that weren’t willing after the first few minutes anyway, and that’s the truth. I can’t help they got scared later. Seriously, what Lonnie told you was the truth. I didn’t attack her, I saved her. Come on, Hannah, calm down.” Using my name to remind me of the friendliness we had shared. Then raised a valid point, saying, “You know where Larry will head, don’t you? Your boat. Hear him? He’s looking for it right now.”
In a peripheral way, I’d been tracking the bass pro through the woods. A huge man whose freakish quickness didn’t mitigate the noise he made. It was true. Someone with Okeechobee experience might find the trail I’d blazed and follow it to my boat.
“What will we do if he goes off and leaves us? It’s getting late”-Caldwell turned his wrist for me to see-“it’s already eleven, almost. Tell you what. In my coat pocket, you’ll find the Beretta’s slide spring. The gun’s all yours. But if that asshole tries to jump us, I’m willing to take your side if-”
I let the man talk. Made a show of my cold anger by finding the shovel and flinging it so hard that, had he not ducked, it would’ve clanked off his head.
“Start digging,” I said.
“What?”
“A hole. It doesn’t have to be deep. I’m your last victim. I already told you that.”
The threat was a ruse but produced the reaction I’d hoped for. “Jesus Christ, you wouldn’t… Okay, okay-how about this? Lonnie and I, we’ve already invested ten grand in your project. How does another half mil sound? In cash. No one has to-”