Рита Браун - Hiss Of Death

Annalise plunged in, holding her gun straight up over her head. Harry, already over the bank, proved a difficult target. Annalise needed to pull up over the bank.

Swimming behind her, Tucker called to the horses, “Get in the water. Follow me!”

Harry turned, saw Annalise climbing up, more difficult for her while carrying a pistol.

“Go back to the creek bank! Use the trees!” Mrs. Murphy hollered, heading to the creek bed to show Harry.

Whether she understood the cat or figured it out herself, Harry dodged behind a large old sycamore, large sheets of bark on the ground.

Pewter acted like a rear guard, slowing to watch Annalise, then telling Mrs. Murphy, “She’s taking aim.”

A report, then a thud as a bullet hit the sycamore. Harry moved down into the creek bed, but she couldn’t go fast, for she was now below the beaver dam, and the water was high, the creek bed soggy.

“Won’t work,” Mrs. Murphy screamed. “Get back up, use the trees. It’s your only hope.”

Fit, Annalise was fast. By the time she reached the sycamore, Harry had hauled herself back up on the creek’s bank again. Senses razor-sharp, Harry dug in her toes, bent low like a runner coming out of the blocks on hearing the pistol shot. But unlike those on the track, the pistol shot was aimed at her.

Again, moving from tree to tree, Harry continued downstream, sprinting, bent over, when she could. The only plan she had was to get to Coop’s house, if she made it that far down, or try to reach her own barn. She would be exposed when she ran across the back pastures to her sunflowers, which were not high enough to cover her. She’d also be a clear target in Coop’s newly mown pasture. She still might make it again, zigging and zagging. She didn’t know whether to again cross the creek into her farm or to keep on Coop’s side. Sooner or later, Annalise would empty out her clip. She’d counted three shots—five would be left. Then she’d run for all she was worth for about fifteen paces, hit the dirt, roll, and run some more.

Compromised as Harry was due to radiation treatments, she was pumped with adrenaline and running for her life.

Tucker kept at Annalise’s heels. Much as the physician wanted to plug the irritating dog, she’d been counting bullets, too. Harry’s speed and evasive actions were proving to be a real problem.

Taking aim, she fired again. This time the bullet burrowed into the black ridged bark of a sweet gum tree. Harry backed away from the tree, pushing through Virginia thornbushes, trampling wild lilies, sown courtesy of birds. She dodged behind the trees near Coop’s cutover lower pasture. The level ground there meant she could burn the wind, but fast as she was, a bullet was faster.

Annalise saw a flash of Harry’s blue T-shirt. She missed the cats, running with her, darting in and out of low bush.

Harry’s lungs seared. She needed to bend over and take a deep breath. If she did, she’d expose herself and allow her pursuer to draw closer. Behind an ancient Fiddle oak, Harry veered right to a hickory at the pasture’s edge. Annalise, slower, was running in the mown pasture to catch up. As the ground was flatter and drier, she gained on Harry. Harry had little time in which to decide whether to try for Coop’s house or to go back into the creek. The water was deeper down here. It might be difficult getting across before Annalise reached the bank.

Now aware of his master’s fragile position, Tomahawk said to Shortro, “Do what I do. Get behind me.”

The seventeen-year-old Thoroughbred trotted twenty yards behind Annalise. She turned for the creek bed. The cats called out Harry’s location to Tomahawk.

“Get her before she makes it to the trees!” Pewter shrieked as loud as she could, sank her claws into a tree, and climbed at warp speed. She hoped Annalise would walk under this tree, since it was at the best crossing. If she got this far, Pewter could drop onto her. Pewter devoutly hoped the doctor wouldn’t get to that point.

Harry’s face and hands bled from the thorns. Her T-shirt was ripped, her body looking like she’d run through barbed wire. Her mind remained clear. No panic. She felt she had a slim chance.

Annalise saw movement in the grasses. Birds flew out of the shrubs. She saw a flash of shoe as Harry slipped down toward the crossing. Taking aim, she fired, just missing Harry’s boot heel.

In a gallop, Tomahawk rode right onto Annalise, knocking her down. She knew the horses were behind her, but it never occurred to her she’d be in danger from them. Flat on her face, Annalise struggled to rise, the gun knocked out of her hand. Before she could rise to her knees, Shortro plowed into her, full weight on her back. The massive weight on those iron-shod hooves broke her back.

Annalise couldn’t move her legs. Her upper body worked. She pulled herself toward the gun, but Tucker grabbed her wrist, biting down for all she was worth. Then the dog grabbed the gun, running to give it to Harry.

Harry slid down to the water’s edge. She caught her breath as the dog gave her the gun.

“Tucker!” Mrs. Murphy rubbed against the panting dog.

Speechless for once, Pewter backed down the tree.

Having neutralized Annalise, Tomahawk and Shortro noticed the alfalfa and orchard grass in Coop’s back pasture. They walked away, put their heads down, and enjoyed it. Someone else’s pasture always seemed better than one’s own.

Harry wiped her forehead, smearing blood all over. She then noticed her hands were torn. Blood dripped down her cheeks, seeping through her torn T-shirt—an old favorite. Whatever was on the thorns began to sting.

Hearing Annalise’s shriek of pain, Harry hugged her dog, blood now on Tucker’s fur. Both cats sat at her feet.

Pewter, who’d had the best view, said, “You wouldn’t believe what Tomahawk and Shortro did to Annalise!”

Harry looked down. “You all stayed right up with me.” She choked up, cleared her throat, then warily walked out, using trees as cover, to see where Annalise was. Harry might have Annalise’s gun, but she was keenly aware how powerful Annalise was. She was shocked when she saw her lying in the pasture.

The doctor had rolled on her back. “Can’t move my legs.”

“Hurt?” Harry asked.

“No. My hand hurts more,” Annalise replied. “You look like hell.”

“If you had your way, I’d be dead.” Harry put the safety on the pistol. “This gun is heavy.”

“Cost me a thousand dollars. And yes, you would be dead. I like you. I like you a lot, Harry, but you were going to ruin my project.”

“Got a cellphone on you?”

“No.” She asked, “Pull me to a tree and prop me up?”

“No. You’re stronger than I am. I saw your bench press, remember? You’ll try to choke me.”

Annalise didn’t deny it. “Then shoot me. I know you won’t give me the gun to shoot myself. Just shoot me. Self-defense. Everyone will buy it.”

“They might, but I won’t.”

“Harry, is it possible to be too principled?”

“How would you know? In your case, you haven’t any.”

Annalise’s eyes flashed. “I was helping hundreds of people over the years. The stupidity of our government causes so much suffering, prevents millions—literally millions—from healthy lives. I cut through all the bullshit and helped them myself.”

Harry sat a bit away from Annalise so the prone woman couldn’t reach her. The animals listened, too. They remained vigilant.

“I don’t know about that, but once I knew it was you, I figured you had to be making a lot of money.”

Annalise began talking too fast. At first she made no sense. “He first got wobbly when a piece of skull, the base, which is just above the pituitary gland, was on his desk. I swore it was Thadia, who was so obsessed with him, she had to have been spying. I have no doubt she got into the hospital morgue, not all that difficult, rolled out a harvested corpse, and checked it out. Our removals wouldn’t be obvious, not like a missing arm. But Thadia, like most dedicated addicts, knew a great deal about the human body and body chemistry. Thadia knew where that small pituitary gland was located. She’d know if it was removed. She knew. It’s amazing the woman lived as long as she did, and I think one of the reasons was she understood drugs’ effect on her own body and on others’. Think of the good she could have done if she’d taken organic chemistry, gotten into med school.”