Bill Pronzini: Camouflage

Only one thing I could do. I spun away to the row of stacked goods, jamming the gun into its holster, and tore off one of the plastic sheets. Bunched it up accordion-fashion with my arms and hands spread wide. Chavez was still struggling to break loose, grunting but not making any other sound. The Rottweiler’s growls had a kind of frenzied canine elation, as if this sort of vicious attack was what he lived for.

I got in close and threw the sheet over him, ensnaring as much of the head and muzzle as I could, then managed to wrap the rest of it around the lower body and tangle up the legs. That got him off Chavez. The jaws released their hold, the muscled body twisting wildly; he let out an enraged yowl. I couldn’t hold him-too much weight, too much fury. Sharp claws and snapping teeth were already tearing tattered holes in the plastic.

All I could do was let go and jump back, set myself, and deliver another kick that caught him somewhere in the hindquarters and sent him tumbling over backward-still entangled in the sheet, but not for long. I went for the. 38 again, but the sight had snagged when I jammed the weapon into the holster. I had to muscle it out, and by then the bugger had fought loose of the plastic, those yellow eyes glowing like something out of a nightmare, the big body tensing, then springing. There wasn’t enough time to get off a shot. I made a clumsy, desperate effort to dodge away, knowing I wouldn’t make it, sure for one terrified second that he’d rip my throat out-

Echoing report, muzzle flash.

The dog squealed, twisted, changed direction in mid-air, then dropped straight down, thudding to the ground a few feet to my left, and flopped over onto his side with mouth open and tongue lolling out. Didn’t move or make another sound. Dead before he landed. Chavez had found his revolver, and by luck or skill he’d fired a kill shot and probably saved my life.

I emptied my lungs in a heaving sigh. Chavez was on one knee on the floor; I went to help him to his feet. His left arm where the jacket sleeve had been ripped away shone black with blood.

He said, “I had to risk it,” in a pain-edged voice. “Glad I didn’t miss.”

“No risk. You had a clear shot.”

Outside, there was the sudden sound of a car engine firing up.

We reacted immediately, the adrenaline in both of us still pumping. The one door half stood partway open from the force of the dog’s collision with Chavez; I shouldered through it first with the. 38 still in my hand.

The gunshot had galvanized Carson and McManus. They were both in the Nissan, the car slewing ahead deeper into the yard because the U-Haul was blocking the way behind. Carson, driving, couldn’t make any speed because of all the refuse littering the grass; the compact bumped over something, rocking, back wheels churning for traction.

I ran toward it at an angle, slowed to draw a bead, and blew out the left rear tire. I would have done the same to the right rear or left front, but it wasn’t necessary. The Nissan tipped a little, slewed, then the front end jarred into some hidden object and the engine stalled. Carson ground the ignition but couldn’t get it started again. I moved closer, and as I did the passenger door flew open and McManus came out in a lurching run. The driver’s door stayed shut.

McManus did not even glance in my direction. She headed straight for the track, running like a sprinter-head down, body bent forward, elbows close to her body and pumping like pistons. I yelled, “Stop!” but the command had no effect. I veered past the Nissan, stopped to brace myself, and fired a warning shot over her head. Followed it with another shout: “Stop or you’re dead!” None of that had any effect, either. She didn’t falter or slow down, just kept right on racing along the track.

I let her go. Even if I wasn’t a little rubber legged from the skirmish in the barn, I wouldn’t have been able to catch her, and I was not about to chance a leg shot to bring her down. Besides, where was she going to run to? She might make it off the property, might be able to hitch a ride with somebody or find someplace to hide, but she wouldn’t stay a fugitive for long. Not with the kind of police manhunt those rat-chewed remains in the well house would generate.

I turned back toward the Nissan. Chavez had the driver’s door open and was standing off a few paces, looking in at Carson, his left arm hanging loose and dripping blood. I leaned through the open passenger door to yank the key out of the ignition-a precaution even though she was no longer making any effort to get away. She didn’t seem to know I was there. Her eyes were on Chavez.

“He’s dead, isn’t he,” I heard her say as I came around the front. “Thor.”

“Oh yeah,” Chavez said. “Dead as all those people you killed.”

The look she gave him was one of pure steaming hate-not because she’d been caught, I thought, but because the dog had been blown away. She transferred the look to me when I came up next to Chavez, then swiveled her head and stared straight ahead. Queer, what happened then: her face went blank. Literally blank, like a mannequin’s. She sat unmoving, staring at nothing or at something inside her head.

I said, “Need to tend to that wound, Alex.”

“Be okay. It’s not as bad as it looks.”

Yeah, it was. Out here in the sunlight I could see the torn flesh, the bone-deep bite marks on his left forearm. None of the bites had severed an artery, but enough blood flowed to make a red glove of the hand and fingers.

I told him I’d be right back and ran into the barn. I had to yank open three of the storage cartons before I found the kind of clothing I was looking for-silk blouses, clean. When I came back outside with three of the blouses, Chavez was leaning against the Nissan’s rear fender, his left arm cradled in against his chest, his weapon holstered and his cell phone against his ear. Making a 911 call, telling the dispatcher what had just happened and asking for an EMT unit.

“Better sit down in the U-Haul,” I said when he finished, “let me wrap up that arm.”

“Carson?”

“Not going anywhere.” She still sat in that same motionless, blank-faced pose, her hands resting on the steering wheel; as far as I could tell she hadn’t moved an inch. Automated mannequin with all the juice drained out of her batteries.

I opened the driver’s door on the U-Haul, got Chavez sitting sideways on the seat, then tore one of the blouses into strips and tied the largest into a tourniquet around his upper arm. With the second blouse I swabbed the wound as best I could, fastened it in place with the rest of the strips. Finished up by making a sling out of the third blouse, tying the sleeves around his neck. Stanch the blood flow, keep the wound clean and the arm stationary until the EMTs arrived.

He endured it all with nothing more than a couple of grimaces. Tough guy, Alex Chavez. And a good man in every sense of the term-like Jake Runyon, the kind of man you could trust and depend on.

I went around and climbed onto the seat beside him. There wasn’t anything else to do now except wait for the rest of it to be over.

JAKE RUNYON AND BRYN DARBY

“Jake, what will happen to Gwen Whalen?”

“If the public defender she draws is any good, he’ll plead diminished capacity and she’ll end up in a psychiatric facility.”

“I don’t suppose she’ll ever lead a normal life again.”

“There’s always a chance. But she’s been emotionally unstable all her life, and killing her sister put her over the line. I doubt she’ll ever come back, no matter how much therapy she gets.”

“That’s awful. I’ve never seen the woman and I feel so sorry for her.”

“So do I.”