Finest Hour (13 page)

A sad smile came over her face.

“Marshal, to hear such words from your mouth truly breaks my heart. You have spent so much time in darkness that you can no longer see the light. Do you not even believe in God?”

“I suppose I do in my own way. But I have yet to see him smite a single enemy. That task he leaves for me to do.”

“I would disagree with you, Marshal. God doesn’t leave it for you to do. He asks that you do it for Him.”

“I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.” Hoping to change the subject, he stepped closer to the truck and ran his fingers over a pattern of buckshot holes in one of the quarter panels. “Shame that they had to damage such a pretty truck.”

“It was a gift, yes? From that police officer in Boone?”

“That’s right.”

She pressed the tip of her finger into one of the bullet holes, imagining how different things would be had the Ravagers’ aim been a little bit better.

“Let’s just be thankful that only the truck was damaged.”

Mason couldn’t deny that they had been lucky. Maybe Leila’s faith wasn’t so misplaced after all. In all his gunfights, he had never suffered anything more than a graze, and that, he thought, might qualify as a genuine heavenly miracle.

He walked slowly around the truck, counting thirty-four holes in the body, one shattered side mirror, and two broken taillights. Other than riling the ghosts of every state trooper to have ever worn the uniform, the damage was pretty superficial. Unfortunately, the rear passenger tire was leaking air. It wasn’t quite flat yet, but it would be in another ten minutes. He squatted down and studied the tire. The hole was very small, probably from a shotgun pellet.

“Can you change it?” she asked, looking over his shoulder.

He peered under the bed of the truck and saw a full-sized spare secured beneath.

“It’ll take a little time, but yes, I can change it.”

She started rolling up the sleeves on her jacket.

“What can I do to help?”

“See if you can find a jack behind the driver’s seat.”

As Leila searched the truck, Bowie wandered toward a small dirt trail, looking for a place to relieve himself.

“Bowie,” hollered Mason.

The dog looked back.

“Don’t stay gone long.”

When he realized that he had been given the okay, Bowie continued ahead with his exploration.

Leila came back, carrying a scissor jack and three black metal rods, each roughly two feet in length.

“I hope you know what to do with these,” she said, holding out the parts.

Mason connected two of the rods together and stepped around to the rear of the truck. Thankfully, it was similar enough to his previous truck that he knew exactly how to remove the spare. He started by raising the tailgate to access a small plastic plug next to the license plate.

“What’s that?” she asked.

He popped it open to reveal a key slot.

“It’s a security device designed to prevent thieves from stealing the spare.” He held out a hand. “Let me see the keys.”

She set them in his hand, and he quickly disabled the security lock. Once unlocked, the mechanism pulled free, leaving a small hole. He inserted the narrow end of the two-piece rod and fiddled it around until it lined up. Once in place, he used the third rod as a T handle and began turning it counterclockwise. Every few turns, he bent down to inspect the spare.

“Is it working?” she asked.

“Slowly but surely. Once I get the tire down low enough to slide it free, we’ll jack the truck up and swap them out.”

Leila felt a shiver, the kind she sometimes experienced when someone was sneaking up on her. She turned and studied the desolate stretch of road. There was no one coming from either direction, but still, something felt off.

She slid her Beretta out from the back of her waistband.

Mason glanced around. “What is it? Did you see something?”

“No.”

“But?”

“But I have a feeling that we’re not alone.”

It took Mason nearly twenty minutes to change the tire, and by the time he had finished, his arms and back ached. He stood up and looked around.

“Where’s Bowie?”

She looked off toward the trail.

“He hasn’t come back yet.”

Mason retrieved a rag from the truck bed to wipe his hands.

“That’s not like him.” He walked over to the head of the small trail and hollered, “Bowie! Come on, boy. Time to go.”

There was no rustling of bushes, no enthusiastic barking. Nothing at all.

Leila came up next to him.

“Could he be off playing?”

“Bowie’s only afraid of two things: the dark and getting left behind.”

“Which means either he doesn’t hear you or something’s happened to him.”

Mason glanced back at the truck. They couldn’t afford to lose their transportation.

“I’ll watch it,” she offered. “You go find your dog.”

“If you see anything you don’t like, fire a shot into the air.”

“Likewise.”

“The M4’s in the truck.”

She nodded. They both knew that with her bandaged hand, it would be far easier than the Beretta for her to use.

Mason started down the narrow dirt trail, calling Bowie’s name. He hadn’t heard gunshots, so he thought it doubtful that someone had gotten the better of the dog. More likely, he had tangled himself in a thick patch of briars or found something too interesting to walk away from. Despite there being several good reasons for the dog not having returned, Mason couldn’t shake the feeling that Bowie was in some sort of trouble.

He tried to quicken his pace, but the farther in he went, the more overgrown the trail became. Trees and bushes encroached from both sides, and before long, he was fighting his way through brambles and tripping over a tangle of roots. The only sign of anything having traveled the trail was the occasional pile of deer droppings.

Mason forged ahead, finally coming upon a small clearing a few hundred yards in. At the center was an old cemetery encircled by a rusty wrought iron fence. A sign hung from the closed gate, but it had long since faded. To his surprise, he discovered Bowie lodged between two of the fence posts, head poking out like a prisoner trying to escape.

Bowie began to whine almost immediately.

“What did you go and do?” Mason said, gently pushing the dog’s head back through.

As soon as he had Bowie free, he went around and opened the gate. The dog charged out, scrubbing against his legs and whining so loudly that he sounded like a child crying.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re okay now,” he said, hugging the dog.

Bowie finally calmed, and Mason took a moment to look around the cemetery. It was very small, maybe thirty feet across, and filled with an assortment of tiny markers and headstones. He squatted down and wiped dirt from one of the markers.

Callie – Proof that they don’t always land on their feet.

Mason rubbed his chin, thinking that it was the strangest epitaph he had ever read. He examined another one.
Mr. Midnight – A gentler soul never walked the earth.

A third marker read,
Jett – Done in by our vet
. On that marker, there was an imprint of a dog’s paw.

He looked over at Bowie and grinned.

“Of all the places to get yourself trapped, you went and picked a pet cemetery?”

Bowie said nothing, turning his head every few seconds to ensure that the gate hadn’t magically closed, trapping them forever.

“All right,” he said, standing back up. “We’ll leave. But one day you’re going to have to explain to me how you got in here in the first place.”

As they were leaving the cemetery, Mason noticed a set of footprints in the dirt. He probably wouldn’t have paid them much attention had it not been for their size. The prints were very small, probably a child’s. What was even more interesting was the fact that there were actually two sets of footprints directly on top of one another. It was a technique used by American Indians to mask their numbers, but he couldn’t imagine why children had attempted such trickery.

He followed the footprints a short distance until they disappeared into the forest. Leila had been right. They weren’t alone.

As Mason returned to the trail, his suspicion that Bowie’s entrapment had not been an accident continued to grow. The question was why? If the kids had wanted to kill Bowie for food, he would have been easy enough to stone while trapped inside the pen. But they hadn’t harmed him at all. So why bother closing the gate?

He tensed as the answer came to him.

Trapping Bowie had accomplished only one thing. It had lured Mason away from the truck.

Mason began fighting his way back through the brush, his pace growing steadily quicker as the idea transitioned from being a nervous hunch to an irrefutable fact. Bowie raced alongside, darting and weaving through the tangle of plants like he was trying out for the Westminster Agility Championship. When they finally arrived back at the truck, Mason’s fears were realized.

The tarp used to cover his supplies had been pulled back and draped over the tailgate. A handful of unopened packages of food lay scattered in the dirt, as if someone had quickly rifled through them looking for the tastiest treats. Both doors sat open, but Leila was nowhere to be seen.

He rushed to the truck and gave it a quick onceover. The ammunition hadn’t been disturbed, nor had the water or medical supplies. The food, however, had clearly been rummaged through, and even accounting for what was on the ground, a good third of it was missing.

Mason checked the cab. Not surprisingly, his M4 was also missing. There were, however, no signs of foul play. Leila was not a woman who would go quietly, and he couldn’t imagine how anyone could have captured her without a fight.

Turning slowly in place, he cupped his mouth and shouted her name. A few seconds later, he heard a faint response, followed by the distant cracking of branches.

Bowie barked and looked up at him.

“Someone’s coming all right. The question is who.”

Mason drew his Supergrade and moved to stand behind the engine compartment. Hope for the best; plan for the worst. It was an adage often repeated but rarely followed.

Bowie hesitated, looking back and forth between him and the trees. He finally split the difference, walking to the front of the truck before stopping to face the forest.

They waited, listening. Whoever was coming was making one hell of a racket.

Mason spotted Leila only an instant before she stumbled out from the underbrush, batting away branches with the M4 like a hiker swatting mosquitoes. Her face was flushed, and her brow glistened with sweat.

As soon as she saw him, she rushed over.

“Thank God you’re okay.”

“What happened?”

She looked back toward the trees.

“I was tricked, that’s what.”

Mason waited for her to explain.

“A boy came out of the woods, claiming that you and Bowie had fallen into an old mine shaft.”

“A mine shaft?”

“That’s what he said, and he was very convincing.”

“How old was this kid?”

“Perhaps nine or ten. He was a dirty little fellow, like he hadn’t bathed in a month.”

Mason nodded. The kid’s age jived with the footprints at the cemetery.

“He ran ahead, promising that he would take me to you. Once we got a few hundred yards in, he vanished. It took me a while to realize that I hadn’t accidentally lost him. He had intentionally lost me!” Her face grew redder with every word. “That left me wondering not only what had happened to you, but also which direction the truck was parked. It wasn’t until I heard you call out that I finally had a bearing by which to return.”

Mason rubbed his chin, thinking.

“It all makes sense now.”

“What makes sense?”

“I think we were both duped.”

“Duped?” Even as she said the word, she noticed the food lying on the ground. “They stole our supplies?”

“Just a little food.”

She reached down and picked up several of the packages.

“For thieves, they weren’t very thorough.”

“Kids can only carry so much.”

“Kids? As in more than one?”

“At least two, probably more. I think we’ve been outsmarted by a gang of young Robin Hoods.”

“Children? Are you sure?”

He nodded. “They trapped Bowie to lure us away.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And when I stayed behind, they made up the story about you falling into a mine.”

“Apparently, they’re as clever as they are hungry.”

“This is crazy. If they had wanted food, all they had to do was ask. We would have gladly shared a meal or two.”

“Perhaps, but they didn’t know that.”

She stared out at the forest. It looked as impenetrable as that of the fabled world of Pandora.

“What do we do now?”

He folded the tarp over what remained of their supplies.

“We load up and go.”

“What! We’re going to let them steal our food?”

“They’ve already stolen as much as they could carry. If we go after them now, there’s a good chance they’ll circle back and take more.”

“Then one of us will hide and catch them red-handed!”

“No,” he said softly, “we can’t afford the delay. And even if we could, are you really prepared to torture kids to find out where they’ve hidden a few boxes of food?”