Steven Havill - Bitter Recoil

I sat down on one of the ledges with a grunt. My pulse slammed in my ears, and out of habit I counted it for a minute.

“This is crazy,” I whispered.

“We’ll take it easy,” Estelle murmured.

“It’s still crazy.” I took a deep breath. The banging in my ears receded a little. The smells were rich, floating up from where our boots crushed the pine needles, grasses, and herbs. “When we reach the top of this ridge, it’s going to be rough. If one of us kicks a single pebble, the sound’s going to carry.”

Estelle nodded and repeated herself. “We’ll take it easy.”

I stood up and looked ahead. “I’m ready.” We faced perhaps a hundred yards of open rock slide and then the timber capped the granite ridge.

One rock at a time was my pace. I made sure of my footing before trusting my weight to wobbly ankles.

I reached the trees, and both Estelle and Paul made motions as if they were ready to move on. I held up a hand. Tour guides were all alike. They rushed ahead to the next attraction and waited for the old tourists who were poking along behind. When everyone caught up, it was time to be off again. The guys bringing up the rear, gasping because of bad hearts or recent hernias, never got to stop and rest. “We should have called for a helicopter,” I said.

“Are you all right?” Estelle asked, and I waved a hand.

“Just fine. I love hiking, don’t you? Especially in the middle of the goddamn night when I can’t see where to put my goddamn feet.” I turned and surveyed the hillside. The terrain swept up steadily, curving off slightly toward the east.

Estelle whispered, “If we just stay on the highest line, we should be just right.”

“Let me lead,” I said. I was under no illusions that I was the most competent woodsman of the group or even that I had the best nose for direction. But I hated being there more than the other two did, and because of that I might make fewer mistakes.

Hell, Estelle had time to take up knitting lessons while she waited for me to select steps. But we made progress. I passed a big, mistletoe-twisted ponderosa and saw rocks jutting out to the right toward the canyon.

I turned and held a finger over my lips. Both Estelle and Paul stopped. I made my way in slow motion out on the outcropping. I could see, off to the south, where the two canyons joined down by the creek. If my distance judgment was correct, the hot springs were less than a quarter mile away.

I remembered…it seemed a year now rather than a day…seeing Finn and little Daisy walk down through the timber. The slope hadn’t been extreme. That was the route we should take, coming in from the north behind the tent site.

I grunted up from my squatting position and waved for Estelle and Paul to follow. As we drew away from the terminus of the ridge and worked toward its root where it joined the mesa top, the pines were widely spaced, a park stand that would have been lovely to a Forest Service timber cruiser.

The ridge’s spine curved to the right, and I knew it circled behind the campsites below. I stopped. Estelle stepped so close I could smell the faint aroma of the shampoo she’d used.

“We’ll come in right behind them,” I whispered. She nodded. I motioned to Paul Garcia and laid a hand on his shoulder. “We don’t want to go down the hill as a group. Spread out and watch your footing. You on the left, Paul, with Estelle over on the right. Don’t get ahead of me. Don’t rush.”

His head bobbed with excitement, but I didn’t release my grip on his shoulder. “When we’re about a hundred feet from the camp, I want to stop and listen. You watch for my signal. And we’ll stay there for a while, so don’t get in a hurry.”

The footing was easy. I kept the inchworm pace, giving each boot toe plenty of time to find twigs or sticks that waited to let out rifle-shot cracks. Like three ghosts, we moved down through the timber.

The moonlight was broken into soft patches by the forest canopy, but before long I could make out Finn’s tent. The black rectangle was a geometry out of place in the tapestry of irregular shapes.

I held up a hand and stopped. To my right, I could see Estelle. She stood at the base of a ponderosa that was thick enough to hide three of her. With the authority of her uniform stripped away by the night, her figure was almost that of a child. The outline of her Stetson reminded me of the flat brim of an Easter bonnet worn by a girl a century ago.

I twisted at the waist and for a moment Paul Garcia remained invisible. Almost all the images in the nighttime forest were vertical…everything else disappeared.

My eyes clicked from tree to tree until I found him. He was leaning against a pine as if he were taking a breather during a Sunday afternoon stroll. He must have taken off his Stetson, because I could see the curved outline of the top of his head.

He pushed away from the tree and took a half step forward. I stopped breathing as I saw the moonlight touch the blond hair that swept down to his shoulders.

When I realized the ghost off to my left was Robert Arajanian and not Deputy Paul Garcia, I took an involuntary step forward.

The object in his right hand wasn’t a flashlight. He held the heavy automatic pistol with its muzzle pointing up. I could see the bulbous silencer.

Maybe Arajanian had deliberately chosen the young deputy as his first target. Garcia was carrying the shotgun and would appear to pose the most obvious threat. Maybe Arajanian had been padding along behind us, just keeping tabs. I had my answer soon enough.

When he knew I’d seen him, Arajanian twisted at the waist. The silenced automatic pistol swung toward me. I didn’t have time to shout at him or plead or reason.

Arajanian’s mistake was shooting at me. I was the least threat. I’d been on the planet long enough to be cautious…and that was coupled with reactions and physical abilities far from athletic. But my instincts were honed, even if the old body didn’t provide much backup.

The blond-haired killer wasn’t there to talk. I knew Arajanian was going to shoot before he pulled the trigger, and I threw myself sideways toward the nearest ponderosa. The bullet gouged pine and spat bark in my face.

The automatic didn’t make much noise…just a nasty little sneeze with some clattering as the slide jarred backward to fling out the empty case and ram another cartridge into the chamber. But in the silence of the pines Robert Arajanian might as well have fired a howitzer.

Deputy Paul Garcia’s nerves were wired. He was less than six months out of the academy, where instructors teach the rookies all the right moves. He was young and athletic.

Robert Arajanian wasn’t allowed a second mistake. Garcia crouched and pivoted in one fluid motion. One knee hit the ground as support even as the twelve-gauge came up. He had enough moonlight and a clear target. Arajanian’s arm was outstretched, the big automatic and its silencer flashing moonbeams. I scrambled for cover.

I heard the shotgun’s pump action only as an extension of the explosion. The muzzle flash of the big gun lit up the hillside. Instinctively I ducked my head. Off to the left I heard a thump as Arajanian’s pistol flew out of his hand, and then an awful gurgling and choking.

“Christ, no!” I gasped. My intake of breath was so violent I sucked pine duff and choked. I spat and panted for breath, at the same time trying to draw my own magnum. I lay motionless. Arajanian might not be alone, and I didn’t know which way to turn. To make matters worse, I knew Garcia’s finger was still tense on the trigger of the shotgun.

I moved my head a fraction. I could see only Arajanian’s legs from the knees down.

“Paul,” I said, keeping my voice low and even, “hold your fire. Nobody move.” I pulled myself up beside the pine trunk. Garcia was crouched thirty feet downhill.