Читать книгу Stony Mesa Sagas - Chip Ward - Страница 19

Chapter 12

Nolan never missed. Until that night. “I can’t believe I fuckin’ missed!” he muttered over and over.

Stalking her in the dark solved a big problem: how to kill her without also killing that curly-haired boyfriend of hers. This job wouldn’t allow a witness. When he saw them sitting together by the campfire, perfectly lit and visible, he couldn’t believe his luck. It would be easy to shoot her alone and flee under cover of darkness. The hippie boyfriend wouldn’t chase him or see him. He’d be too busy wondering if he was next and trying to do first aid on her. But then he missed, not once but three times.

“Damn, I can’t believe I fuckin’ missed!”

They ran to their truck and he followed. He gave them just enough distance to feel secure, to think they had lost him, but he was not far behind. He tracked lots of prey over the years and knew how far back to stay, when to move without being noticed. Deer, elk, humans—all animals, after all. Maybe those eco-pussies were right, he thought. Didn’t they claim that humans were just another animal, nothing special, no more worthy than a snail or frog? It amused him that he would prove them right in a way they never dreamed could happen.

The fugitives reached town and he pulled into the parking lot on the far side of the road. He slid down in his seat just enough to hide while keeping them in his view. He departed right after they did though he didn’t know where they were going. Follow, he told himself. Be patient. Wait until the right moment. That’s how it’s done. But when they got to the ranch in Stony Mesa he had to cut his lights and pull over. The rest of the hunt would have to be on foot. Fine with him, he felt right at home.

He took his time approaching the lit window and the door framed in lamplight. They think they are safe, he figured. They’re not going anywhere right away. I could wait until they’re asleep. But nevertheless he was anxious. Killing turtles and beavers was to Nolan’s mind just cheating. But killing a human, that was the real deal. He wanted to get it over and get away. Do it!

The lights were on in the main cabin and he heard voices. The two of them talking he guessed. He tiptoed closer. They sounded nervous. He heard the click of knives and forks on plates. A large cat was suddenly at his side, rubbed his leg, and let out a plaintive yowl for food or affection, whatever a cat expects to get from a stranger who hates cats.

Nolan did awful things to cats as an adolescent. He taped a firecracker to one and used strays near the town dump for target practice when he was learning how to shoot with a bow and arrow. The beatings he suffered at the hands of his drunken father dug a hellhole of anger in him that he tried to fill with hateful acts against creatures even more helpless than himself. Seconds after she yowled, Skeeter the ranch cat was quiet, her neck broken. Nolan set her soft body down on the ground and retreated into the shadow of a propane tank next to the cabin.

He heard them come outside and then a door shut. He crouched behind the propane tank and waited for them to pass by on their way to their truck. He shoved the dead cat out of sight with his boot. He waited. Nothing appeared. A door slammed again and he stood to look. The lights to the main cabin were still on. He saw a shadow flicker against the lit window. They went back in there, he told himself, and now is the time to get it over with. He had resigned himself to taking them both down. The hippie boy was in the way. Sorry, pal, bad timing for you.

Their truck was the only one parked by the door. Bo’s vehicles were in a garage beyond the cabin and since Nolan had never set foot there before that evening he was unaware the ranch might have other occupants. In fact, he figured the ranch belonged to the young couple. Rich little bastards, probably trust-funders. The notion fueled his rage.

He darted through the crescent of the porch light and slipped quietly to the door. One. Two. Three! But instead of finding his prey on the other side of the door, there was a pear-shaped man, bulging mouth full of something, holding a small stack of dirty dishes. Nolan noticed the expensive western shirt and turquoise bolo tie. Nice boots. Who the fuck is this guy?

Nolan had parsed the moral dilemma earlier. He agreed to kill the pretty slut, the leader of the eco-freaks. Yeah, he knew killing is wrong but people do it all the time and it’s okay. He saw that movie about the sniper and what a hero he was. Lots of guys came home after killing hundreds of people in the oil wars over there in raghead land and they were decorated. What about those guys that sit somewhere in a military base in Nevada and watch a screen from a camera mounted on a drone that’s armed with missiles? They push a button and blow up the bad guys along with a whole wedding party, families, kids, whatever and nobody condemns them for what they do. As pretty as she is, the eco-freak queen is a kind of terrorist, too, right? And the world will be better off without that slut and her pussy boyfriend in it. Yeah, I’m the hero here but as usual nobody gets it. I’m the real victim. Fuck.

Nolan was up on the news, mostly from Fox Radio. He knew there was a war at home, too. Like Bunny Cleaver said, it’s the decent folks like us, the real Americans and patriots, against the niggers, queers, Mexicans, hippies, feminists, and feds. Liberals, too. Tree-huggers and the U.N. The Government. So the eco-queen of the eco-pussies is the enemy and her boyfriend is collateral damage like the people riding behind the Muslim terrorist who are hit with a missile not intended for them. And now this fat dork looking like Nashville on a Saturday night is just more collateral damage.

For all his killing, Nolan had never killed a human and he wondered how it was going to feel. He had wondered for many years, actually. It started out as curiosity but had lately become something more. Something like the taste you get before the food actually reaches your mouth, a kind of static when hunger approaches satisfaction. The animals he killed, especially the elk and deer, struggled to die, even the head-shot ones. It could take minutes for a body to shut down. The last gasp, the last gas, the quivering of a nervous system cut loose from blood and brain. How long, he wondered, would it take a human before the tremors cease and the final rasp of air is heard?

And the most important question of all: could he do it, pull the trigger, slip the knife? Under all his testosterone-fueled bravado, doubt lingered.

Bo Hineyman’s demise was a complete surprise. Who would think it was that easy? You look at your victim and he stares back, his eyes bulge, he turns red and then thrashes across the room like a drunken acrobat. He grows purple as he goes. One last chubby pirouette and he crashes onto his back in the middle of a fancy coffee table filled with fake fish. A couple of gurgles and he was gone. Just like that. All Nolan had to do was watch the show and duck flying glass.

Could I really do that? Kill with a look? Like a fuckin’ superhero? Too crazy, man. No time to think about it. Where are those two kids?

A search of the house turned up nothing. He picked up a blue and red vase in the hallway and wondered what it looked like in pieces. He smashed it against the tile floor. The tiles were from Mexico. Bo saw them on a trip to Cancun and had them shipped. Nolan thought the art he saw throughout the house might be valuable and considered taking something small like a sculpted ballerina standing on a bookshelf or a colorful glass ball on an end table, but where would he sell it? There wasn’t a market for rich peoples’ doodads in his neck of the woods. Redneck neck of the woods, he thought and it made him angry. We scrape by and they have so much they can fill their homes with art from the foreign trips they can also afford. Artsy-fartsy bling is for the rich. My yacht is a rowboat I haul to the reservoir and all I ever brung back was a fuckin’ hangover.

It felt good smashing things and it was also the perfect cover for the dead bozo in the fake-fish pond. Make it look like a robbery. He pulled open drawers and dumped them, cleared an entire bookshelf with one swipe. “Where is it!” he cried aloud and then laughed at his own joke.

Breathless and spent, surrounded by debris, he stepped outside and looked toward the guest house. He saw them. They were running into the dark. He checked his gun and followed.