Linwood Barclay - The Twenty-Three

In Sam’s hand was a small cooking pot. The way she was holding it, David surmised she was intending to use it to hit Brandon when and if she had the chance.

What she needed was what David had in his hands now. He was crouched down, the shotgun raised up to eye level, left hand supporting the barrel, right hand, and finger, poised over the trigger.

He was at least forty feet away. He was squinting down the barrel and had Brandon, more or less, in his sights. But what the hell did he know about shooting a shotgun? If he fired this thing, would the shot go wide and end up hitting Sam? Or tear through the tent and hit Carl?

Even if he did have some experience with a shotgun, was he really going to shoot Brandon if he tried something?

Probably not.

What would he tell the police? It sure wouldn’t be self-defense, what with him off hiding in the bushes.

No, he wouldn’t fire the shotgun. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t use it. If Brandon threatened Sam or Carl, he could run out and, with that shotgun in his hands, scare Brandon off.

That seemed like a sound strategy.

So long as Brandon didn’t have a gun.

If he did, he hadn’t pulled it out. He was standing there in jeans and a shirt. If he had a gun, the only place he could be hiding it was behind his back. That would mean he had it tucked into his belt. David was thinking that’d attract a lot of attention, some guy wandering through the campsite with a butt sticking out of his butt.

So maybe he didn’t have a gun.

Jesus, I hope he doesn’t.

David did not want to get into a gunfight with this guy. So if by some chance he did have a gun, walking into things waving a shotgun might just be the dumbest thing David could do. It would get Brandon riled up. Once everyone started shooting, there was no telling who’d end up dead.

What he should have done, David now concluded, was find the office and call the police. He’d considered it earlier and decided against it. Now he was sorry.

Now he was here, in the trees, shotgun in hand.

He could abort. He could set the shotgun down, sneak back through the woods the way he’d come, and make the call. It wasn’t too late to handle the situation sensibly. If Brandon made a grab for the kid, the police could be there before he got out of the campsite.

Brandon’s car-he must have stolen or borrowed one from somebody-had to have been in the parking lot where David had left his own wheels. If he had known which one it was, he could have slashed a tire or two.

He wasn’t cut out for this. Any other time he’d been in a tough situation, it hadn’t taken him long to come to that conclusion. What was wrong with him that he didn’t learn?

David gently set the gun in the grass. He was ready to sneak back to the campsite entrance.

But hold on.

Brandon looked like he was getting ready to walk away. Was that possible? Had he really decided to slip out of that Boston hospital and find his way up here just so he could have a chat?

That didn’t seem likely.

David got back into position, picked up the shotgun again. Trained it in the general direction of the tent. Brandon, who had started walking away, suddenly pivoted. He started running flat out toward the small canvas enclosure.

Sam was booting it in the same direction, the metal pot still clutched in her hand. It looked to David as though her intention was to cut Brandon off.

Brandon had to be going for Carl.

David was already certain the boy had been at the door to the tent. It looked pretty clear to David that Brandon was going to grab his son and make a run for it.

What am I going to do?

He brought the shotgun up to his shoulder, eyed down the barrel. Could he take a shot? By the time he was even asking himself that question, Brandon had vanished. He was obscured by the tent. He was probably crawling into it now, going for Carl, hoping to grab an arm or a leg.

David couldn’t do anything about what he couldn’t see. So he sprang up from his crouching position and ran toward the tent, the shotgun angled across his chest.

“Hey!” he shouted. “Get away from the kid!”

Sam, just outside the tent door and still visible, stopped and looked in the direction of the voice. When her eyes settled on him, her jaw dropped.

“David?”

“Get back!” he shouted.

Now Brandon’s head popped up above the top of the tent. He saw David running toward them brandishing the shotgun.

Brandon quickly grabbed Sam around the waist and dragged her to the ground. The pot fell from her hand. She tried to say something, but all that came out was a scream.

David was almost to the tent. He made a wide approach, moving around the far side of the picnic table. He’d moved the shotgun into a firing position, holding it slightly above waist level.

What happened next happened very quickly.

Brandon grabbed the pot Sam had dropped.

David shouted, “Hold it!”

Sam screamed, “Brandon, it’s okay, it’ s-”

Brandon, coming out of a crouch like a runner shooting out of the blocks, pot raised menacingly, yelled at Sam and Carl, “Get down!”

David felt his finger on the trigger of the shotgun.

Sam cried, “David, no!”

Carl wailed, “Dad!”

David fired.

Brandon, already closing the distance between himself and David, spun hard to the right and went down. His right hand went to his neck. Blood came streaming out between his fingers.

“Don’t move, don’t move, don’t move!” David yelled, standing over Brandon.

Carl started to run toward his father, but Sam grabbed the boy and straitjacketed him with her arms.

“No!” Sam said. “God, no!”

David looked at her and said, “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” “You idiot!” she yelled at him over the cries of her son. “You stupid fucking idiot!”

“But…”

“He was sorry!” she said. “He came to say he was sorry!”

David, numb, lowered the shotgun. “What?”

The blood pouring from Brandon’s neck soaked into the forest floor and began to puddle by David’s shoes.

ARLENEHarwood got off the phone and said to her husband, Don, “Good news.”

They were sitting in the living room of their son David’s house. “Lay it on me,” Don said.

“That was Marla.”

Gill was recovering. At the very least, he was holding his own. He’d ended up staying in the Promise Falls hospital instead of being moved to Albany, where so many other patients had been taken.

Most of Gill’s symptoms had receded. He had regained consciousness, although he was somewhat disoriented. He was no longer sick to his stomach and his vision did not seem to be seriously impaired.

“He’s not out of the woods yet,” Arlene said. “They still want to do tests to see if there’s any kind of permanent damage, but this is such good news.”

Derek Cutter and his family had stepped in to help. They’d been chauffeuring Marla back and forth to the hospital for regular visits. Derek’s parents had offered to take Matthew during these periods so Marla could concentrate on her father. Derek had been with her almost nonstop, and his folks had, with Marla’s permission, stayed overnight in her father’s house, with her, to help out where they could.

“That’s all good news,” Don said.

“You don’t look happy.”

“I am, I really am. That’s all good. You heard anything from David?”

“Nothing since he took off this morning looking for Sam and her boy. What’s Ethan doing?”

“Beats me.”

Arlene called out, “Ethan?”

A shout from upstairs: “Yeah?”

“Where are you?”

“Upstairs!”

“What are you doing?”