The Bequest (31 page)

Chad wiped sweat
from his eyes. The salt stung and momentarily
blurred his vision. He didn’t know if it was the heat getting to him or the
blood loss. He had never been a hunter. How did they do it? How did they
stay on alert long enough to spot prey and get off that one perfect shot? He
knew he would get but one shot before giving himself away, and he had to
make it count. But even that was largely out of his hands. His target had to
walk into the right spot, at the end of the funnel, and had to be still long
enough for Chad to squeeze the trigger. It was all going to be about luck
and split second timing. He hoped God was on his side.

He lowered his left arm, letting the barrel of the gun rest solely on
the fallen tree. The pain in his shoulder continued to throb but felt duller.
It left him with mixed emotions; less pain was less pain, but less feeling
was a harbinger of bigger problems. A wave of nausea steamrolled across
his body. Bile rose into his throat, burning as he swallowed hard to force it
back down. Tiny wiggles of white swam through his vision. He shook his
head. Warmth settled across his being. All he wanted to do was to lie
down on the leaves, close his eyes, and sleep. But he knew that if he did,
he might never wake up.

A sound below snapped him to attention. The crack of a broken twig,
the rustle of movement on fallen leaves. Using his right hand, he raised his
left arm, which felt like dead weight, as if it had fallen asleep. He
positioned his left hand on the barrel of the rifle, like placing ballast on
top, to hold it in place. He gripped the stock with his right hand, his finger
along the trigger, and sighted down the barrel.
And waited.
The rustling grew louder, closer. He tensed, fighting an urge to

vomit.
His
vision
blurred,
obscured
by
sweat
and
impending
unconsciousness. He had to stay alert, just a minute or two more. His life
might depend on it. Peggy’s life might depend on it, too.

A shadow appeared in the opening at the end of the tunnel. Chad
shifted his weight, lifted higher on his bended knee. He tightened his
finger on the trigger, squeezing. It moved slightly, just a hair’s breadth
away from firing. The shadow moved closer, now filling the target area. It
was followed a beat later by a figure.

Teri picked up her pace at the sound of the gunshot. Her hunting instincts,
honed as a little girl raised on a ranch, had been dulled by years in the
Hollywood limelight, but they were merely dormant, not extinguished.
She knew instantly the source of the sound. High, along the ridgeline.
That meant the shot had been Chad’s; that was good news. There was no
return shot, at least not yet, and that was more good news.

But the ensuing silence was also worrisome. It was a total sensory
blackout that allowed her imagination to run rampant, and given the
nightmarish events of late, her thoughts instinctively took a dark turn.

She reached the foot of a steep bluff along the edge of the ridgeline.
She veered to her right, where the face of the drop-off transformed to
more of a slope than a cliff. She drove hard off of her right foot and leaped.
She scrabbled for purchase with both hands. With the grace of a mountain
goat, she skittered up the hill until she reached the crest. Once again on
level ground, she turned left and sprinted toward the source of the
gunshot.

Dodging tree branches, leaping over rocks and low stands of prickly
pear cactus, she weaved her way along the ridge. The shadows were
already darkening as the evening sun descended in the west, making it hard
to see more than ten or fifteen feet in front of her. But the same dimming
of the light that hindered her vision would also help provide cover from
the assailants. Provided she could get to Chad in time.

Her toe kicked a stump, throwing her off balance. She stumbled
forward, waving her arms in front in a swimming motion, free-styling her
way forward as she struggled for balance. Her upper body outdistanced
her feet. With one last stroke, she dove forward. Her knees hit the ground
first, followed by the heels of her hands as she sought to avoid a face-plant.
Pain screamed in her body as her right hand slammed down on a rock. Its
sharp edges didn’t break the skin but bruised the heel of her hand deeply.

She rolled sideways then scrambled back to her knees. As she gripped
her hands together, a hint of color in her peripheral vision drew her
attention away from her own pain.

Staying
low, on
her
hands and
feet,
she
skittered toward his
crumpled body lying behind a fallen tree. Blood soaked his left side,
running down his arm to his hand. The blood had also soaked his shirt,
which sopped it up like a sponge. She felt for his pulse. Nothing at first,
then she shifted her fingers and found it. Weak, but steady.

She rolled him onto his back. He moaned, but his eyes stayed closed.
She leaned close and listened for his breath sounds. Shallow, but as with
his pulse, steady.

The voice came from below, down from the fallen tree. Loud and
strong.
And familiar. Doug Bozarth’s voice.
“I hope you’ve got your hunting license, veterinarian,” another man’s
voice said. “You done killed a deer.”
Teri moved close to the fallen tree, lifted her head as much as she
dared, and looked through a dark funnel that telescoped downward to an
opening where a bleeding deer lay on its side.
She pried the rifle from Chad’s hand, laid the barrel along the tree
trunk, and sighted toward the deer. Then she waited.
“Bad news, veterinarian,” the strange voice said. “You gave yourself
away with that shot.”
And you gave yourself away with your big mouth, Teri thought. She
shifted her aim subtly to the right, into the branches that obscured her
view, but which she now also knew concealed her target. Open your
mouth one more time, she thought, and I’ll be able to get a final fix.
She closed her eyes and listened. Silence at first, then a rustling.
Footsteps. Were they moving? She squeezed her eyes and strained to
decipher the sounds. Multiple footsteps, then the sounds of muffled
voices. A conversation but there were too many voices. Not just Bozarth
and the other man. Reinforcements.
“Veterinarian,” Bozarth called out.
She shifted her aim in his direction, working on a blind bead.
“Veterinarian,” the other man called. He hadn’t moved.
“Veterinarian,” a third voice called. This one came from up ahead,
but still below. The speaker was working his way up the slope to the
ridgeline.
“Veterinarian,” a fourth man called. This voice came from her left as
the speaker tried to flank her position.
She waited. No more voices. It was four against one. Time to lessen
the odds.
She shifted her aim back toward the second man. She thought she had
him in her sights before, but couldn’t be positive. She needed to hear him
one more time, to insure he hadn’t moved.
“Veterinarian,” Bozarth said.
“Veterinarian,” the second man said.
She squeezed the trigger. She heard the sound of impact over the
echo of the gunshot, followed by a male scream. “Goddamn!”
Then the
thump
of a body falling.
Followed by more
thumps
as three men dove for cover all around her.
She worked the bolt and chambered another round, then fired a shot
in the direction of Bozarth’s voice. She worked the bolt again, squeezed
the trigger one more time for good measure, but nothing happened. She
hoped the men below hadn’t heard the clicking sound. If they knew she
was out of ammunition, they might take this moment to attack.
She turned back to Chad, who was still breathing raggedly, but a bit
more strongly than before. Rolling him on his back had opened his
airwaves. She felt his pockets and found six bullets. A full box would have
been nice, but she
was
grateful for small favors.
Six shots, four
assailants—maybe three, now—with two or three bullets left over.
She almost laughed at the thought. If there had ever been any place
where she felt full confidence, it had been shooting a gun. Medals and
trophies from years of competition had done that for her, much as two
Oscars had boosted her confidence as an actress. But while shooting at
targets was one thing, shooting at men was another. That was a lesson she
had learned the hard way. The thought sobered her. But now, just like
then, necessity demanded a human target, even if the ultimate result was
another grieving mother standing over her son’s grave.
She put the first bullet in the rifle and listened for movement below.
Chad groaned. She glanced at him. His eyelids fluttered for a beat
then he opened his eyes. He blinked them a few times, as if clearing his
vision. Then he looked squarely at her.
She loaded a second bullet into the rifle.
Chad smiled. He opened his lips to speak. The words came out in a
hoarse whisper, but she heard them clearly enough. “Howdy, Annie
Oakley.”
She leaned down and kissed him on the forehead.
She loaded three more bullets and, with the magazine full, she laid
the barrel of the rifle over the trunk of the tree and listened for her
targets.

Dolan sprawled on a bed of leaves, his eyes glassy. Blood trickled from the
side of his mouth, pink and frothy. He gasped for breath, but all that
escaped was a hollow sucking sound from the wound in his chest. Doug
Bozarth stood next to him, staring down. There was no compassion on his
face, but merely curiosity. How long until Dolan was dead? He picked up
Dolan’s gun; he didn’t need it anymore.

Dolan opened his mouth and mumbled something. Bozarth bent
over, not wanting to dirty his suit pants by kneeling on the ground, and
certainly not wanting to get blood on them. Dolan mumbled again, the
words more distinguishable this time.

“It hurts.”
Of course it does, you fool, Bozarth thought.
You’ve been shot. It’s supposed to hurt
.
He stood and held his gun at his side. “I’ll make it stop,” he said. He

aimed between Dolan’s eyes and fired.
“What the hell?” The voice belonged to the bearded man, who
emerged from the bushes to the right of Dolan’s body.
“I told you to get up that hill in front,” Bozarth said.
“There’s no cover.”
“Ain’t it the truth,” the clean-shaven man said, rejoining them as
well.
“It’s one guy with a rifle,” Dolan said. “And he’s hurt.”
“Tell that to Dolan,” the clean-shaven man said. He glanced at the
body. “Holy shit! Right between the eyes.”
“It’s an easy shot at close range,” the bearded man said. “And when
your prey ain’t moving.”
“You did this?” the clean-shaven man asked Bozarth.
“He was already dead; he just hadn’t quit breathing. Now, let’s get
on both sides of that bastard and shut him down before this gets out of
hand.”
“You going with us?” the bearded man asked. He cast a glance at his
clean-shaven compadre, which was not missed by Bozarth, who rarely
missed anything.
“You’re being paid well to do a job.”
“Not well enough.”
“You didn’t complain before.”
“That was two dead guys ago.”
Bozarth stood silently and fumed.
Goddamn Texans!
Unfortunately he needed them. At least for now. “All right,” he said.
“Double for the vet, triple for the actress.”
The men exchanged glances again. The bearded man nodded.
“Okay,” Bozarth said. “Now move out.”

Teri knew she
had hit someone. She also knew that the second shot
had not come from her weapon, nor had it been aimed at her. It was a
close shot, a handgun. That meant that someone had been put out of his
misery. She didn’t feel sorry for him, or for the dead man back in the
meadow. And even with another one gone, that still meant three were
left. If they flanked her, there was no way she could cover three directions
all at once. She needed to find a better spot. The real question, though,
was Chad. He was in no shape to walk, but she couldn’t carry him, or stay
here once they reached the ridge and surrounded her.