Abram's Bridge (7 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

Heath looked around the cramped living space from his spot on the tattered and sunken brown couch. A flatscreen tube television—sitting on a small, handmade wooden stand against the wall with the plastic-covered window—appeared to be the lone source of entertainment in the room. No books, no magazines, no radio. The little shelf below the TV held a VCR/DVD combo player and was surrounded by VHS cassettes of old westerns (the ones his papa watched on a regular basis:
High Noon
,
Rio Bravo
, and
The Outlaw Josey Wales
).

Hanging above the TV was a portrait of a beautiful, blonde-haired, blued-eyed girl—Katharine Bell.

Mr. Bell sat across from him in a split and frayed pleather recliner, sipping from a bottle of Budweiser.

Heath opened his mouth to begin when a gunshot stole his attention.

“Hunting season,” Mr. Bell said between sips. “Season started last week.”

Heath still didn’t like it. “Aren’t they supposed to not hunt around houses?”

“Not supposed to, but some of them don’t care for the laws,” he said. He turned his head toward the portrait of his daughter. A smile tried to climb the corners of his mouth.

“She was beautiful,” Heath said.

“Yes.”

Another shot, followed by two more, rang out from the forest.

Mr. Bell cocked an eyebrow, rising up from his chair with a small moan, moving to the window at the back.

Heath felt the skin over his spine crawl, joining Mr. Bell by the window.

“Is that how they usually hunt?” Heath said.

“The drunk ones,” he said. “Hard to draw a good bead on a doe when you’re seeing two of ’em.”

Li’l Ron, wheezing through his teeth—his gums and his lungs both stung—was focusing on anything but the pain in his bulging knee when a little grey-blue house came into sight. He could hear branches and leaves crackling behind him. He stepped out from the trees, praying someone was home.

“Oh my God,” Mr. Bell said.

Heath could see a kid ducking out from the trees, stumbling toward the house. “Sawyer?” he said.

Mr. Bell went down a short hallway and opened the back door. Sunlight brightened the cramped, dark space.

Heath followed.

Mr. Bell, rushing out to meet Li’l Ronnie Sawyer at the metal clothesline in the backyard, put an arm around him, guiding the boy inside. Heath backed up, giving them room. Sawyer limped into the room and all Heath could do was stare. Sawyer’s left eye was horrible to look at—red and swollen shut. A large gash along the same side of his face—dried blood dressing the wound—made him look like some kind of battlefield survivor.

“Are you all right?” Mr. Bell asked.

“A phone…” he wheezed. “Do you have a phone?”

“Of course, right here.” Mr. Bell said, leading him to the end table by his recliner.

“Thank you.” Sawyer picked up the phone and dialed, looking out the back window. He turned to Mr. Bell. “You should lock the doors. Do you have a gun?”

Li’l Ron scanned the woods out back. Schultz should be coming through anytime. He’d had a lead on the man, thanks to the gunshot to his leg, but hadn’t been able to lose him. He’d heard him tromping through the woods, hurling insults.

The phone was ringing.

Greg Sawyer pulled into the driveway. His mother had mentioned going to June’s this morning. She was probably still there. Li’l Ron’s bike was missing.

That kid’s always rammin’ the roads,
he thought. He stepped out of the truck, shut the door and heard the phone ringing inside the house. He started for the front door, and stopped.

“Oh, almost forgot,” he said, turning and opening the truck door. He slid out a twelve-pack of Budweiser beer and closed the door.

“Who’s out there? Is it the person who did this to you?” Mr. Bell said, heading down the hall and locking the door.

“Yes, yes. C’mon, Dad, c’mon, dammit, pick up,” Li’l Ron said, limping back and forth between the back window and the TV, an eye on the backyard.

Greg Sawyer opened the door. “Hold on,” he said at the incessant ringing. “Hold your horses.”

He walked past the phone, tearing open the end of the twelve-pack, pulling out a can and putting the rest in the refrigerator.

He popped the top, took a swig and moved to see who was in such dire straits.

Riiiinng, riiiinng.

“Come on, come—” Li’l Ron said. Someone picked up.

“Hello?”

“Dad! Dad, it’s Schultz, Greg Schultz. He killed—” Li’l Ron looked up and saw Sweet Kate’s portrait above the TV.

“Who killed who?” Mr. Bell said. “Is somebody dead?”

Li’l Ron heard his father asking him who and what and where…he heard Mr. Bell asking him the same thing...but he couldn’t take his eyes off the picture.

His stuttering mind began putting things back in place. “Sweet Kate,” he said, turning to Mr. Bell. “That’s your…”

“Katharine, Kate, yes, she was my little girl. What’s this all about?”

“Ron, Ronald,”
he heard his father’s voice say in the receiver.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Bell.”

“What? Does this have something to do with Katharine?” Mr. Bell said.

“Greg Schultz, Stefan Schultz, whatever his name is. He killed your daughter. Down at the bridge,” Li’l Ron said.

“What?” Mr. Bell said, tears building behind the saddest eyes Li’l Ron had ever seen—
Sweet Kate’s eyes
.

The back door handle rattled.

“He’s here,” Li’l Ron said.

“Send the boy out here and no one else gets hurt,” Schultz shouted. “You have my word.”

“Dad, I’m at the Bell residence at…” He looked to Sweet Kate’s father.

“Thirty-two Jefferson Hill Road,” Heath Barnes said. “Tell him to hurry and to bring the police. That psycho out there with the gun is my dad.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Greg Sawyer searched the cellar for Big Ron’s old hunting rifle, tossing boxes of yarn and patterned materials out of the way, kicking the plastic Santa that hadn’t seen the yard in at least five Christmases.

“Come on, come on. Fuck, Ma, where’d ya put that damn gun,” he said, tearing open the longer boxes his mother had stored along the wall. More Christmas ornaments and lawn decorations stared back at him, haunting him like ghosts from his youth.

He was ready to quit and settle for a kitchen knife. A tower of old magazines caught his attention. Just beyond old rags standing up like an antenna in the dark beneath the stairs was the end of a steel barrel.

He heard his son’s voice,
“Greg Schultz…killed your daughter.”

Why, Schultz, why the hell d’ya do it?
he thought, shoving garbage bags of old clothes and boxes of family memories aside, making his way to his father’s rifle. He knocked the tower of old magazines to the cement floor, grabbing the cold barrel of the gun.

Ammo? Where’s the ammo? Shit, you’ve gotta be kidding me.

“…hurry and to bring the police. That psycho out there with the gun
…” the unfamiliar voice echoing in his head.

“Fuck, fuck, c’mon,” he said, clenching and shaking his fists. He wanted to scream. The box of Winchester 7mm Rem Mag bullets stared back at him from beneath an inch of dust atop the wooden cabinet against the basement wall in front of him.

Greg grabbed the box, climbing out from under the stairs. Running and stumbling his way up and out of the cellar, hoping he wouldn’t be too late.

“Send that Sawyer shit out right now, or I can make this real messy for everyone,” Schultz said.

Heath Barnes stared out the window, watching his biological father raise the rifle, pointing it right at the glass before his eyes. “Down!” Heath screamed, dropping to the floor.

Bang!

The glass shattered.

Mr. Bell’s arms flopped forward, the rest of his body following suit as he fell to the floor. Heath saw blood splattered across the portrait of the blonde-haired girl on the wall.

“Mr. Bell? Mr. Bell?” Li’l Ron said, crawling over to the motionless body.

“Is he? Is he?” Heath said.

“Shit yes. Oh my God…” Li’l Ron looked back at Heath, eyes wide, lips quivering, “…he’s dead.”

Li’l Ron was sick to his stomach. Sweet Kate’s father lay dead on the floor, his blood slick and warm on Li’l Ron’s hand.

“Everybody okay in there?” Schultz said from the back lawn, snickering like the devil.

“Heath,” Li’l Ron whispered, “that’s your dad?”

“Yes, I’m sorry…I,” the boy stammered.

“Shh, don’t worry about it. Do you think he’d shoot you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know him,” Heath said, shaking his head. “I haven’t talked to him since I was like seven.”

Li’l Ron didn’t have a clue why Heath Barnes was at the Bell residence, and he sure as hell didn’t have time to ask. The murderer outside took priority. He couldn’t think straight, couldn’t clear his mind.

Before he could decide his next move, Heath was rising up.

Schultz saw a figure rise behind the broken window. Taking aim, he said, “Sawyer?”

“Dad?” the boy said.

“Who’s that?” Schultz said, holding the barrel on the figure.

“It’s me, it-it’s Heath—your son.”

Schultz’s smirk dropped, his dark side getting its bell rung.

“Wha…what the hell are you doing out here?” he said, the gun faltering, dipping lower before he caught it and held it steadily at the boy he hadn’t spoken with in half a decade.

“Can you put the gun down,” Heath said, “Maybe we can find a way to talk this through.”

Too smart. Fucking kid is stalling. Sawyer is probably running down the driveway.

Rage welled back up.

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth. You ain’t my boy. You’re a Barnes. Where’s Sawyer? Where is he? Sawyer!” he said, stalking toward the back door.

Bang!

The sound of splintering wood slamming into the back hall told Li’l Ron all he needed to know.

“Go!” Heath said, staring down the hall.

“Not without you, he’s fucking crazy. He’s got nothing to lose, man. C’mon,” Li’l Ron said.

He watched as Heath considered this.

“All right, you fuckers, if you don’t wanna come out and play, I’m coming in,” Schultz said from the hallway.

“Run,” Heath shouted, rushing toward Li’l Ron.

Greg Sawyer pulled onto the dirt driveway at 32 Jefferson Hill Road. Overhanging branches scraped the roof of his cab. A maroon Oldsmobile rolled into view.

He saw the old man standing on the porch as the front door to the little house busted open.

Li’l Ron crashed through the front door, coming to an abrupt halt. Heath crashed into the back of him.

“What, what are you doing?” Heath said. “Papa?”

“That’s far enough, boys,” Orson Schultz said, pointing a revolver directly at Li’l Ron’s chest.

“Come ooooonn,” yelled the younger Schultz, roaring up from behind them.

“That’s far enough for you too, son,” Orson said.

“Dad, what are you…?” Schultz said.

“Put your guns down, right now, both of you,” Greg Sawyer shouted.

Li’l Ron looked past the gun-toting librarian and saw his dad standing at the edge of the driveway behind a red car, aiming a rifle toward them.

“Come on over, Gregory, let’s us and the boys figure this out,” Orson Schultz said, never taking the gun from Li’l Ron’s chest.

“You fellas drop those barrels, and then we’ll—” Greg Sawyer began.

Li’l Ron was yanked backward and felt the hard end of cold steel digging into the back of his skull. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said, putting his hands up.

“Shut up,” Schultz said, jabbing the muzzle into the back of his head again.

Li’l Ron bit his lip to avoid crying out.

“Stefan! Let me handle this,” Orson Schultz said.

“Fuck you, Dad, I’m doing this my way,” the madman replied.

Li’l Ron watched Heath looking back and forth between Heath’s psychopathic father and his papa.

“Schultz, leave my boy alone or I swear to Christ I’ll drop your old man,” Greg Sawyer said.

Heath stepped up to Li’l Ron, staring over his shoulder at the man behind him. “Dad, you can’t do this. You can’t. Just put down the gun, listen to Papa, listen to Mr. Sawyer,” he said.

Li’l Ron felt the muzzle scrape up along the back of his head, the barrel appearing next to his left ear, aimed directly at Heath’s face.

“Heath, no,” Li’l Ron said as Heath lunged forward.

Bang!

“Noooo!” Orson Schultz cried.

Bang!

Li’l Ron lunged to the porch floor, covering his head.

Oh God, oh God, oh God…

Orson Schultz hit the ground, clenching his chest, his revolver dropping next to him.

Li’l Ron’s father was running up the stairs, rifle aimed ahead.

“Schultz, put that gun down,” Greg Sawyer said.

“What did I do…what did I do? My boy…” Schultz cried.

“Put the gun down,” Sawyer repeated.

Li’l Ron lifted his head up and watched the tears falling down his father’s cheek, his ears still ringing, the smell of cordite holding the cool air hostage. Li’l Ron turned to see Heath Barnes’s motionless body lying facedown in front of Schultz. Schultz was on his knees, rocking back and forth, both hands on his rifle.

“Your fucking boy made me do this, Sawyer. Look what he made me do,” Schultz spat.

“Ronnie, move,” his father said.

“Don’t you fucking think about it,” Schultz said.

Li’l Ron covered up again as his father tensed, aimed and fired.

Bang!

Li’l Ron didn’t uncover until his father shook him.

“Ronnie, Li’l Ron, it’s okay, son.”

The ambulance arrived, but would only be carting off one body to the Coral County General Hospital—Orson Schultz. Li’l Ron’s father had shot the man through the back, but he would make it. Heath Barnes, charging his father, saving Li’l Ron’s life, had taken a direct shot to the face. Stefan Gregory Schultz took a rifle shot to the head from Big Ron’s gun, ending his afternoon of unraveling.

Mr. Bell lay somewhere inside the home where he’d sat silently waiting to hear from a daughter who’d disappeared thirteen years ago. Li’l Ron managed a small smile at the thought of their reunion.

His dad helped him to the pickup, staring at him.

“Nan’s gonna have your head when she hears about all the trouble you stirred up,” he said.

“Hmm.” Li’l Ron looked up at him. “Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“You said you
knew of
her. What did you know?”

Greg Sawyer looked back at the house, now surrounded by state troopers and a sheriff’s Jeep.

“Schultz told me he met this girl. A teenager. Beautiful, sweet.”

“Did he tell you…?”

“No, but the way she disappeared…it never sat right with me. But he was a friend, used to be my
best
friend. I couldn’t…I just didn’t… I mean…it’s hard to see your friend as a killer.”

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

Greg Sawyer nodded and closed the door of the pickup.