Bone Deep (29 page)

The biker hooted, “He ain’t what you’d call smart, is he?” Then used bionic pincers as an aiming post and almost fired his sixth round . . . but reconsidered. A Winchester packs a punch, but it wasn’t elephant-worthy—not from point-blank range, let alone two hundred yards.

“We gotta get closer,” he said; swung around and ordered, “Grab that chain saw or I’ll shoot the head honcho. Help me harvest that ivory, I might go easier on you both.”

“Chain saw,” I said, already picturing it as a weapon. “If that’s what you want.”

What was Toby, the lifelong captive, thinking?

I watched the elephant as I followed Quirt. Old black eyes tracked us, exchanging data with an ancient brain, as we drew nearer. Ears flapped, but Toby’s trunk dangled like a hose; limp, not bothering to wind-scent our progress.

The animal was in trouble. Harris had shot him with at least one heavy-caliber slug, his rear quarter black with blood and swarming flies. Alert, though—
something
had to be going on inside that massive head.

Something was. As we rounded the pond, Toby made a snorting sound and lunged, stiff-legged—a warning—then pivoted and lumbered toward the trees. Not running away . . . more like he didn’t give a damn if we followed. Not concerned about the fence either—he bulled right through it, cables that had lost their sizzle falling like strings.

The biker fired a quick shot that caused the animal to buck but not stumble. Then Quirt held up his hand like an Indian scout and
said, “Shit, hoss . . . he’s a big ’un, huh? Wouldn’t matter if I did hit him—not in the ass, it wouldn’t.”

“He’s ready to go down,” I lied. “See the blood?”

“If Harris was worth a shit, he’d already be dead. What we heard back there was shots from a big-bore rifle. That’s what I need to finish that bastard. Wonder where it is?”

The biker turned and motioned a warning. “You keep your distance, hear? Any closer than ten paces, I’ll shoot you in the belly. Harris . . . he probably got scared and run off,” then he refocused on the elephant, who was entering the trees.

I carried the chain saw by the handle—get close enough, I would throw it, then rush the crazy bastard . . . or startle him by yanking the starter and lobbing it at him. A screaming chain saw would have an effect.

Quirt’s euphoria was fading into uncertainty.
Good.
Owen was dead. Nothing I could do about that. But Leland needed medical attention, and Toby might survive bullets that had missed his brain and vital organs—if I got help.

Quirt was rattled by the size of the animal. Not just rattled, he was scared. Rather than pursue, he chose to dawdle, saying, “Figured he would charge us. Like in the movies, an elephant charges, a man has to stay cool and wait for his shot. You ever seen that? That’s what I would’ve done.”

“Really?”

“Go for a clean shot to the heart. Drop down on one knee and squeeze the trigger at the last minute.”

I motioned toward the trees. “Then what are you waiting on?” Said it with an edge.

“For a sport killer, you don’t know shit. I grew up killing mule
deer, elk. You give an animal some time before following a blood trail.”

“A live coward’s better than a dead hero, huh?”

Quirt made his wolfing noise again and raised the rifle. “I’ve just about had it with your snotty mouth. What I think I’ll do is—”

“How many rounds do you have left?” I interrupted. “Maybe you forgot to count. You won’t get close enough to use that pistol, and a .357 wouldn’t stop him anyway. Now you’re going to waste a bullet on me? Police will nail you for murder—never mind what happened in Nevada.”

Quirt said, “You know that tall bastard didn’t call the cops,” but touched the pistol in his belt anyway and muttered,
“Damn.”
Thinking about how many times he’d fired or what to do next.

I said, “How about I give you an excuse to turn around? Instead, I’ll dive the pond, but under one condition . . .”

“Oh, I’m
gonna
take that big boy’s ivory. Just you watch.”

“Listen to me,” I said. “When I surface with the bag, you put your phone on speaker so I can hear. Have them send an ambulance . . .
and
a vet. Give the location. I’ll swim the bag to shore, but you have to leave your weapons by the gate. After that, you can be on your merry way.”

My reasonable offer registered in Quirt’s brain as a challenge.

“I ain’t scared, dumbass—or are you worried about that poor ol’ elephant?”

I was more worried about Leland, who was on his feet again and searching among the cattails for Owen. Quirt followed my gaze and aimed across the water but then remembered he was low on ammo.

“What we’re going to do is,” he said. “As of now, you’re leading the way. I’ll follow
you
into the trees. If that big bastard charges, you
better hope I get a clean shot—and don’t tell me you never saw it in a movie.”

Minutes later, crossing the knoll where a Conquistador had camped, a man’s howl spanned the distance.

No point in looking back.

Leland Albright would be standing near the son he’d never had.

•   •   •

WALKING FAST,
I descended the hill and didn’t slow until tree shadows cooled the air: moss-draped oaks, some cypress, the canopy dense enough to choke undergrowth and dilute sunset into dusk.

Quirt, lagging yards behind, hissed,
“Hold up.”

I did, transferred the chain saw to my left hand, then waved him ahead, saying, “Here’s his trail.” I kept going, worried the biker might shoot before I got to the trees.

Splotches of blood on the ground—I followed them. In sand, Toby’s tracks had the girth of telephone poles but were soon absorbed by the soggy forest floor. High above, broken limbs also marked the way. Every few steps, I peered ahead. I didn’t want to surprise a wounded bull elephant. The silence troubled me—no bulldozer crack of shattering wood. Toby was close, though. His musk clung to the trees like mist.

Quirt felt the weight of that musk and tried to stop me again, saying, “Hoss . . . I’m not so sure this is a good idea.”

Until then, I hadn’t risked more than a glance over my shoulder. I stopped and turned, more interested in the distance that separated us. Quirt was closer than I’d hoped but walking with an obvious limp. The spill from his Harley had done something to his hip or back and the pain was getting worse.

“How many rounds do you have left?” I asked.

He leaned against a tree, saying, “Shit, it’s hot. Out west, we got dry heat. Maybe we should go back and get some water.” Using the glove on his good hand, he dabbed at his scars.

“If that magazine doesn’t hold more than seven,” I said, “the elephant’s going to kill us both. You’ve already fired six.”

“No I didn’t. Fired five.”

I said, “You’re wrong,” and left him there, walked slowly inland, while he raised his voice to say, “Besides, I got
this
.”

Quirt’s hand would be touching the pistol. No need for a look to clarify, and I wouldn’t have bothered even if confused. It was because of what I saw not far away: a sizable bundle of clothing . . . no, a hunter’s tarp suspended high in the limbs of a tree.

Or was it a . . . ?
”

I moved closer, Quirt saying, “This is more of your bullshit psychology. A Winchester holds seven in the tube and one in the chamber. To prove it, I’ll check. But stop right there. I can draw and shoot before you take two steps.”

I said, “You do that,” and kept walking, but not far, then stood there, looking, while my brain pieced the scene together . . . an eerie scene that clung to chaos and noise despite the silence. Small trees leaned as if a tornado had swept through. A few lay crushed on the ground, creating a ragged circle. In the middle of the circle was an oak, bark shaved on one side. White scars worked their way up the trunk to what I’d thought was a tarp, but it was too high off the ground for a hunter’s blind.

It wasn’t a tarp. It wasn’t a bundle of clothing either, but there was
some
clothing.

Behind me, Quirt shucked the rifle, then spoke to himself, saying, “Oh . . .
shit
.”
Then worked the lever several times as if hoping for a miracle.

I put the chain saw down and started toward the oak. “I was right, wasn’t I?”

“No! Goddamn thing’s empty, which wouldn’t of happened if you hadn’t played your bullshit games. What you did was trick me into wasting lead. But it don’t matter a bit because I still got—” He went silent, aware that I was moving quietly for a reason. Then, whispering, demanded, “Hey . . . what do you see?”

I heard the empty Winchester clatter to the ground—Quirt had tried to lean it against a tree.

“Don’t bother with the pistol,” I told him.

“Is it the elephant? Tell me, damn you. Is he dead?”

I said, “You’d better hope so,” and pointed toward the tree canopy, which brought him creeping to investigate. It allowed me freedom to concentrate on the ground and circle the oak while the biker stood staring. I found a spent brass shell casing, three inches long . . . then another casing that pulled me outside the ring where chaos had occurred. I slipped one of the casings into my pocket and kept searching.

Quirt, oblivious, continued to stare, transfixed by what hung from the tree. Finally said, “Jesus mother Mary . . .
are
you shittin’ me
?”

I asked, “Do you think it’s him?” Said it to focus the biker’s attention because in bushes near the brass casings lay a rifle: a glistening walnut stock with a recoil pad protruding from the leaves.

Quirt said, “Poor bastard’s gotta be fourteen, fifteen feet off the ground. You think an elephant could do that?”

I wandered toward the rifle. “Unless the guy fell out of an airplane. Can you make out his face?”

“Shit, man . . .
what face
?”

That was true. Harris Sanford, the good-looking gambler and fossil guide, had been tromped beyond recognition and then
impaled on a limb that had sheared upon impact. Blood dripped as if from a high balcony after rain, the man limp as a deflated balloon.

Quirt, after changing angles, started to say, “We gotta get the hell out—” but then stopped when he turned and saw what I was holding: A rifle, barrel pointed—
Remington Safari 700
etched on the stock. And a monogram:
DSS
.

Dalton Sanford, middle name unknown. His nephew or grandson, Harris, had used it to terrorize Toby—but for the last time. Like Owen Hall, he had been stomped to death. The look on the crazy biker’s face when he saw the rifle—shock on overload while he tried to recover, saying, “Good . . .
good
, you found it. That’s what we need. Is it loaded?”

“Unbuckle your belt,” I told him. “Don’t touch the pistol, let it fall. When it hits the ground”—I paused, aware of a distant plodding vibration, limbs cracking somewhere to our right, so raised my voice to continue—“When the pistol falls, kick it toward me.”

Quirt clicked the pincers on his bionic hand, beginning to panic. “Hear that? The big son of a bitch is coming back.”

“Then you’d better hurry,” I told him.

“Hoss, it’ll take both of us to kill something that size.”

“Not if I shoot you. He won’t care if you’re bleeding—as long as you’re still alive.”

“As long as I’m . . . shit, man”—Quirt shoveled his hair back—“I can’t run, my back’s hurt. You can’t just go off and
leave me . . .
not after what happened to—” His eyes drifted to Harris Sanford, Harris’s disjointed arm swinging while the ground vibrated, the rest of him pinned flat to the tree.

“It’s the best I can do without a boat,” I said.

Quirt’s eyes glazed for an instant, remembering Deon’s story. He had wanted to believe I’d done it, left Deon out there to drown
among sharks, and now he had proof—he was living it—and the reality sucked the air out of him.

Dry-mouthed, he said, “I’ll split the ivory with you fifty-fifty,” but, as he spoke, I noticed his hand drift toward his belt.

I told him, “Drop your damn pants, kick the pistol toward me, then throw me my wallet. And Leland’s.” I managed not to raise my voice.

It froze his hand. “Okay,” he said, “but you got to promise we’ll come to an agreement.”

“Maybe we will,” I said, which gave him something to cling to. Instead of bothering with his belt, he reached and lobbed both wallets at me, then the pistol—almost got himself shot for that, but he was too spooked to care.

To our right, much closer, roots of a tree made a slow keening sound. The tree crashed to earth, and the musk of heavy breathing flowed toward us in a wave.

Hurrying, I tucked the wallets and pistol away, then let Quirt watch as I shucked a live round from the Remington and caught it—a stiletto-shaped cartridge as thick as my finger. I held it to the light, then checked the empty magazine, saying, “You’ve got one chance. The woman who died in the house fire—did you knock her out first?”

“What?”

I said, “I don’t have to outrun the elephant. I just have to outrun you,” and turned as if to leave.

“Wait! I’ll tell you. She . . . Hell, she was a dried-up old prune who loved to talk. I got a few rums down her, but then she did something stupid. She tried to slap me—”

A shrill trumpeting drowned out the rest—an unexpected sound because it came from the pasture, not the woods. Immediately, the
call was answered by an elephant duet to our right where the tree canopy pushed closer and showed a wedge of sky as more trees toppled.

Florida Elephant Rescue . . . it adjoined the old Mammoth Mines property—the only explanation. Toby, the solitary captive, had company.

It was not a gathering I wanted to stick around and witness.

To Quirt I said, “One bullet, one chance,” and let him watch me slide a brass casing into the chamber and slam the bolt closed. Then skidded the rifle toward him and turned . . . and there was Toby, watching us, his black mass separating me from the pasture.

I spread my arms to show him two empty hands while the crazy biker, still oblivious, knelt and picked up the Remington, a Safari 700.

I said softly, “Quirt, I don’t think you’re going to make it to the beach.”

Looking up, he asked me,
“Huh?”

A second later, he stood and hollered, “Hey . . . hoss! Why are you running?”

I didn’t look back—even when I heard Quirt bellow after cursing the empty rifle . . . then scream.