The Best of Me - Nicholas Sparks [59]
Behind him, the flock of starlings broke noisily from the trees.
Dawson heard a muted pop, and a cloud of starlings swarmed above him before quickly settling again. The noise hadn’t been gunfire; it was something else. He slowed his approach, moving silently toward Tuck’s house.
Someone was there. He was sure of it. His kin, no doubt.
Ted was on pins and needles, wondering where the hell Dawson was. There was no way he couldn’t have heard the noise, but where was he? Why didn’t he come out?
He pulled another stone from his pocket, this time throwing it as hard as he could.
Dawson froze at the sound of a second, louder report. Gradually, he relaxed and crept closer, pinpointing the source of the noise.
Ted, hiding behind the woodpile. Armed.
His back was to Dawson, and he was peering over the top of the woodpile at the house. Was he waiting for Dawson to emerge from the house? Making noise, hoping to lure him out to investigate?
Dawson suddenly wished he had dug up the shotgun. Or brought a weapon of any sort, for that matter. There were items in the garage, but there was no way he could get to them without Ted spotting him. He debated retreating to the road, but Ted wasn’t likely to go away, unless he had a reason. All the same, he could tell from Ted’s twitchy posture that he was getting antsy, and that was good. Impatience was the hunter’s enemy.
Dawson ducked behind a tree, thinking, hoping for an opportunity to take care of this without getting shot in the process.
Five minutes passed, then ten, while Ted continued to seethe. Nothing, absolutely nothing. No movement out front, or even in the damn windows. But a rental car was parked in the drive—he could see the bumper sticker—and someone had been working in the garage. It sure as hell wasn’t Tuck or Amanda. So if Dawson wasn’t out front and he wasn’t out back, he had to be in the house.
But why hadn’t he come out?
Maybe he was watching television or listening to music… or sleeping or showering or God knows what else. For whatever reason, he must not have heard anything.
Ted crouched there another few minutes, growing even angrier, before finally deciding he wasn’t going to just wait around. Ducking out from behind the woodpile, he scurried to the side of the house and peeked around to the front. Seeing nothing, he moved again, tiptoeing up to the porch. He pressed himself flat against the wall between the door and window.
He strained to hear the sounds of movement inside without success. No creaking floorboards, no blaring television or thumping music. Once he was certain he hadn’t been spotted, he peered around the frame of the window. He took hold of the doorknob and turned it slowly.
Unlocked. Perfect.
Ted readied the gun.
Dawson watched Ted slowly push the door open. As soon as it closed behind him, Dawson raced for the garage, figuring he had maybe a minute, probably less. He seized the rusted tire iron from the workbench and sprinted silently for the front of the house, figuring that Ted was most likely in the kitchen or the bedroom by now. He prayed that he was right.
He jumped up onto the porch before flattening himself in the same spot where Ted had stood, gripping the tire iron and readying himself. It didn’t take long; inside, he heard Ted cussing as he stomped toward the front door. When it swung open, Dawson flashed on Ted’s panicked expression as he caught sight of Dawson an instant too late.
Dawson swung the tire iron, feeling the vibration in his arm as it crushed Ted’s nose. Even as Ted staggered backward, blood spurting in a hot red gush, Dawson was already in pursuit. Ted hit the floor and Dawson brought the tire iron down hard on Ted’s outstretched arm, sending the gun skittering away. At the sound of his bones breaking, Ted finally began to scream.
As Ted writhed on the floor, Dawson reached for the gun, leveling it at Ted.
“I told you not to come back.”
Those were the last