Another minute passed as he tried to satisfy himself that no one was nearby.
He rose to a crouch and trotted across the two-lane asphalt toward the brush beyond.
“Halt!”
The shout came from his right, a surprised, half-choked cry.
Henry Charon sprinted toward the waiting darkness.
The impact of the bullet tumbled him. He rolled once and regained his feet, his left side completely numb. He gained the brush and charged into it and kept going as a bullet slapped into a tree just above his head and the boom of a second shot rang out. He hadn’t even heard the first one.
There was no pain. Just a numbness that extended from his armpit to his hip. He could still use his left arm, but not very well. The rifle was still in his right hand. He hadn’t lost it, thank God!
He attacked the hill in front of him, driving on both feet, fighting for air, not caring about how much noise he made.
They would be coming, that he knew. He had no illusions. No more than sixty seconds had passed before he heard the swelling noise of an engine coming down the road, then the squeal of its tires as the driver braked hard to a halt. Henry Charon went up the slope with all the strength that was in him.
The soldier was so nervous when Jake Grafton got out of the car that he couldn’t stand still. He hopped from foot to foot, pointing up the slope.
“I shouted for him to halt but he didn’t so I shot and he fell and got up and kept running and I shot again and dear God …”
“Show me.”
The soldier led him to the spot where the man had fallen. Jake used his flashlight. He followed the soldier’s pointing finger.
Specks of blood on the brush. “What’s your name?”
“Specialist Garth, sir.”
“You hit him.”
Jake pointed his M-16 at the ground and fired three shots, spaced evenly apart. “You stay here,” he told the soldier, “and tell your lieutenant to get people on the streets up there.” He gestured toward the ridge he faced. “I think there’re streets and houses up there.”
“Yessir,” Specialist Garth said, still swallowing rapidly and wetting his lips. “I hope—”
“You did right. You did your duty. Tell the lieutenant.” Jake strode back to the car and tossed his hat in. “Toad, go down about fifty feet to the right. Rita, fifty feet left. We’ll go up the hill. Keep your eyes peeled.”
“What about me?” Jack Yocke wanted to know.
“Stay here with the car.” The lieutenants were trotting to their assigned position. “Better yet, drive the car around and meet us up on top.” And Jake turned and plunged into the brush.
Fifteen feet up the hill he regretted his impulse to have Yocke help. Having a car driven by an unarmed man waiting and ready for a desperate wounded man with a gun when he topped the hill wasn’t the best idea Jake had had today.
Too late Jake Grafton turned around. Yocke was already driving away.
“Damn.”
Jake used his flashlight. He held it in his left hand and held the rifle by the pistol grip in his right, ready to fire. The trail in the wet earth was plain. Occasional splotches of blood.
If luck were a lady, this guy would be lying unconscious fifty feet up the hill bleeding to death. But Grafton had long ago lost all his illusions about that fickle bitch. The wounded man was probably tough as a man could be and would keep going until he died on his feet.
He’s going to need a lot of killing, Jake Grafton told himself as he paused to scan the dark forest with his flash.
At the top of the hill was a chain-link fence topped by three strands of barbed wire. Behind it was a lawn and trees and a huge two-story house with lights in three or four of the windows. The fence was an impossible barrier for Henry Charon, who was bleeding and beginning to hurt.
He looked left and right, then went right on impulse. He moved quickly, still able to lope along although the shock of the bullet was wearing off.
The next house had a six-foot-high wooden fence, still too much for Charon. He kept going until he came to a small two-rail accent fence. He was across it and trotting across the lawn when he heard a car go by on the street.
Cars would mean police or soldiers. Charon went around the house and paused behind a huge evergreen to survey the area and catch his breath. He probed the wound with his hand. Bleeding. Behind him on the grass he could see the trail where he had come. Whoever followed would see it too.
The car that had gone by was not in sight, so Charon ran out onto the street and veered right. Pavement would show no tracks, although he was probably dripping blood.
He needed a place to hole up and dress the wound. Or to die if the wound was too bad. That was a possibility of course. He had seen it happen hundreds of times. A wounded animal would run for miles until it thought it had escaped its pursuer, then it would lie down and quietly bleed to death. Sometimes he had come up on them after they had lain down but while they were still alive. If they had lain too long they could not move. The shock and loss of blood weakened them, caused them to stiffen up so badly they couldn’t rise. He wouldn’t lie that long. He would be up and going before he got too weak or stiff.
But where?
He heard another vehicle, or perhaps the same one coming back, and darted down the first driveway he came to. The house was dark. Great.
He went around the garage and circled the house.
There might be a burglar alarm. Or a dog. He would have to take the chance.
He used the silenced pistol on the door lock. It took four shots, but finally it opened when he pushed against it with his shoulder and turned the doorknob.
He closed it behind him and stood listening. The darkness inside the house was almost total. He waited for his eyes to accommodate, then walked quietly and quickly from room to room.
Apparently empty. With the pistol in his hand he ascended the stairs.
The master bath was off the big bedroom. It lacked windows. He closed the door behind him and turned on the light.
His appearance in the mirror shocked him. The coat was sodden with blood. He stripped it carefully. God, the pain was getting bad! He had difficulty getting the sweater and shirt off, but he did.
The wound was down low, entry and exit holes about six inches apart, a couple inches above his hip point and around on his back. He could only see the entrance hole by looking in the mirror. No way of telling what was bleeding inside. If his kidney or something vital were nicked, he would eventually pass out from loss of blood and die. And that would be that.
As it was, all he could try to do was get the external bleeding stopped. And it was a bleeder.
How much blood had he lost? Easily a pint, maybe more. He felt lightheaded. There was no time to lose.
He snapped off the light and went out into the bedroom where he stripped the sheets from the bed. Back in the bathroom with the light on he used his knife to cut the sheet, then tore it into strips which he painfully and slowly wrapped around his abdomen.
This would work. If he could get the bleeding stopped he could move.
Jake Grafton followed the trail to the street. He stood there with Toad and Rita and surveyed the wet asphalt with his flashlight. The blood drops were quickly dissipating as the rain intensified.
Jake began to trot.
Jack Yocke pulled alongside. “Rita,” Jake said, “go get the captain and the troops. Get them on trucks. Hurry.”
Obediently she jumped into the car, which sped away.
A hundred yards later the blood spots were gone. Jake Grafton stopped and stood panting as he looked around.
“Where do you think he went?” Toad demanded.