Spencerville (44 page)

As Keith watched, the light in the lit window went out, then a few seconds later, the light in the window toward the rear of the house, probably a bedroom, went on. A minute later, the light in the second window went out, and he lowered his binoculars. It didn't seem logical that someone in the house had just been killed and that the other person turned off the lights and went to bed. In hunting country, he assured himself, there were lots of shots fired, even at night, and because of the lake and the trees, it was difficult to tell where that one had come from.

He got himself under control and glanced at Billy, who was looking at him, waiting for him to say something. At this moment, as they both knew, waiting at the jump-off point, conversation was essentially reduced to three commands: go; no go; hold. "No go" was not an option, "Hold" was what you wanted to say, and "Go" was irrevocable. Keith asked, "Ready?"

"Ready."

"Let's go."

Annie slid quietly across the oak floor, the chain running through the padlock until the manacle on her left ankle came in contact with the eyebolt. She reached out with her right hand toward the wrought-iron poker, which stood upright against the stone fireplace, but couldn't reach it.

She rested a moment and listened. She could hear Cliff snoring twenty feet away in the bedroom down the hallway. She stretched as far as she could toward the poker, and it was close, but her fingertips were still a half inch away.

She tried again, stretching as far as she could, but her fingertips only brushed the handle of the poker. She went limp, and the taut chain fell to the floor, making a sound against the floorboards. She froze and listened.

Cliff's snoring stopped a second, then continued. She sat up, looking around the darkened room. The embers still glowed, and moonlight came in through the south windows. She needed something to extend her reach, but there was nothing near her. Then she saw it. Lying on the hearth, illuminated by the embers, was a big, twisted beer pretzel that had fallen to the floor when Cliff yanked the blanket off her. Cliff's little treat. Thank you, Cliff. She picked up the pretzel and again stretched her body and hand toward the poker.

Every muscle was pulling, and she felt pains shooting up her legs and through her battered body. But she remained steady and calm, the pretzel held tight in her fingertips until she looped it around the hilt of the poker and pulled. The poker fell toward her and she caught it, then lay still, breathing hard.

Finally, sure he hadn't heard anything, she inched back toward the rocker and sat on the floor. She bent over and examined the chain, padlock, and eyebolt between her feet. She didn't think she could lever the bolt out of the floorboards or snap the shackle open. But she could unscrew the threaded bolt from the floor. She put the tip of the poker through the shackle and moved the poker counterclockwise, using it as a lever to twist the padlock so that it also turned the eyebolt to which it was connected. The threads squeaked in the oak floorboards, and she stopped and listened, then repositioned the poker so as not to tangle the chain, then turned it again. After a few turns, she could feel with her fingers that the threaded bolt was rising out of the floorboard. She recalled that it was a three— or four-inch bolt, and when Cliff had put it in the oak floor, he'd said to her, "That ain't comin' out." Wrong, Cliff. But it would take some time. She continued working the poker, and within a few minutes, the bolt was about two inches out of the floor, but it still held fast.

She heard the bed squeak, then heard the floorboards squeak as his heavy body came down the hall.

She quickly slid the poker under the hearth rug and got into the rocker, putting her bare foot over the padlock and eyebolt. She slumped to the side and feigned sleep, looking at him through a narrow slit in her left eye.

The table lamp came on, but he didn't say anything, just stood there in his boxer shorts and undershirt. His eyes darted around the room like an animal, she thought, trying to see what, if anything, was not as it should be. His eyes glanced down at her feet, but then they darted somewhere else. In many ways, she thought, he'd become like his dogs, and there were even times when she thought he had the super-sharp sense of smell and hearing of a dog, or the cunning of a wolf. His weakness, however, was overestimating his own intelligence and underestimating everyone else's, especially women, especially hers.

"Hey! Wake up!"

She opened her eyes and sat up.

"You comfortable, darlin'?"

"No."

"You piss yourself yet?"

"No... but I have to go..."

"Good. Go right ahead."

"No."

"You will. Cold?"

"Yes."

"I was thinkin' about letting you come to bed." He jiggled the keys that were on a chain around his neck. "You want to come to bed?"

No, no, no. She tried to look relieved and grateful. She said, "Yes, thank you. I have to go to the bathroom. I'm cold, Cliff, and hungry. And I think I'm starting my period. I need a sanitary napkin." She added, "Please?"

He thought about that awhile, and so did she. If he had an ounce of compassion left in him, she thought, he'd take pity on her and let her do what she asked of him. But she was betting that he had no pity whatsoever, and the word "please" was all he wanted to hear, and "nothing" was all he wanted to do for her.

Baxter said, "Well, I'll think about it. I'll check on you later and see how cold, wet, and hungry you are."

"Please, Cliff..."

He said, "Remember, ten strokes in the morning, and no breakfast. But maybe we can work something out. Think about that thing you never let me do to you." He winked and reached for the light switch. Before he turned it off, she glanced at the mantel clock.

Annie heard him walk away, heard the toilet flush, then heard the bed squeak again. She listened to the mantel clock ticking. For the last two nights, he'd set his alarm to go off at two-hour intervals, starting at one-thirty A.M. It was twelve forty-five, so she had time, unless, of course, he'd set it to go off at a different time tonight. She had no way of knowing, but she had to wait until she was sure he was asleep again.

She let some time go by, about twenty minutes she figured, then thought she heard him snoring. She dropped down to the floor, took the poker from under the hearth rug, then began again.

One of the dogs barked, but just once, then a wind rattled a windowpane, and a backdraft blew soot through the fire screen and the embers crackled. Every sound, every groan of the house, made her jump, and her heart was beating too fast.

As she continued to unscrew the bolt, she allowed herself to picture herself free. She'd still have the chained leg manacles on, but she could walk. She knew where the keys to the Bronco were in the kitchen; all she had to do was take them, wrap the blanket around her, slide the glass door open onto the deck, and go down the stairs. She recalled what he'd said about a bear trap, so she knew she had to climb over the stair rail near the end, go under the house where the Bronco was parked, get inside and start it. She'd be on the dirt road within seconds. She wondered if he'd shoot at the car if he had a chance. She thought about what he'd said about him camouflaging the end of the dirt road and wondered if the Bronco, with four-wheel drive, could make it through. Neither of those two questions would matter if she just went into the bedroom with the poker and smashed him over the head with it, then she could get dressed and call the police.

She felt the heft of the cast-iron poker in her hand. The act itself would be simple, simpler than running. But if she couldn't kill him that time when they were face-to-face and both armed, how could she kill him when he was sleeping? Another half an inch, another few minutes, and she'd be free.

Keith and Billy made their way through the pine forest and came to a stop at the edge of the clearing toward the back of the house.

Keith braced the butt of the crossbow against his chest and pulled on the sixty-pound bowstring until it hooked into the trigger release catch. He fitted one of the short arrows into the groove and knelt beside a pine tree, using the trunk to steady his aim. He looked through the crossbow's telescopic sight.

About sixty yards away, walking in the moonlight of the clearing, was a big German shepherd. The dog was not on a wire run, Keith noticed, but was tethered to a pole with a long leash.

Keith waited, hoping the dog would come closer, or at least stop in place for a few seconds, but the shepherd continued to pace randomly. Keith waited and watched.

Billy focused the binoculars on the house and whispered, "Okay here."

Finally, the shepherd stopped pacing at about forty yards' distance and raised its head, as though listening for something. It was a profile shot, and Keith aimed at the dog's forward flank, hoping to hit his heart or lungs. He pulled the trigger, and the arrow shot out of the crossbow.

He couldn't see where it went, but it didn't hit the dog. The dog, however, heard the vanes as they hummed past and let out a short, confused bark, then began running around.

Keith recocked the bowstring and fitted another arrow.

Billy whispered, "Still okay here."

Keith stood and fired purposely short, and the arrow sliced into the ground about twenty yards away. The shepherd heard it and streaked directly toward the arrow as Keith recocked, fitted another arrow, and aimed through the sight. The dog stopped short and snapped at the feathered vanes. Keith pulled the trigger.

He could actually see the arrow pass through the German shepherd's head, and he was sure the dog was dead before it hit the ground.

Keith tapped Billy on the shoulder. "One down. Let's move."

Keith reslung his M-16 rifle and carried the crossbow at his side. Billy slung his M-14 and carried the shotgun. Together, they began moving again through the pine forest, toward the other two dogs.

It took them over twenty minutes to navigate through the dark woods around the perimeter of the clearing. They crossed the open dirt road in a quick rush, and continued on in a semicircle through the pines and toward the lake.

They stopped at a point where they could see the lake ahead. The moon was almost behind the pines now, and the lake looked much darker. Keith figured they had only a few more minutes of good moonlight left.

There were some felled pines in the area, cut down, it appeared, to expand the clearing. Keith used the sawed base of a tree trunk to steady the stock of the crossbow. He scanned through the bow sight and saw the Labrador retriever on its wire run, sitting about twenty yards away on its haunches, looking out at the lake.

Billy was watching the house through the telescopic sight of his rifle. He had an oblique view of the sliding glass doors on the front deck and whispered, "House okay." He shifted his aim and found the golden retriever. "Third dog sleeping."

Keith lined up the bow sight's crosshairs over the Labrador's left flank. The dog raised its head and yawned. Keith pulled the trigger. Except for the twang of the bowstring, there was no sound as the arrow flew off. A second later, the dog jerked, let out a short, surprised sound halfway through its yawn, and rolled over. It whimpered softly for a few seconds, then became quiet.

Keith rolled over, too, on his back, and with the butt against his chest, recocked the bowstring as Billy handed him another arrow from the quiver. Keith fitted the arrow, then jumped to his feet. With two dogs gone, absolute silence was not as important as speed. He noted on his watch that it was one twenty-eight A.M.

Keith left the cover of the pine trees and made directly for the golden retriever, who was curled up on the ground about fifty yards away, apparently sleeping. Keith got within twenty yards before the dog awoke and jumped to its feet. Keith fired, and before he even saw if the arrow would hit or not, he dropped the crossbow and sprinted toward the dog, drawing his knife as he ran.

The retriever yelped and tried to run at Keith, but the arrow had pierced his rear haunch, and he stumbled. As the dog looked back over his shoulder to see what was wrong, Keith landed on him with both knees, breaking his backbone, and at the same time grabbing its muzzle and holding it closed while he slit the dog's throat.

Keith felt the dog go into spasms, its blood pouring from its slashed throat. In a few seconds, the dog lay limp.

Keith glanced up at the house a hundred yards away. There was nothing between him and the house now — no dogs to warn Baxter, but also no cover or concealment for him. Just three hundred feet of open space. The clearing was dark, but not as dark as it would be in a few minutes when the moon dropped behind the pine trees, and he knew he should wait, as per plan. But he was psyched now, the adrenaline was pumping, he'd drawn blood, and he was as ready as he'd ever be.

Billy had moved up into a concealed position among the trees behind Keith, at a slight angle from the sliding glass doors, so he could cover Keith without Keith being directly in the line of fire. Billy whispered loudly, "Keith — get back here or get moving. You can't stay there."

Keith turned to Billy and gave him a thumbs-up.

Billy said, "Okay, I got you covered. Good luck."

Keith turned back toward the house and with no hesitation began the hundred-yard sprint across the open field.

He didn't want to be slowed down, and he didn't need his rifle for this, so he carried only the police revolver and the hunting knife.

Eighty yards. Ten more seconds, and he'd be on the steps to the porch. He focused on the dark sliding glass doors.

Sixty yards. He felt very exposed, very naked, charging across the open field, and he knew that if Baxter came through that door right now with the rifle and infrared scope, Baxter wouldn't even have to rush his shot and could even take the time to smile and say something nasty. Keith hoped that Billy Marlon was a good shot.

Cliff Baxter, responding to the alarm clock, had risen from bed and, still in his underwear, came into the living room and turned on the table lamp. He had his gun belt and holster draped over his shoulder and was wearing his bulletproof vest, but didn't have his AK-47 or shotgun with him.

Annie was kneeling on the floor in front of the rocking chair, her manacled ankles behind her. The poker was squeezed tight between her thighs, the end protruding between her feet and under the rocker, not visible to Baxter.

He asked, "Why you kneeling there in the dark?"

"I couldn't sleep in the rocking chair. I'm going to lie on the floor."

"Yeah?" He walked toward the sliding glass door. "I'm gonna wake the dogs."

He drew his pistol, unlocked the sliding glass door, and opened it just enough to point the pistol in the air and fire a shot. He began to close the door but froze and listened. The dogs weren't barking.

Billy Marlon, sighting through the telescopic sight of his M-14 rifle, covered Keith's run across the open clearing, the scope's crosshairs lined up on the glass door.

Suddenly, a light went on in the house, and a few seconds later he saw a backlighted figure at the door, but he couldn't be sure it was Baxter. The door seemed to move, and Billy heard a shot, then before he could squeeze off a round, the figure was gone. "Damn!" He saw Keith come into the view of his scope, still running. "Okay. Okay." Then a few yards from the base of the stairs, Keith veered off and disappeared from the scope. "What the hell?"

Billy Marlon stood there a second, confused, angry with himself, and feeling that he'd somehow let Keith down. There was nothing in the world more frustrating than a shot not taken, a target not engaged. He lowered the rifle, and without much thought, he began charging across the open field toward the house.

Thirty yards. Four or five more seconds. Keith looked up and saw a light come on inside the house. He didn't slow up or break stride, but kept going.

Twenty yards. A backlighted figure was suddenly at the glass door, and Keith thought he saw the door sliding open. Keith made a snap decision and veered off, running under the cantilevered deck and bringing himself to a short stop against one of the concrete-block columns that held up the house. A shot rang out. Keith put his back to the column and aimed his revolver straight up. The light from the house cast a faint illumination through the spaced deck boards. He kept the revolver pointed up, waiting for a shadow or movement on the deck above him, but he saw and heard nothing. A second later, he heard the door slide shut with a thud.

Keith was fairly certain that it was Baxter at the door and that Baxter hadn't seen or heard him approaching the house, or he wouldn't have turned on the light. Baxter had just picked that bad moment to rouse his dogs with a gunshot, and the dogs hadn't responded. Nor would they ever respond. Cliff Baxter knew he had company.

Cliff Baxter locked the glass door and took a long step away, his back to his gun rack. He stood absolutely still with Keith's Glock 9mm automatic pointing at the door. He glanced back at the table lamp about twenty feet away. He wanted to turn it off but didn't want to move. He listened.

He kept telling himself that no one could have gotten all three dogs, that they weren't dead, that the pistol shot just hadn't woken them. But that was not possible. Damn it.

He looked at his wife kneeling across the room, and their eyes met.

Annie maintained eye contact with him, and she recognized that look she had seen on his face when she'd pointed the shotgun at him. She wanted to smile, to smirk, to say something, but she sensed that death was near, and she didn't know whose.

Baxter lifted the key chain from around his neck and unlocked his gun rack. He took down the Sako rifle, turned on the electronic infrared scope, and flipped the safety switch to the fire position.

Keith stayed frozen against the concrete column, the revolver still pointing upward at the deck. Behind him was the open garage space where the Bronco was parked, and above the garage was the house. He listened for footsteps from the house but heard nothing.

He glanced out to where he'd left Billy Marlon near the edge of the clearing where the dead retriever lay. The moon had slipped behind the pines now, leaving the clearing in almost total darkness.

Keith wondered why Billy hadn't gotten a shot off but was glad he hadn't. Probably it had all happened too fast for him to react, or he thought Keith was going to open fire and charge up the stairs in Billy's line of fire. In any case, Baxter was on full alert, Billy was a hundred yards away across the clearing, and Keith was under Baxter's feet, probably not ten feet from him. He would rather have been and should have been on the deck, but Keith was reasonably certain Baxter didn't know he was there. All Keith had to do now was wait until Baxter decided he had to come out with his infrared scope and deal with the problem.

Keith heard a sound and turned toward the dark clearing. It took him a few seconds to realize there was movement out there, then he saw Billy Marlon running toward the house at a high speed.

Damn him. Keith was furious at Billy for not following orders, but Keith never thought Billy Marlon would.

He watched Billy covering the open space very quickly, his rifle at his hip, ready to fire, like an infantryman assaulting an enemy position.

Keith wasn't in a position to cover Marlon, but he tried to motion him to veer off and come under the house. But Billy was intent on his charge to the deck stairs. Billy Marlon wanted Cliff Baxter, and that's all that was on his mind at this moment.

Cliff Baxter quickly took stock of the situation. He had no way of knowing when the dogs had been silenced, and no way of knowing who'd done it, but he had a real good suspect in mind. Without the dogs, he had no early warning and had no idea where Keith Landry was at that moment. He felt a line of sweat form on his forehead and run down his face. Goddamnit.

He was about to cross the room and turn the lamp off when he thought he heard something outside — the sound of someone running, getting closer.

Billy Marlon was less than ten feet from the bottom of the staircase and showed no inclination to veer off and join Keith under the deck. Keith had no choice now but to break cover and follow Billy Marlon up the staircase, though what they were going to do up there he didn't know, but he figured Billy would smash the glass door with his rifle butt, and they'd wing it from there.

Keith began moving out from under the deck as Marlon took a long stride four or five feet from the first wooden step. Keith saw too late the four wooden pegs driven into the ground at the base of the staircase. Billy's foot came down on what looked like solid ground, but was a sheet of canvas or plastic, secured at the corners by the pegs and covered with a thin layer of earth.

Keith watched and saw it all as if in slow motion: Billy's surprised look as the ground beneath him gave way and Billy dropping through the earth. Keith expected him to keep falling, like the men did in Vietnam who dropped into a deep punji pit and became impaled on sharpened bamboo shafts. But Marlon stopped at knee height, his feet funneled into the narrow base of the conical hole. Keith heard a sharp metallic snap, followed by the sickening sound of something crunching, followed by Billy's shrill, piercing scream. Keith froze where he was beneath the edge of the deck, a few feet from Billy. The glass door above him slid open.

Baxter heard the bear trap snap shut, followed by the scream, and he slid the door open, letting the screams into the living room. He yelled, "Gotcha! Gotcha!"

The figure at the base of the stairs was thrashing in pain, screaming, but still holding tight to the rifle.