P Deutermann - Nightwalkers

"The Dobes won't bark," I'd reminded them. "They'll just come at a run and go for either an arm, the throat, or the crotch, depending on who trained them. Stand fast, feint one way, and then jump the other way as they spring. They'll land, turn, and that's when you shoot them, spray first, gun second."

"What if we don't see 'em coming?"

"They'll knock you down, so throw up a padded arm or leg and let them bite it. They'll bite and hold on, and it will hurt, even with all that padding. Let that arm go limp, and then use the knife or the spray, whichever you can get at. If you even think they're close, get your back to a tree and ball up. Forget the gun: Get a knife in one hand, pepper spray in the other."

I had brought Frick but not Kitty. I told the other guys that she wasn't ready for this yet, but the truth was, while Frick might or might not win a fight against a Dobe, Kitty was too new at this to have even a chance. Frick, eight going on nine years, would give me precious warning time, and if I was going to lose one, I wasn't going to sacrifice the youngest one. Plus, there would be one less dog in the way if I had to start shooting. I had to keep telling myself that that made it all okay. Frick seemed up for it, but then she always did.

She and I bailed out at the appropriate moment and slipped into the woods. The Suburban's taillights disappeared around the corner. It was a cool, clear night, and we moved off into the trees quickly. The forest here was chiefly pines, which meant we could move quickly across a bed of pine needles without making noise. In twenty minutes we were up on the road end of the western ridge, where I'd first caught the flash of the major's telescope. Frick was ahead, casting for scent, and I could now see down across the cemetery meadow to the remains of the river bridge in the moonlight. The distant house was a grayish shape on its hill, sleeping in the shadow of all those big trees. The outbuildings behind it were clearly visible, so I sat down on a rock and surveyed the house, outbuildings, and barns through my binoculars.

By now Tony should be moving up the line of trees and underbrush along the driveway toward the house, but since the main driveway was sunken below the level of the adjacent fields, it was entirely in shadow. The plan was for him to text me when he reached the springhouse. That would be my signal to come down off the ridge and head for the riverbank. If he hit trouble, I could come downhill rather than uphill to back him up. I continued to sweep the near hillside with the binocs, the slaughterhouse scene of the train robbery, and then the intervening fields surrounding the house on its hill. Frick sat down next to me and kept watch on our close-in surroundings. I didn't fancy the idea of two big Dobes bursting out of the pines behind me at a full run like sleek black torpedoes. My ghost had had a long time to think about this caper, and he'd done the one thing that neutralized my biggest advantage by arming himself with Dobermans.

After twenty minutes of binocular watching, my cell vibrated in its chest holster. I hauled it out.

Tony. IN POSITION, it read. Pardee had rigged the network so that every text call went to both the other phones.

MOVING OUT NOW, I sent back, and then I put it away.

We started down the moonlit hillside, moving from tree to tree as much as possible. I mentally apologized to the sleeping soldiers as we walked over their graves. A screech owl started up back in the pines, and even I could hear the rustle of field birds and startled rabbits scuttling out of our way through the knee-high grass.

I stopped when we got to the railroad embankment. There was no way to cross that while staying concealed. Even with the iron rails long gone, the right-of-way provided a sight channel for a few hundred yards in either direction. Then I remembered the fortified stone bridge abutment to my left. If I went left, down to the river, I could cross under that sight line where the meadow fell off down to the riverbank.

My climb down to the river at the base of the bridge abutment was not entirely graceful. We both ended up at the bottom pursued by a small avalanche of stones and old gravel, some of which rolled into the river itself with what sounded like a lot of noise. So much for stealth, I thought, as I picked myself up and brushed the burrs and dirt out of my clothes. The river was flowing silently by, glossy black in the moonlight. The pale face of the opposite bank abutment looked like a tombstone. Frick had her nose down and was headed upriver. I had to snap my fingers to get her going the right way. A big turtle plopped off a snag as I went under the rail line, and a snake took off into the tall grass at the speed of heat, causing Frick to jump straight up in the air.

It was much slower going along the riverbank because of all the debris from floods past. There was the usual American riverbank decor of beer cans, tires, plastic bags of all description, an occasional sodden mass of bedding, and more tires. What was it about a big river that made people want to dump their trash? After clambering over snag after snag, I realized that the river bottom was terraced. There was the immediate bank, then a three-foot terrace inland of that, and another one beyond that, perhaps a hundred feet back from the current banks. Most of the debris was littering the first two terraces, so I elected to move right and up. I could still see the actual riverbank, but I could now make some time in my trek downstream to the brickworks.

I had to detour around that creek mouth where previously I'd seen the evidence of a boat landing. First I went down to the water to see if there were any more signs, but I found nothing but yet more tires. Then I walked inland until I found a place where I could get across the stream on a downed tree trunk. Frick wasn't having it. Ever the water-baby, she went down into the creek, splashed her way across, and then shook off on the other side. Then back we went to the edge of the first terrace and continued downstream. My phone vibrated again.

Pardee this time.

HALFWAY TO BRICKS, it read. SLOW GOING.

ON THE RIVER, I sent back. SLOW GOING.

SOMEONE IN THE HOUSE, came up on the screen from Tony.

I stopped in my tracks, and Frick came back to where I was crouching over the little green screen. Some famished gnats began to gather around the tiny light.

I turned around to look across the field and up the long, grassy slope that led to the house, which was maybe a half mile away. I couldn't see the house itself, or even any of the outbuildings, just the big grove of oaks and a smaller blob that might be the springhouse.

I waited for Tony to elaborate, but nothing came.

I'M BEHIND YOU ON THE RIVER, I texted. WILL COME TO SPRING.

No reply.

BRICKS OR HOUSE? came in from Pardee.

He would have to turn up and over that eastern ridge to get to the house, and there would be no cover at all once he came down from that ridge and got out into the cropland.

BRICKS, I texted back. NO ACTION, RETURN TO ROAD.

GOT IT.

I gathered Frick back from the riverbank, and we turned uphill toward the house. I had the same problem Pardee would have: no cover if I went directly up that long, grassy slope that provided such a magnificent view from the house. There was a single line of smallish trees along a field boundary that led back up to the barn area, but I had to backtrack along the river terrace to get to it. I kept watching my cell screen for anything from Tony, but there was nothing. He wouldn't actually have much cover up there at the springhouse unless he got down into the cooling pool itself. The exterior walls of the springhouse were lattice boards, and the stone foundations stood in two feet of icy water.

I hurried along the river. Once I turned left and started up that tree line, I'd have to proceed very carefully-and quietly. Hopefully, someone in the house didn't automatically mean Dobermans on the grounds. If it wasn't my stalker, then who else would be in the house this late at night? The major? Sex-starved teenagers?