Paul Doiron - Massacre Pond

I could hear voices, laughter. I flattened myself against the dead leaves and wriggled behind a small boulder that was perched atop the rim of the gravel pit. I kept my head down and listened. They were standing at the far end of the pit, maybe thirty yards away, and I had to concentrate hard to piece together the conversation.

“You like it?” said the man I recognized as Pelkey.

“Reminds me of the M4s we had in Afghanistan.” The voice was unmistakably Billy’s.

“Those Colts are sweet guns,” said Beam.

“Personally, I prefer these Noveskes,” said Pelkey. “Nothing against the Colt ARs, but the craftsmanship here is just fucking superior.”

“Three grand is pretty steep,” said Billy.

“But that includes your optics and your flash suppressor and your magazines.” Pelkey seemed to be the designated talker. “You can always build your own if you want to go low-budget-and we can help you with that, too. But my philosophy is, you get what you pay for. Now see, I can fire this Blackout all day without the barrel warping. You said you didn’t currently own a black gun?”

“No.”

“How’s the recoil?” Beam asked. “Pretty gentle, right?”

“Firing one of these puppies makes it hard to go back to a bolt-action,” said Pelkey. “My thirty-aught-six kicks like a fucking mule, and the two-forty-three ain’t much better.”

“What about twenty-twos?” said Billy. “You guys got any of those?”

“We’ve got everything, man,” said Beam.

“I thought we were here to discuss ARs.” Pelkey sounded suspicious. “On the phone you said you were looking for a black gun.”

“I am.”

“So why ask about twenty-twos? You want one of those, go to Wal-Mart. We took time away from work to come out here today.” Pelkey’s voice rose.

“I was just asking,” said Billy. “I’ve been thinking about getting a twenty-two Mag, too.”

Suddenly, I realized why my friend was here and what he was trying to do. He’s not smart enough to pull it off, I thought. They’re going to see right through him if he keeps asking questions.

Pelkey had already adopted a different, more brittle tone. “What are you planning to use a twenty-two for? Squirrels?”

“Coyotes. Maybe deer.”

“You need to be a wicked good shot to bring down a buck with a twenty-two,” said Pelkey. “Why not stick with a big-ass thirty-thirty?”

“I’m looking for something … quiet.”

“Check it out, Lew. Billy here is a poacher.”

“Takes one to know one.”

Shut up, Billy. Stop talking, I ordered silently.

Out of nowhere, a song started to play, a few bars of music. Led Zeppelin’s “Black Dog.” A ringtone. “I gotta take this,” Pelkey said.

“So are you interested in this Noveske or not?” Beam asked with some heat. “Because we’re busy men.”

“Maybe you should take it easy,” Billy said.

“Maybe you should shut your mouth.”

As formidable as Billy Cronk could be, two against one is never good odds, especially when one of your adversaries is armed with an assault rifle. I reached my right hand down and pressed the thumb lock, releasing the SIG Sauer from its holster. There were fifteen.357 SIG cartridges in the magazine. I pulled the hammer back into single-action mode.

I stuck my head around the rock and spied down into the pit. Billy and Beam were standing toe-to-toe. I’d forgotten what a hulking guy Beam was and how white his platinum-blond hair looked in the sunlight. From this angle and distance, he resembled an albino ogre. The black AR rifle hung on a sling over his shoulder.

Billy was wearing the same camo jacket I’d seen him in the night before, probably the same clothes. Except that he’d strapped his KA-BAR knife to his thigh.

Pelkey had paced away a few steps to have a private conversation. He was dressed in his mill clothes: canvas shirt and pants, a Carhartt carpenter’s jacket. When he turned around again, there was a pistol in his hand. Aimed at Billy.

I rose to my knees, pointed the SIG into the pit using a two-handed grip, and shouted, “Police! Put the guns down!”

Then all hell broke loose.

Pelkey fired a shot, which caromed off the boulder beside me.

I squeezed off a round that must have clipped his jacket, because he raised his left arm as if to get a whiff of his deodorant.

Beam tried to swing the barrel of the Noveske up, but Billy grabbed the rail with both of his big hands and drove his forehead into the other man’s skull. It sounded like two rams knocking horns. As Beam fell over, he drove his boot into Billy’s groin. My friend let out a howl but somehow kept hold of the rifle, and both men fell hard to the ground.

My pistol had drifted off target from the force of the recoil. I brought the barrel down again, blew out half the air in my lungs, as I’d been trained to do, held my breath, and took aim squarely at Todd Pelkey’s center mass.

But he was a much faster and better shot than I was.

I saw the blur of his hand coming up and then felt a pain in my chest, as if someone had driven a sledgehammer into my ribs. I found myself staring up into an achingly blue sky that seemed to be getting farther and farther away, as if my body were dropping down a mine shaft. It’s true that you don’t hear the bullet that gets you.

Holy shit.

The wind had been driven from my lungs by the concussion.

I’ve been shot.

Barely able to breathe, I clutched at my chest and found a smoldering hole in my shirt, just inches from my heart. I held my fingers before my wobbly eyes, expecting to see blood, but there was none. The bullet had flattened itself against the ballistic vest I wore beneath my uniform. A little lead pancake fell loose as I rolled onto my side. I tried to gulp down air, but expanding my chest only made my ribs ache.

Through the pain, I heard a shot fired. Then another.

Billy.

Gasping, I found the SIG where I had dropped it and fired a wild shot into the air. I wanted them to know I was still alive, still a danger to them. I wanted to give Billy half a chance if he wasn’t already dead.

Each breath I took burned my insides, as if I were inhaling air from a blast furnace. I rolled toward the edge of the pit again and tried to see down to the gravel floor. My vision was blurred. I could make out two dark shapes thrashing about: Beam and Billy. I rubbed my eyes frantically with the back of my hand, trying to clear them. I blinked and blinked again. The AR lay in the dirt about ten feet from where the men were wrestling with each other. Billy was trying to wrap his arms and legs around his opponent’s neck and pelvis. Beam was gnawing on my friend’s forearm while his bent fingers searched desperately behind him for an eye to gouge out.

Pelkey had disappeared.

I fired a shot into the gravel near the feet of the struggling men, hoping it would cause them to stop, but they just kept rolling around.

Beam’s hand found a rock. He drove it against Billy’s forehead again and again. Even from this distance, I could see the blood. To protect himself, my friend was forced to loosen his grip, and the other man squirmed free. Beam spun around and tried to drive the rock into Billy’s nose in an uppercut motion. If he had connected, he would have sent splinters of bone into Billy’s brain. But Billy caught his opponent’s wrist with one hand and delivered a jab to the jaw that snapped Beam’s head around.

Where was Pelkey? I scanned the far end of the pit, but there was no sign of him. I hoped to hell he had run off.

I brought my left hand up to my aching ribs, but the slightest pressure caused white-hot needles to jab into my heart. I propped myself against the boulder, trying to use it as a brace to steady my aim. If Beam and Billy separated themselves by a few feet, I might get a clean shot. Panting like this, with my eyes watering, I didn’t have confidence in my marksmanship.