Kevin said, “He needs to stay with me. I’ll watch him. He’ll be good. I promise.”
In the end, when it became clear that Kevin would rather stay behind with the dog than go to the parade without the animal, Randy and Patty relented. It was getting late, and if you didn’t stake a spot early along the route for Parker’s Mill’s annual Fourth of July celebration, you wouldn’t be able to see the parade, simple as that. So they made sure the leash was tight, forbid Elliot from petting the dog, gathered their supplies, and set off.
They lived only three blocks from Main Street, and walked to Veterans’ Park, where the parade culminated. A stage had been erected for the city council and mayor, where they would present various awards and achievement medals after the parade. The park itself was full of local vendors selling everything from fruits and vegetables to corn dogs and pizza and tortilla chips to fresh-squeezed lemonade with more sugar than juice.
Of course, no Fourth of July holiday was complete without buckets of corn on the cob, impaled on sticks, and dunked in vats of warm butter.
The park itself wasn’t crowded as usual and when they reached Main Street, Randy frowned. The curbs were half empty. Every year since he could remember, there wasn’t a single free inch along the parade route. Residents, especially farmers who lived out of town, set out all their cheap plastic lawn chairs to save their places hours, sometimes even days, in advance. This year he couldn’t believe the size of the gaps between the sets of chairs.
Maybe a lot of people were taking advantage of the holiday to go on vacation or visit relatives. Whatever the reason, he wasn’t going to complain. It just meant that his family had plenty of spots to choose where they wanted to watch the parade. They even passed up a few until finding a spot not too far down from the stage and got settled.
The parade was almost ready to begin.
Cochran heard the engine too, and struggled to get to his feet.
Sandy went to the front windows. “Stay down and be quiet.” She went outside on the front porch and down the steps. Wondered if a little more peace of mind would perhaps be advisable. She didn’t want to trust Cochran, but maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to be prepared for anything. She unclipped the shotgun from the dash and stood it upright on the driver’s seat. She left the door open, crossed her arms, and leaned against the back door.
A black car came out of the corn, rolling slowly up the driveway as if the driver wasn’t sure he was in the right place. As the car got closer, she counted three men inside. Sandy got a fluttery feeling in the pit of her stomach when the car stopped. It was starting to feel just like the time when she had to shoot those two men in the traffic stop.
Except this time there were three men.
The driver turned off the engine and held up his hand in a polite wave. None of the men went to climb out. They stayed put, talking things over. Finally, the driver got out. He was a barrel-chested guy with short cropped hair. Maybe early thirties. Hard to tell his age because of the wraparound sunglasses. It looked like he’d stopped at L.L. Bean during the drive and changed clothes. Brand-new flannel shirt and jeans. Sandy didn’t think it made much sense in the heat of summer.
The other two watched her from behind tinted windows.
“Morning,” Sandy said.
“Morning.”
She didn’t say anything else. She wanted to put the burden of explanation on him, instead of giving him a quick and easy excuse, like asking if he was lost.
The man waited for the inevitable question, and when he realized that it wasn’t going to happen, that she was waiting him out, he said, “Nice day for the Fourth, huh?”
Sandy gave a noncommittal nod.
The man decided that being lost was the easiest choice. “You know how to get back to I-72 from here?”
This was the moment Sandy realized that Cochran had been telling the truth. These men were not tourists. They were not fisherman. They were here to silence a man who had become a liability. And they would kill anyone who got in the way.
She cocked her head, pretending to think about the question. Both the man in the passenger seat and the man in the back undoubtedly had their weapons out and ready, waiting for Sandy to lift her arm and point. When that happened, they would fire, and the driver would head into the house and finish Cochran.
If she turned and reached for the shotgun in the cruiser behind her, they would shoot her in the back. She thought about dropping and rolling under their car, but they could try and shoot through the floorboards just as easily as she could try and shoot up through the bottom of the car. It wouldn’t take long for the driver to realize he could bend over and shoot her as easy as tying his shoes.
She hated to leave the shotgun in the car, but kept her right hand on her Glock and eased up to the front of their car instead, playing dumb and giving a girlish shake of her short blond hair. The longer she kept them off balance, the better. “Well, gee, I’m new here, and I don’t really know, you know?”
She backed up to the house, never taking her hand off the Glock. “I can check with the family who lives here. I’m sure they can help.” She wanted the men to think there were more people inside, just to make them hesitate that much longer.
“I got a map here,” the driver said in an effort to bring her closer to his car.
Sandy went up the stairs backward. “No thanks. Wouldn’t help much.” She found the door handle behind her with her left hand and twisted it.
The other two men in the car opened their doors. They stood, and Sandy noticed that they all wore long-sleeve flannel shirts, despite the heat.
“Listen,” the driver said. “I think we’re getting off on the wrong foot here. We just need to find our way back to the interstate. That’s all.”
Sandy took one step backward, into the house.
The passenger twisted suddenly, revealing that the man in the backseat had a handgun and it was leveled at Sandy. He fired, twice.
Sandy felt the wood chips from the front door spray into her face before she heard the shots. She fell backward, hit the floor, and rolled out of sight.
Cochran had been watching and waiting and now kicked the door shut. “Keys!” he hissed, holding his cuffed hands out to his side.
Sandy didn’t think twice. She fished the key out of her pocket and one of the men fired again. Four holes appeared in the front door, waist high. Cochran rolled over to her and when his back slammed into her, he held the cuffs up as best as he could.
Sandy unlocked the cuffs and said, “Open the door. Quick.” She figured they would be expecting them to dig in deep inside the house and wouldn’t expect a sneak attack.
Cochran’s face made it clear he didn’t think it was a good idea, but he crawled back over to the door and waited for her signal. She nodded, and he whipped the front door wide open. Sandy saw that one of the men was coming straight up the stairs and hadn’t expected an open door.
She squeezed the trigger three times. At fifteen feet, shooting from a sitting position, resting her Glock on her knee, it wasn’t difficult to put all three rounds straight into the center of his chest. The man went to his knees, but didn’t drop his handgun. She then understood why they were all wearing long-sleeve flannel shirts.
They all wore Kevlar vests.
So she readjusted, shot him in the head, and yelled, “Shut it!”
Cochran slammed the door.
The windows exploded in a maelstrom of glass and lead.
Sandy tossed the Glock to Cochran. He caught it and gave her a look filled with confusion. “Go.” She angled her head at the kitchen. “Out the back door. Hurry. Get around the side before they think about it. Stay low and shoot whoever is on the porch.”