Moments later, Brock Jenkins’ green Dodge pickup turned into the driveway.
Scott stretched out, touched his toes, and jogged a little in place.
Sylvia Jenkins walked around the yard scooping up toys and shoes, then ushered the kids inside.
There’s my cue.
Scott walked out of the forest, making no attempt at being quiet.
Immediately, Brock Jenkins heard him approach and turned toward him with his head cocked at an angle.
“Can I help you?”
Scott shook his head and pointed to his left ear as if he couldn’t make out what he was saying.
Louder, Brock Jenkins said, “Can I help you?”
Scott nodded, as if he finally understood what was being said. He did not answer though.
Brock Jenkins held his ground, but shifted so his weight was evenly distributed.
Not expecting it, but ready for a fight, just like last time.
Scott kept his pace steady and stopped a few feet away.
Brock Jenkins looked puzzled, as though Scott might be simple-minded and lost.
Scott didn’t hesitate. He pulled his jo stick up into both hands and in one long-practiced, fluid motion, swung it in an arc that connected with Jenkins’ head beside his left eye.
Jenkins crumbled to the ground, but reacted fast. He rolled away from Scott and sprang back to his feet.
Scott closed on him, still holding the jo in both hands and thrust it at Jenkins’ throat. The other man was quick and tried to both turn away and grab the jo with both hands. Scott was expecting exactly that and twisted the stick as he thrusted. It scraped the right side of Jenkins throat, but didn’t do serious damage.
The left side of Jenkins’ face had been split open by the initial blow and blood flowed into his eye.
A shrill, ear-piercing scream tore through the air. Sylvia Jenkins stood on the front porch, her mouth open and ready to scream again. She dropped the beer bottle she had been carrying. It didn’t shatter, but a geyser of beer shot up.
Scott had turned his head to see.
Jenkins hadn’t. He bull-rushed Scott and hit him in the solar-plexus with his right shoulder. They both went to the ground, but Scott was on the bottom and all the air rushed out of his lungs with a loud “Ooof!”
Jenkins tried to wrap him up in a wrestler’s hold, but Scott rolled away.
“Go call the police, and get the rifle!” Jenkins shouted at his wife.
Sylvia Jenkins fled inside, slamming the door behind her.
Brock Jenkins scrambled to his feet, quick as lightning.
The baton, still collapsed, had fallen out of Scott’s pocket. He grabbed it off the ground in his left hand, opened it to its full length with a downward flick, and dropped into a fighting stance.
Jenkins wasn’t interested in a fight, though. He had turned and run toward his pickup truck.
Scott was not fast, but he moved as quickly as he could and when Jenkins had to stop to open the door, Scott caught him.
He didn’t hesitate. He raised the baton as he ran and whipped it down on Jenkins right arm as it opened the door.
Scott heard the bones break in Jenkins forearm. It was Jenkins turn to scream.
Gotta do this fast. Don’t know how long it will take the cops to get here, but probably not too long.
While Brock Jenkins cradled his broken arm and cried out, Scott pulled the karambit out of its sheath with his right hand and slashed upward into the other man’s exposed chest. The knife was so sharp, its curved edge went in almost without friction. Scott twisted it as he pulled it out and blood spurted onto his hand, his arm, his clothes, everywhere.
Brock Jenkins fell to his knees, but before he collapsed completely, Scott reversed his attack and slid the blade across his throat.
Jenkins’ eyes glazed over and Scott let him fall.
Adrenaline rushed through Scott, but he knew he needed to focus.
Gotta get the hell out of here, right damn now.
He strode over to where his jo lay abandoned in the grass, grabbed it and turned for the road. He was almost there when the front door opened and Sylvia Jenkins pushed through. She held a rifle in both hands.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sylvia Jenkins wasn’t screaming any more. She looked calm as she raised the rifle to her shoulder and sighted down the barrel at Scott.
Scott looked left and right. Cover was thin, but there were a few maple trees at the front of the Jenkins yard. He sprinted for one.
As he slid behind it, a shot rang out and the bark beside his head was vaporized.
If I stay right here, she can pin me down until the police arrive.
He ran for the next tree, then another and another.
Mrs. Jenkins’ aim was fair, but she didn’t seem to be familiar with the mechanism of the gun, as the shots did not come quickly. She took two more shots that were near misses, but then Scott disappeared behind the cedar fence that delineated the two property lines.
Far away, Scott heard the tinny wail of a police siren.
I’m stuck here, the cops are coming, and my car is the opposite direction down the road. If I run for the car, either she’ll shoot me, or the cops will see me.
Scott made a split-second decision and ran along the fence line toward the neighboring house.
If anybody’s home and sees me, I’m probably stuck. I won’t hurt an innocent person. I guess if I get caught, I can just start over.
He ran, keeping his head low. As he did, he glanced at the neighbor’s house. It looked dark and deserted.
Moments later, he reached the back of the fence, turned right, and ran directly behind the Jenkins house. As he ran along the fence line, the hairs on the back of his neck tingled.
She could be right there, on the back porch, aiming that rifle at me right now.
Scott didn’t focus on being quiet, but instead tried for speed. A few seconds later, he was at the end of the fence, which also marked the end of the Jenkins property.
He peeked around the fence corner at the backyard. It was empty. He gauged the distance between the fence and the safety of the trees.
Maybe fifteen feet. Just a few steps. If she doesn’t see me, of course.
Scott took a deep breath, tucked the jo under his arm and leaped for the woods.
His momentum carried him into the cooler shadows, but his right foot landed on a half-buried rock and twisted. Pain shot up through his leg, but he managed not to cry out.
He peered through the bush and toward the front of the Jenkins house. Scott saw Mrs. Jenkins running out toward her husband’s body as a Waterville Police Department cruiser skidded into the driveway. Scott didn’t wait to see any more.
He worked his way along through the woods, limping badly on his twisted ankle—the same one that had been shot in Vietnam. He used his jo half as a walking stick and half as a crutch. He maneuvered his way through the tangle of underbrush and felled trees.
He couldn’t see the Jenkins place anymore, but he heard the police car that had first arrived tear out of the driveway and turn in the direction he had initially run. Happily for Scott, that was the opposite direction from him at that moment.
Won’t take him long to figure out he can’t find me that way. I’m sure there will be a whole bunch more cop cars here any minute. A murder surely doesn’t happen every day in Waterville, although there would have been more today if I hadn’t come.
He did his best to hurry across the field toward the Valiant. Scott was limping badly now. His ankle was swelling and his walking boot was much too tight.