55
Carson did not approach the house directly. He had gone back to the truck, retrieved the cylinder, and put it in a bag. He got his revolver, finished the last of his water, and then made his way along the stone wall that paralleled the state road. He hesitated when he reached the eastern property line, but then he decided to stick to the road, go all the way across the front of the school, and then cut across that low dam into the dense stand of willow trees on the other side of the pond. The willows would give him much better cover to approach the house than the widely spaced pecan trees on the other side.
It took him fifteen minutes to cross over in front of the house, get up and across the dam, and make his way through the willows until he was parallel with the back of the house. He could see what looked like kitchen windows, but he needed to get closer to see if Stafford was in there. He also discovered a problem as he pushed through the dense willow branches: He was on the wrong side of the creek that fed the pond. Where he was standing, it was nearly ten feet across, and, although it didn’t look deep, the ravine it had cut over the years offered very steep banks. He didn’t think he could get down and back up those banks with his back the way it was.
Now what? he thought wearily, trying to focus. I’ve got to get over this creek to the yard. He wondered if there was a bridge farther upstream, but the thought of pushing through more of the willow branches deterred him: It had been hard, sweaty work getting this far in the dark, and the branches were full of biting insects. He was having trouble enough concentrating as it was. Okay, he thought, so go back to the dam. Come up the main drive, keeping in the shadow of the line of trees that borders the drive. Not as good cover as the willows, but better than this.
He rested for a few minutes, absorbing the night sounds while he got his breath back, and then started back the way he had come, toward the road, pushing the swaying branches out of his face and fending off the squadrons of bugs he was stirring up. He kept losing his way, and twice he had to retrace his steps until he found the pond. Keep the pond on your left, and you’ll hit the dam and the road, he told himself. He was sweating profusely now in the clammy air around the pond. He had just about reached the edge of the dam when he stopped to catch his breath.
It was then he heard a distinctive noise: a car door being closed, out there on the road.
He froze and listened hard. At first there was nothing but the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears. How had a vehicle come up that road without his hearing it? The willow branches, he realized.
All those branches in his face and ears had masked the sound. Especially if someone was trying to be quiet. Then he heard another sound, of someone on the other side of the dam pushing his way through the stand of willows over there. Not in a hurry. Deliberate movements, interspersed with moments of silence.
He’s listening before he moves, Carson thought, like I should have been doing. He put the bag carefully down In the grass and pulled out his revolver. There was a mass of greenery right next to the edge of the dam, and he sank down into it, on his knees, trying not to grunt aloud as the shooting pains lit up his back again. Insects whined in his ears, but he ignored them. From his position, he could see clearly across the top of the dam, a space of about twenty.feet
He waited, feeling his back and legs getting stiff. After a few minutes, he heard the unseen intruder pushing through the final willow tree right before the dam, and then he saw a tall gray-haired figure step onto the top of the dam and start across. When the man was halfway across, Carson rose from his hiding place, which was when he saw the star on the other man’s chest.
“That’s far enough,” he announced, and the sheriff iroze, his hands at his side.
“And you musuje the famous Mr. Carson,” the sheriff said. The top of the concrete dam was about a foot and half wide, but the sheriff seemed to have no problem balancing on it. To the sheriff’s right was the still black surface of the pond; to his left, a drop of about ten feet down into a pool. The sheriff stood right in front of a shallow channel. that had been notched into the middle of the dam to let the overflow drop into the pool below. Carson checked over his left shoulder, but the lights from the house were barely visible through the branches of one large willow tree.
“That’s right. Where’d you leave the Army?”
“The Army? They’re up at the rock quarry, waiting for the FBI guys to tell them where to find the weapon.”
“What FBI guys?”
“The ones you were supposed to turn yourself into, Mr. Carson. They’re down at my office in the courthouse.”
“I don’t believe you. There’s just the Army. Stafford was lying. You’re all lying.”
The sheriff slowly raised his right hand and slapped a mosquito on his cheek, prompting Carson to lift the barrel of his revolver. The gun was beginning to feel very heavy in his hand. The sheriff put his hand back down, and Carson noticed that somehow he had managed to undo the safety strap on his sidearm.
“No, he wasn’t,” the sheriff said. “I’ve got a whole passel of Feds drinking my coffee and calling you names down there right now. We’ve got the lawyer laid on and everything. You come in with me, we can get this thing done. Ain’t no need for any trouble.”
Carson shook his head, wincing. He wasn’t going to be fooled again. If everything was the way the sheriff was describing, what was the sheriff doing here? Creeping around in the bushes? He asked the sheriff that question.
“Because I called Mr. Stafford a few minutes ago. Asked him if he’d heard from you, because you hadn’t shown up in town. Asked him if everything was okay here. He said something about your holding a gun to his head and then said everything was fine. Didn’t sound right, so I came to take a look.”
“Alone?”
The sheriff glanced to his left into the dark woods. “Yep. All alone,” he said.
Carson moved a little to put a tree trunk between him and any helpers the sheriff might have out there on the road or in the woods. But then he realized the sheriff was bluffing.
“Take your gun out of that holster and drop it in the pond,” he ordered.
The sheriff gave him a long, flat look, and Carson raised the barrel of Ms. revolver again. “It’s only about fifteen feet,” he said. “Even I can hit you at fifteen feet.” The sheriff continued to look at him, his hand now dangling very close to the butt of his sidearm. “Yeah, Mr. Carson, you might get lucky and hit me. But I wonder whether or not you can actually shoot someone.
That’s harder than it looks on the TV. Specially when the other fella is bringin’ up a forty-five at the same time. Besides, you don’t sound so good to me. You’re weavin’ around a little bit, and your voice sounds a mite strained. I’m thinkin’ this might be a pretty even contest. ‘Cause I know I can hit you at fifteen feet.”
“Pull it out with two fingers and drop it in the pond,” Carson said, steadying his right hand with his left, the way he’d seen shooters do in magazines. His mouth was dry and the pounding in his head had accelerated dangerously. A small breeze rippled across the pond. Carson cocked his revolver and pointed it right at the sheriff’s midsection.
“Doit, Sheriff.”
The sheriff put two fingers on the butt of the automatic, paused for a long moment, and then lifted it out of the holster. He bent and dropped it onto the concrete, but it did not go over the edge. He looked at it for a, second and then continued to bend down slowly.
“Use your foot!” Carson barked, but the sheriff kept reaching down. At the last moment, he nudged the big weapon over the edge with his knuckles, where it went into the pond with scarcely a sound. Carson, who had been holding his breath, started to relax, until he saw the glint of metal in the sheriff’s right hand as he brought up the ankle gun. Carson did not hesitate: He pulled the trigger and the .38 bucked in his hand with a flash of red light that momentarily blinded him. He heard the big man grunt and then there was a sliding noise as the sheriff went over the road side of the dam, tumbling down the sloped surface of the concrete and entering the pool with a heavy splash. Carson knelt down at the edge of the dam and scanned the surface of the pool, but there were only small waves and ripples, and then silence in the black water below.