Witness Rejection Page 7

  “No, I was not twelve. If you must know, I was nine. And it was a very difficult delivery.”

  Crockett peered at the Home Depot display of hot tubs. “Christ,” he said, “don’t they have any smaller ones? You could get the Mississippi National Guard in one of these things.”

  “That’s whatcha get for coming to a lumberyard to look at hot tubs,” Satin observed. “You need to go to a hot tub store.”

  “Yeah, but suppose I need some lumber, too? Then where would I be?”

  “Shit outa luck, Crockett. Just shit outa luck.”

  They wandered around Home Depot for a couple of hours, then strolled over to PetSmart. They looked at all the fish, talked to the birds, and, at Satin’s insistence, avoided the area with puppies.

  “But puppies are cute,” Crockett whined.

  “I know Sweetheart,” Satin said, patting him on the forearm, “but if we look at them you know you’re going to want one. You also know that we can’t get a puppy until daddy gets out of prison and we find someplace except Uncle Larry’s to park the single-wide.”

  Crockett grinned. “You’re a ways from normal, you know that?”

  “Takes one to know one,” Satin said. “It’s gonna be dark soon. You figure on wandering around Liberty all night or what?”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  “You need to either take me home or, in another hour or two, you’re gonna have to feed me again. We could go back to Schlotsky’s.”

  “How ‘bout salmon fillet in lime and butter, new potatoes in dill and cilantro, and baby peas.”

  “Where we gonna get that?”

  “My place.”

  She folded her arms. “Oh, yeah?”

  Crockett shook his head and grimaced. “Put the axe down, Lizzie,” he said, “nobody here means you any harm. You’ll be free to go at any time. Besides, I thought you said you relied on the generosity of strangers.”

  “That’s true, but I’m trying to figure out just how strange you are.”

  “Marginally.”

  “That’ll do,” Satin said.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Enemies and Friends

  Crockett and Satin made a stop to pick up some fresh salmon and arrived back at his place a little after dark. As they approached his driveway, Crockett noticed that his No Trespassing signs were, once again, gone from the trees.

  “Godammit!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Those shithead Boggs Brothers tore my signs down again.” Crockett said, as his headlights picked up Dundee trotting along in front of the truck. The floodlight on the bus automatically clicked on as they parked, flooding the area in a yellow glow.

  “Let me get out first,” Crockett said. “After I greet the dog, I’ll introduce the two of you.”

  He stepped out of the truck and Dundee approached him, nervous and dancing on her front feet. He patted her across the shoulders and his hand came away wet.

  “What the hell did you get into, dog?” Crockett said, turning into the light to look at his hand. It was black and glistening. He stepped closer to the light.

  Blood!

  Crockett dropped to one knee and called the dog. She slunk toward him as if guilty of something. Jesus! There was blood all over her withers and down the upper portion of one leg. A ragged cut gaped across her shoulders.

  “The dog’s hurt!” Crockett shouted to Satin. “Grab the keys out of the ignition. The silver one with the black top’ll get you inside. I need water and some paper towels. Uh…please!”

  Satin jumped out of the truck, went by Crockett and Dundee at a trot, and fumbled with the door. As Satin went inside, Dundee broke free and loped off into the dark.

  “Dammit!” Crockett said and tore inside the bus. Satin was at the sink.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Dundee’s bleeding, and she ran off,” Crockett said, snapping at her in his haste. He yanked a hand lantern out of the closet by the fridge and went back out the door, Satin on his heels.

  He spotted the dog about a hundred feet away and jogged toward her. As Crockett and Satin got within twenty feet or so, the dog ran off again. Calling her made no difference. She repeated the performance three or four times, then finally allowed them to approach her at the edge of a draw. In the weeds and ground cover at her feet, lay Nudge.

  The fletch of a hunting arrow protruded nearly straight to the rear, about six inches out the back of his right hip. The shaft passed through the side of the hip, broke free of his body at the flank, then slashed the skin halfway up his rib cage, the broadhead finally free of the cat’s body just behind Nudge’s right shoulder.

  “Aw, Jesus,” Crockett said, and dropped to his knees. Carefully he stroked Nudge’s head. The cat purred. “We gotta get him to a vet.”

  “Should we try to get the arrow out?” Satin said.

  “No,” Crockett said, easing his arms under the cat. “That arrow is probably the only thing stopping him from bleeding to death.”

  Satin picked up the lantern and started toward the bus. “You take care of the cat,” she said. “I’ll drive.”

  Back at the bus, Satin ran inside and returned with the keys and a pillow off of Crockett’s bed. She opened the rear door of the truck, let Dundee jump in, and then balanced Crockett as he climbed in beside the dog. She put the pillow on Crockett’s lap to help support Nudge and tore around the front of the truck and hit the driver’s seat on the fly. In less than fifteen minutes, the longest fifteen minutes of Crockett’s life, they were at the animal hospital. Thank God, someone was still there.

  Nearly an hour later, Crockett walked out of the vet’s office and lit a Sherman. In a few seconds Satin sidled up next to him.

  “Got another one of those?”

  “I didn’t know you smoked.”

  “I quit about six weeks ago,” Satin said.

  “Do you really want one?”

  “Gimme.”

  Crockett handed her the box.

  “What the hell are these?”

  “Sherman MCD’s,” Crockett said, producing his lighter. “I’m a cigarette snob.”

  Satin exhaled a cloud of smoke. “I can see why,” she said. “Damn, I’m kinda dizzy.”

  They stood in silence for a moment. Satin leaned into him a little and rubbed Crockett’s spine.

  “How ya doin’?”

  “I’m going on nerves and adrenalin right now,” Crockett said.

  “You know who did this, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  You’re gonna do something about it, too, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “It was those idiots you had trouble with outside the café, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  “Crockett, I wouldn’t like it much if you went to jail.”

  Crockett’s reply was stopped by the arrival of the vet, about thirty and slender, wearing a mustache and a bloody smock.

  “That’s a big cat you got there,” he said.

  “I still have a big cat?”

  “Yessir. What’s he weigh?”

  “About thirty-five pounds. He’s slimmed down a little recently.”

  “If he was normal size he never would have survived a hit like that. How’d he get shot?”

  “I’ve told him time and time again to be careful, but it’s the same old story,” Crockett said. “He was cleaning his bow and it accidentally went off.”

  The vet nodded. “See a lot if that. Cats just don’t listen.”

  “So how is he?”

  “There’s no way he could have received less injury than he did. There’s quite a bit of muscle and tissue damage, but nothing vital was hit. Don’t get me wrong. He’s going to be with us for a while, but he should recover well. He’s no spring chicken, but he’s in pretty good shape. That leg may wind up without full extension and flexion, but he can compensate for that. Cats are tough. What’s his name?”

  “Nudge.”

  The vet smiled. “He pretty g
ood natured?”

  “Unless you’re trying to give him a pill.”

  “Right now we’re pouring him full of antibiotics and trying to re-hydrate him. It’ll probably be four or five days before you can take him home. Even then, he’ll have to be kenneled most of the time for a while. That leg needs a lot of rest.”

  “Whatever is necessary,” Crockett said. “How ‘bout the pup?”

  “She’s lucky, too. A couple of inches lower and she would have been very badly hurt. I’m assuming that she was also shot with an arrow that just grazed the top of her shoulders. Those hunting broadheads are tipped with razors. They do a horrific amount of damage. They’re made to destroy tissue and promote bleeding. Believe me, this could have been a lot worse. You could have easily had two dead animals. People that do this kind of thing should be flogged. At least.”

  “It’s crossed my mind,” Crockett said.

  “Your dog’s in la-la land right now. You can pick her up in the morning. She’ll need to be kenneled for a couple of days. The damage is where she can’t reach it so the medication should stay on well if she doesn’t roll around. If no infection develops, there should be no problem with her at all. She’s young. I’ll give you some ointment. Oh, I’ve got something else for you.” Crockett and Satin followed him inside.

  He disappeared in the back for a moment, and a redheaded young girl came out and got some personal information from Crockett. When the vet returned, he was carrying an arrow.

  “I thought you might need this,” he said and laid the shaft on the counter. Beside it, he deposited the broadhead.

  The carbon shaft gleamed dully under the florescent lighting, the edges of the broadhead shone silver. Crockett picked the shaft up and turned it over in his hands.

  “Jesus,” he said.

  As he examined the arrow, his attention was drawn to the end. He held it up so Satin could see the fletching. There, on one of the yellow vanes, two letters were written in black marker.

  “That look like an L and a B to you?” he asked.

  Satin peered at the arrow for a moment. “Sure does,” she said. “Ell-Bee.”

  “That’d be one of the Boggs Brothers. C’mon. I’ll take you home.”

  Satin turned to the vet. “Is there a restroom?”

  While she was otherwise occupied, Crockett gave the vet a couple of hundred dollars on account and went out to the truck. He retrieved the 686 Smith & Wesson from the glove box, checked its load of Winchester Black Talons, returned it to its Bianchi holster, threaded it onto his belt, high and tight, just in front of his right kidney, and slipped on the windbreaker he’d thrown in the backseat earlier in the day. Satin came out, and they headed for Hartrick. For the first couple of miles, nobody said a word. At length, Satin spoke up.

  “What are you gonna do?”

  “Something extreme.”

  “Just don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

  Crockett’s smile was grim.

  “Too late. I’ve already done a shitload of stupid stuff.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah. I do.”

  “You’re a little scary right now.”

  “You should see me in my pirate outfit.”

  “Don’t joke about this, please?”

  “So a priest, a minister, and a Rabbi went into a bar…”

  “Goddammit, Crockett!”

  “Sorry. I’m taking things out on you a little, and that’s wrong. You’ve been a real rock through all this, and I appreciate it. Really, I do. I sometimes rely on the kindness of strangers.”

  Satin smiled.

  “If this truck didn’t have bucket seats, I’d slide over next to you right now.”

  “That would be nice,” Crockett said.

  She put her hand on his right thigh, and they continued on in silence.

  As they turned to drive into Hartrick, up ahead Crockett could see the railroad crossing lights flashing and a vehicle stopped in front of the safety arms. Down the tracks the headlight of an oncoming train pierced the darkness. He’d noticed the train as they drove parallel to it on the ride to the turn off. It was just an engine and three or four freight cars.

  “At least it’s not much of a train,” he said.

  “You in a hurry to get rid of me?”

  “Hell, yes,” Crockett said. “If you weren’t so damn ugly it’d be different but—well, look at that.”

  He was behind an old blue Chevy pickup with a compound bow hanging in the rear window gun rack. He checked the license plate.

  “It’s them,” he said.

  “Them? The assholes?”

  “Sure is,” Crockett said, putting the truck in four-wheel drive. “Brace yourself.”

  Before Satin could reply, he eased forward, put the grill guard against the rear end of the Chevy, and mashed his accelerator to the floor.

  The driver of the truck did exactly what Crockett thought he would do. He stood on the brake. The smart thing to have done would have been to floor it and shoot on across the tracks and out of the way, but that is contrary to the instinct to resist. Crockett continued to push. The beat up Chevy was no match for the Dodge. The old wooden safety arm splintered and broke and the Chevy nosed out onto the tracks. The train was right there, a frightening specter looming over the vehicles, the engine’s monstrous headlight blindingly bright, the diesel horn’s blast fighting with the massive rumble and vibration of tons of rolling thunder.

  As Crockett slapped his transmission into reverse and backed away, in his headlights he saw both truck doors open and the two men bail out. A split second later, the engine hit the truck, sending it down the tracks in a violent flat spin that didn’t take it out of the way, but left it in front of the engine. The train, pushing the truck ahead of it amid an amazing shower of sparks, rolled on, the diesel’s horn continuing its mournful moan on into the night. As Crockett slammed the truck into park and bailed out on the run, the short train cleared the intersection.

  Strawhat, minus his straw hat, was sitting, stunned, on the left side of the road, the front of his jeans soaked with urine. Ballcap, with his ball cap still intact, was standing on the right side of the road, numbly watching the train carry the truck away. Crockett knocked his cap off, grabbed him by the hair, dragged him across the street, and threw him to the ground by his brother, who was now crying with relief. Ballcap offered no resistance. Crockett drew his revolver and squatted in front of the men, letting them see the gun. His voice was low and controlled.

  “Here it is, boys. You have fucked with the wrong man. I see you on my property, I’ll shoot you. Something happens to my animals, I’ll shoot you. You mention anything about what just happened, I’ll shoot you. This ends here and now.”

  Ballcap couldn’t seem to focus. Strawhat put his hands up in front of his face.

  “Please mister, don’t!” The stainless steel of the revolver glowed dully in the headlights of Crockett’s truck. “We won’t bother yew no more, honest we won’t.”

  “You do, you’re dead. Understand?”

  “Yessir,” Strawhat said, tears streaming down his face.

  Crockett swung the gun to Ballcap. “See that he understands, too.”

  “Yessir. I will. Gary’ll do what I tell him to. Honest.”

  Crockett stood up, turned away, holstered his weapon as he walked to his truck, and got in. Satin’s eyes were immense in the dashboard lights. He backed up, turned the truck around, and drove back out to the blacktop, turned right, went about a half-mile and turned back toward Hartrick again, heading into town at the only other point of entrance from the main road. The tracks were clear. Down the right-of-way he could see the glow of lights where the train had finally come to a halt.

  Nobody said a word until they approached the post office on Main Street.

  “Turn left here,” Satin whispered. “Then right down the alley to behind the post office. Pull in and park.”

  Crockett did as she asked, shut off the ignition, and swive
led in his seat. “You okay?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said, staring blankly out the windshield. “I think so. I haven’t ever screamed like that before.”

  “You were screaming?”

  “Hell yes, I was screaming, you shithead! You didn’t even hear me, did you?”

  Crockett smiled. “Sorry,” he said, “I had other things on my mind.”

  “I never saw anything like that in my life!”

  “All’s well that ends well.”

  “I gotta go,” Satin said.

  “Sure. I understand.”

  “You need an alibi, you’ve got one. I spent the night with you at your place after we left the vet’s office.”

  “Devoutly to be wished,” Crockett said. “Thanks.”

  Satin got out of the truck and began to climb the stairs to her apartment. Her movements were stiff and remote. Crockett put the truck in gear and headed out of town.

  The back way.

  Crockett was up early the next morning. It was cooler than the day before with cloud cover gathering in the southwest. He spent some time removing the bent grill guard from the front of his truck, then drifted into Hartrick on his way to pick up the pup at the veterinary office. He walked into Wagers Café and saw Chief Smoot sitting in the back booth. He took the other side the table. The chief was halfway through a platter of biscuits and gravy. Crockett waved off an approaching waitress.

  “Morning, Dale,” he said. “You look like shit.”

  “Thanks,” Smoot said. “Haven’t been to bed yet. Had an accident at the west railroad crossing last night.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Boggs boy’s truck got hit by a train.”

  “No shit?”

  “Nope. Claimed they stalled on the tracks and jumped clear before the train got there.”

  “Close call, huh?”

  “Yeah, except the crossbar was all busted up. How the hell do you get to the tracks to stall out on the tracks if you have to drive through the crossbar in front of the tracks to get there?”

  “Got me.”

  “And another thing,” Smoot went on. “There were some fresh skid marks leading up to the tracks, and behind those, even a little bit overlapped, was more tire rubber. It looked like acceleration burn to me. What do you make of that?”