Skunk Hunt (21 page)

I don't think Barbara was thinking exactly in
these terms. She was nonplussed by the voice's anonymity. Maybe she
had decided that if you're going to make a fool of yourself, it was
best to know who the audience was.

"Stop jumping around like that," the voice
suddenly chided Jeremy, who stopped on the button.

"Okay, I've stopped. Now that I'm a good boy,
will you tell us—"

"I have to go," said the voice.

"
What!
"

"You will have company in a few minutes,"
said the voice. "Since there is only one way down the hill, you are
bound to encounter them."

"Them?" Jeremy asked quietly.

"Three of them," the voice elaborated.

"Is this a setup?" Jeremy demanded.

"Of course it's a setup, but I'm afraid it's
gone awry." The voice was tense and skimped on ambiguity. "These
are not my colleagues. Believe me. But I ask you not to shoot
anyone unless it becomes unavoidable."

"Hey!"

"Good-bye and good luck," said the voice, and
the camera's red light went out.

CHAPTER 13

I recalled the van we had passed before we
entered the dirt driveway and wondered if the driver owned the
voice that had so abruptly abandoned us. The camera and speakers
and motion detectors must all be battery operated. What would be
the range for that kind of set-up? Factor in the hills and trees
around us, and I figured the man couldn't have been more than a
quarter mile away. He had seen someone turning into the driveway.
He was either sitting by the road or tucked away in the woods
nearby. Whether close or far, he did not seem inclined to lend us a
hand with the unwanted visitors.

"Can't we just hide in the woods?" Barbara
wailed.

I considered this a viable option, but Jeremy
disagreed.

"We know the money's here, or part of it," he
said. "What if these guys tear the place apart and find it?"

"So you're going to stand out front and shoot
blanks?" I asked.

"They don't know they're blanks."

"They will when you shoot and they don't fall
down." I was feeling queasy. I hoped Barbara's helicopters weren't
catching.

We went out front. We had about two minutes
to get ready. We spent thirty seconds in general dithering, thirty
seconds speculating on where we could hide the Sentra, thirty
seconds hiding behind a large forsythia bush, and thirty seconds
sheepishly emerging and listening to the aggressive crash of gears
as the newcomers roared up the slope. We weren't exactly resigned
to our fate, but there wasn't much else we could do—or think of to
do.

"It's got to be that Kendle creature," I
said.

Jeremy made an odd sound. "Creature...?"

"The man said there were three of
them," said Barbara, her voice stronger. Now that there was no
hope, she was preparing for battle. The small purse slung over her
shoulder could have held a nickel-plated Derringer, but Annie
Oakley she wasn't. It was more likely that she was sugar-coating
her tongue. In her alleged profession, I'm sure she had
sweet-talked her way out of trouble on more than one occasion. It
was likelier that she had talked her way
into
trouble on even more occasions.

"No cop would come up here without backup,"
said Jeremy.

"What'll happen if they catch you with a
gun?" I asked.

He had already thought of that and was
searching for a place to hide it when a lurid-green 4x4 pickup
topped the slope and roared into the clearing. It was a gear-head's
dream, with a light bar out of Close Encounters and jacked so high
on oversized tires it looked like a houseboat in choppy water.
There were three people in the cab, their silhouettes herky-jerky
as they submitted themselves to this totally unnecessary high-speed
intercept. It was a show of intimidation, as though the engine
noise alone would crumple us into feeble lumps. My legs wobbled. I
was perfectly ready for feebility.

"Carl," said Barbara through gritted
teeth.

"You know these guys?" Jeremy asked, deciding
to hold onto the gun.

"Yeah, and be careful." Barbara stood at
attention, ready to spit. "He brought Dog with him."

"What, a hunting dog?" I asked. I wasn't a
dog person. Well, I wasn't a cat person, either. And certainly not
a people person.

"You could say that," Barbara answered with
livid irony.

As the truck pulled up I found my eyes drawn
to the airbrush work on the flank nearest us. It was an iconic
image. The Last Supper. Then I did a doubletake. All of the
disciples were women, and their biblical robes more dropped than
draped. I guess full nudity would have gotten the truck banned from
the road, but there was some severe dishabille going on here. I
waited for lightning to strike, especially after I noted the main
course: a man in a toga, stretched out on the table and leering
with glee. Glancing up at the cab, I saw the original model sitting
in the passenger seat...leering.

A cloud of dirt erupted when the driver
slammed on the brakes. The driver door swung open and something
like a comet launched out of the cab. The blur landed flat-footed
and resolved into a gnarly little comic book character with a straw
hat flipped up at the front. In tattered jeans and polka dot shirt
straight off the Appalachia Salvation Army rack, he only needed a
corncob pipe to take up residence in the ramshackle house behind
us.

Barbara drew a sharp breath. "Now Dog, don't
you start any trouble," she said to the runt.

'Dog'? Well, if the collar fits....

Jeremy snorted mockingly, then gave Barbara a
questioning look. Even a runt could be packing. He began to draw
out his pistol.

"No!" Barbara cried.

Dog shot forward. With his knees pumping
chest-high, you would have thought he'd be running backwards. His
dirty rope sandals flapped audibly in a parody of an Olympic
sprinter. It was the weirdest thing I ever saw outside Jackass.

But parodies don't often accomplish much, and
Dog covered ten yards before Jeremy had the gun out of his belt. My
brother had height and weight all over his attacker, but Dog had
momentum...and something else: unadulterated deadly intent. This
guy had as many qualms as an ant on dead meat. You wouldn't want
him in your back yard, and I'm speaking globally.

He was solid, too. He ran into Jeremy like a
rock hitting dough, bowling him over and giving him a stomp or two
as his legs kept pumping. Jeremy was stretched out and gasping.
When he raised his head to see what had hit him, he found himself
staring down the barrel of his own gun.

"Shit," was all he managed to say before Dog
pulled the trigger.

Bam
!

"Dog, no!" shouted the man slouching and
spilling out of the truck cab.

Dog didn't hear, or didn't care, or
misinterpreted the injunction, or was struck dumb blind by hidden
rage. I say hidden because not a muscle twitched in his flat face
as he chugged at the trigger.

Bam
!
Bam
!
Bam
!
Bam
!
Bam
!

Barbara and I stood stupidly. I hope we would
have done better had there been live bullets in the gun. As it was,
while Jeremy squawked and rolled on the ground in a convincing
display of a man convinced he was being shot, we did nothing to
stop the fusillade.

Surprised by the lack of human wreckage, Dog
sniffed at the gun barrel, then tossed it aside. A slight twitch of
his upper lip betrayed the notion of going after Jeremy with his
fangs, but by then the man from the truck ran up and put a stop to
his antics.

"Dog! What have you done! Get back!" Then he
saw Jeremy sit up, unbloodied except for a small dribble from where
his nose hit a rock. "Well suck my cock," the man said. "I thought
you were a goner."

"Thank God for creepy Dalton Bowen," said
Barbara with a malicious sneer that said she would have preferred
dumdums. Then she turned on the newcomer. "Carl, what the hell are
you doing here?"

Jeremy, still sitting, checked himself over
for lethal punctures, scowled at Dog, and turned on Barbara and me
a look of amazed life-affirmation. "I've stared down the jaws of
death."

"You'll get over it," Barbara said, giving
him a sharp tap with her foot. Jeremy winced and struggled to his
feet.

Barbara was right. It didn't take him long to
get over his brush with mortality. "You suck," he said to her.

"Does she ever!" said Carl enthusiastically.
The portrait of him as the main course for a dozen female acolytes
was fairly accurate, so far as airbrushing goes. Chubbiness and
thinning hair went well with the image of a roué who could afford
to broadcast his defects. He had what mattered, right? Money
and...well, as dirty-minded girls say, it's in the jeans. He was
gratifyingly pleased that Jeremy had not been blown away by his
deadly human pet, although he may have just been relieved to avoid
the inconvenience. His red face was bursting with all the glad
tidings that had come his way. I had no doubt these included his
presumed acquisition of the Brinks/McPherson Trust Fund.

"I didn't tell you nothing about where we
were going," said Barbara, putting the best face possible on her
betrayal. "In fact, I didn't tell you anything. I only mentioned it
to that fat bitch in the truck."

The bitch she was alluding to had shimmied
out of the cab, landing delicately on her CFMP heels like a lunar
Lander in low gravity, the shock absorbed in a series of succulent
vibrations. I don't have a great eye for sartorial detail, but in
this case I didn't need one. Thin strips of spandex that seemed to
be painted on prevented legal prosecution, but she was only a small
step away from finishing a stage act. The 'fat' Barbara referred to
must have been in her head. Otherwise she was a perfect redneck
pinup.

"Enchanté," said Carl with leering
familiarity at Barbara. "Be reasonable. Monique is your friend. She
didn't want you to be harmed. She came to me to keep an eye on
you."

"Enchanté?" I asked.

"My stage name," Barbara sighed bitterly.
"Remember? I told you. Don't make me repeat it."

"'Enchanté Chanel," said Carl
informatively, with a barbarian Gallic inflection. "Her
backstage
name—"

"
Carl
!"

Sensing a threat from Barbara's extended
fingernails, Dog moved closer to protect Carl's eyes.

"'Possum Butt'," said Carl, ignoring my
sister's warning. "You'd be amazed what some sickoes will pay for.
Sadistico, masochistico, stink bomb-o..." He laid a plump hand on
Barbara's shoulder. "Now apologize for those hard words. You know
the effect the word 'fat' has on poor Monique."

"She's no friend of mine," Barbara snapped,
jerking away. "And I'm sure you aren't here for my health."

"Of course I am...among other things," Carl
admitted sheepishly. "You know I've been a little strapped
lately."

There was no need for him to go into details.
In a town as straight-laced as Richmond, a g-string could make
headlines. Carl Ksnip had been in the news for years. His nightclub
in Shockhoe Bottom had been raided, closed, re-opened and re-closed
for just about every violation on the books, and then some. He
seemed to have a thing for minors: employing them, serving drinks
to them, and sleeping with them. His liquor license had been
revoked so often that the Panty Free Zone had become a beacon of
sobriety. His club was the first to be prosecuted under the state's
new anti-smoking regulation. And finally, the city fathers had
resurrected the old chestnut from Prohibition days, tax evasion,
forcing Carl to the verge of bankruptcy. Those dancing poles were
regular lightning rods.

"I didn't tell Monique
where
I was going," Barbara
reiterated.

Carl began reaching for her but pulled back
when she showed her fangs. He nodded at Dog, who sidled up to
Barbara and gave her a blank look.

"Hand him your purse," said Carl.

She knew barking dogs don't bite, and when
Dog said nothing Barbara wisely slid her purse off her shoulder and
gave it to him. With a strange, almost subservient nod he
approached Carl.

"Open it," Carl ordered.

Dog opened the purse and Carl reached in.

"What, no dog biscuit?" Jeremy quipped, but
fell silent when Dog darted him with his deadly blues.

Mining his way through the small purse proved
a little tougher than expected. With every downward spiral of his
fingers, Carl triggered small avalanches that buried his hand. I
prayed Barbara had not brought along her portion of the secret
password, even if it was outdated and useless. No sense adding fuel
to the fire.

"Do you mind?" Barbara said, reaching
out.

"You don't know what to look for," Carl told
her.

"I don't know what's in my own purse?"

"Not this," Carl answered. I noted the
outward bulge at the bottom of the purse as his fingertips scuttled
back and forth. "Ah," he said, and drew out his hand. He held up a
small metallic rectangle. "This little GPS cost me $89.43 on
sale."

Dog returned the purse to Barbara, who took
the contaminated object between pinched fingers. "You were tracking
me?"

"Hey, the receiver put me out
$399.99...
not
on
sale."

Carl was broadly hinting that such an capital
investment called for equitable returns—something in the range of a
million-fold.

Barbara was shooting daggers at Monique. "You
put that thing in my bag, didn't you?"

"Maybe that'll teach you to stop using the
same purse all the time." Monique reached into the cab and took out
a quaint sequined square that was apparently some kind of
pocketbook. It didn't look big enough to hold the necessities of
basic female hygiene, which take a little more room than a cell
phone and lipstick. "See?" she said, holding up the tiny bag.
"Every day I take the time to mix and match. What's a girl without
accessories? But every day, you've got that dumb dookie. If you'd
changed your purse this morning, we wouldn't have been able to
follow you."