Known Dead_ A Novel - Donald Harstad [54]
‘‘Lamar?’’
‘‘Got it . . .’’
‘‘Good.’’
I was wondering if I’d gotten the man with the gun. My ammunition would have absolutely no problem penetrating the wooden sides of the shed. And continuing on through whoever was back there. If I’d hit him. Cautiously, I got to my knee again, near a big wooden corner post on the right side of the lane. As soon as my head cleared the tall grass, I saw a muzzle flash. From the window to the right of the door. I ducked. Damn.
‘‘He’s still with us, Lamar. Stay low.’’
Lamar mumbled something. I still hadn’t seen him.
‘‘The kit doin’ any good?’’
‘‘Yeah.’’
‘‘Okay!’’
I grabbed my walkie-talkie, turned it on. ‘‘Comm, Three!’’
Nothing.
‘‘Comm, Three!’’
Obviously she couldn’t hear me. But 884 could, and she sounded close.
‘‘Three, 884, what you got?’’
‘‘Two officers down, man with a high-powered rifle in a shed, I’m pinned but fine.’’
‘‘Right.’’
‘‘When you come down the lane, you should be able to see my car. Stop as soon as you do, and I’m in the grass to the right of the lane, by a corner post.’’
‘‘Ten-four.’’
‘‘Stay low. I think I can crawl back out, but I have a wounded officer in a junk pile, and he needs to come out.’’
‘‘Ten-four.’’
I moved just a bit to my right, and very cautiously stuck my head up out of the weeds. I got my first truly good look at the layout of the farmyard. I had a high, tree-covered hill to my right, and nestled at the foot of that hill was the shed where the fire was coming from. About midway between me and the shed was a pile of junk that contained old lumber, scrap metal, and Lamar. Behind the shed was an old chicken coop with a drooping roof, which had a faded red combine nestled up against it. The lane behind me, as it passed through the fence I was behind, pretty well split the yard in half. On the left side of the lane was a wood pile. Behind that, a large rundown barn. All the buildings were that purplish gray that red faded to after years in the weather. At the end of the yard, and about two hundred feet directly ahead of my fence post, stood the house. Two-story, white, frame, no shutters or any other decoration. The paint was flaking, and one of the front steps was swaybacked. Right in front was a year-old blue pickup truck, and a five- or six-year-old four-door Mercedes, in a maroon shade that complemented the outbuildings. Strikingly enough for it to catch my eye. A large satellite TV dish stood to the right of the house, the newest and best-cared-for piece of equipment on the place. Behind the barn, and continuing to the left for almost a quarter mile, was a cornfield, with cornstalks about four to five feet high, that transitioned into a grassy hill in the distance. I concentrated my gaze back toward the shed/fort, and lifted my head a bit higher. Great. No shots. I brought my rifle to my shoulder, and pointed it at the window at the right side of the door. I was hoping that when 884 arrived, she’d draw some fire, and I could just take out the side of the shed it was coming from.
Just as 884 pulled up, and before I could put my little plan into effect, a young man in blue jeans and a gray tee shirt stepped off a path out of the wooded area at the base of the hill to the right of the shed, and hollered.
‘‘What the goddamn hell is going on here?’’
Right to the point.
I hollered back at him. ‘‘We have a man with a gun in the shed. He’s shot two people already. Get back!’’
‘‘Were they cops?’’
Now, that’s a funny question. As he asked, he was looking closely in my direction, trying to figure out where I was.
‘‘BACK OFF, MISTER! GET BACK AWAY FROM THE BUILDINGS!’’ That was 884, on her car’s PA system.
‘‘Were they cops?’’ Again.
‘‘Yes!’’
‘‘Good!’’ With that, he turned and ran toward the house. I looked back over my shoulder,