Known Dead_ A Novel - Donald Harstad [53]
‘‘They’ve both been shot. I have One on the radio, need help FAST!’’
Fuck.
‘‘Ten-four.’’ What else could you say? I was going as fast as possible. I turned off Porpoise into Stritch’s lane, sliding from gravel to dirt. It was worse than I remembered, and I think I broke two shocks right away.
‘‘Where are they, Comm?’’ The calm in my voice surprised me.
‘‘She says the toolshed and behind a combine.’’
‘‘Ten-four, put me ten-twenty-three.’’ That meant I’d arrived at the scene. I hadn’t, not quite. But I knew that I’d be too busy to talk to her when I did arrive.
I came around a bend in the lane, locked into the ruts, and saw the house. White, two-story. Red barn. Three red outbuildings, one of which was probably the toolshed. Lamar’s vehicle, parked near the house. To my right, a pile of rusting farm equipment, metal roofing, fence posts, other junk. I accelerated to get out of the ruts, and jammed on the brakes just in time to miss his car. I hit the trunk release, and saw a combine parked near one of the sheds. My car slid to a stop, the cloud of dust I had stirred up slowly overtaking me and making it hard to see and breathe. I got out, and heard the crack of a rifle round. I ducked, grabbed my AR-15 from the trunk. Screw the vest, I thought. He’s got a rifle, and it won’t stop one of those anyway.
‘‘Lamar!’’
I couldn’t see anybody.
‘‘Here,’’ croaked a voice to my right. From a pile of rusting junk metal, about fifty feet away. Lamar.
I started toward the pile, and about ten rounds kicked in the dirt and splattered off some cast iron in the pile. I flattened. More rounds, kicking damp, black dirt in my face. I rolled to my side and crawled back toward my car. I couldn’t even tell where the rounds were coming from.
As I came around the rear of my car, I saw a black boot, toe up, in the grass off on the other side of the lane. Green pants leg. Pinkish-gray stripe. Sheriff’s trousers. Bud. The boot wasn’t moving.
‘‘Bud?’’ I hollered. Nothing.
‘‘He’s dead, the son of a bitch killed him,’’ yelled Lamar. ‘‘No reason.’’
I poked my head up, just enough to see into the trunk of my car, and got my first-aid kit. They’re small and not worth much. But better than nothing.
‘‘Lamar!’’
‘‘Yeah?’’
‘‘You hit?’’
‘‘Yeah, the legs, I think.’’
I could barely hear him, and wished I’d turned off my car. Too late now, it was running and locked.
‘‘Okay.’’ A dumb thing to say, as though he was asking if it was all right to get hit . . . What to do? As I pondered, my eye caught a black object on the ground between me and the junk pile. My walkie-talkie. Great. It had fallen out of my pocket when I hit the ground.
Well, I was going to have to have it. And I was going to have to either get to Lamar or get my first-aid kit to him. And I was going to have to find that son of a bitch with the rifle. So . . .
I half stood up, leaving my rifle at the back of my car, and ran straight toward my walkie-talkie. As I reached it, I bent down, scooped it up, threw my first-aid kit toward the junk pile, and spun around as the first shots rang out. Two of them hit my car, but I made it back all right. I grabbed my rifle and hunkered down behind my car again. I was breathing very hard and sweating a lot. And I hadn’t seen where the shots were coming from. I could live with two out of three.
‘‘Lamar!’’
‘‘Yeah?’’
‘‘You get the kit?’’
‘‘I can see it.’’
Oh, good. ‘‘Can you get to it?’’
‘‘Don’t think so.’’
‘‘Where is he?’’
‘‘I think he’s at the window to the left of the door . . .’’
‘‘Can you get it if I keep him busy for a few seconds?’’
‘‘Maybe.’’
‘‘Okay, let’s do it!’’
I rose to a kneeling position, saw the window he was talking about, and was bringing my rifle to my shoulder when the man fired. I didn’t hear the round so much as I felt it. Like somebody had snapped my cheek with their finger, hard. Very, very close. Very high velocity. I fired at the window, fast but not too fast. Twenty-eight rounds later, I stopped, and ducked back behind my car. Empty magazine. I reached in, found the gym bag where I kept my spare magazines, and