P. Parrish - The Little Death

But the last rail was rotted, splintering under his weight and sending him again into the mud. He struggled to his feet, trying to catch his breath as his eyes scoured the darkness. The moon gave him a fleeting flash of her jacket far ahead.

He threw off the bulky slicker and sprinted forward, praying that the ground stayed level and the moon stayed bright. His mind was racing with questions. Was Swann dead? Did Sam have his rifle? Was she the only killer? Was she the only one out here? And where was she running to?

Suddenly, she was gone again, swallowed up by the looming black shadows. He slowed, then stopped and stared.

Trees. Lots of them.

He glanced over his shoulder, then back to the woods, every second he stood here ticking off in his head as wasted time.

Go. Go after her .

He leveled his Glock and walked into the woods, up a sloped and rocky path. The moonlight vanished. The air smelled thick, green, and dirty. The trees felt close, tightening around him like the press of an anxious crowd.

Take a breath.

He made his way up the path, turning from left to right and back again. The sounds were soft, floating on the air like broken leaves. It was hard to tell which direction they were coming from. The rustle of a branch. Was it behind him or ahead? The plink of raindrops. Close or far away?

Crack!

Something snapped across his back, ripping his shirt and stinging his skin. He ducked and spun, not sure where to point his gun, not sure what the hell had hit him.

Crack!

His sleeve was slashed, his skin on fire.

Crack!

The whip ripped across his knuckles, tearing the gun from his hand. He heard it hit the blanket of leaves, but he couldn’t see it.

Crack! Crack!

His hands were soaked in blood.

Crack!

“Stop it!” he screamed.

Crack. Crack. Crack. The whip swirled through the darkness like a lasso, snapping thin branches and splattering up dirt like the kick of a bullet. There was nowhere to go, nothing to hide behind, and he couldn’t run. He couldn’t leave his gun for her to find.

Crack!

A snap across his legs.

Crack!

The tail of the whip sliced into his face like a hot wire. Stunned, he cried out and dropped to his knees, teeth gritted, tears blurring his eyes. The gun… find the gun.

He threw a hand into the leaves.

Crack!

His fingers touched steel, and he came up in a spin, searching for that sliver of khaki in the tall, dizzying shadows of black and brown. For a second, it was still, the only sound the rush of his own breath.

Then the milky oval of her face took shape. A white mask with scorched black eyes.

His mind tripped with three thoughts.

Shoot to kill.

Shoot to wound.

Shoot to kill.

He aimed for her heart and fired.

The dawn sky was lilac and dove-gray. A fog hovered low to the ground, making the live oaks look like they were floating in the air.

The drone of the generator suddenly quit, and for a moment it was silent. Then came the morning song of the birds.

Louis looked over at the deputies who were starting to dismantle the floodlights. Hours ago, the cattle pen had been lit up like a garish arena. Now it had returned to its blur of bleached wood and weeds.

From his position sitting in the passenger seat of the open police cruiser, Louis watched the processing of the scene. They would go on all day, this careful army of deputies, detectives, and technicians, even though the bodies had been taken away hours ago.

Louis had watched as the two black body bags were loaded into the county van. He had been the one to identify them. Tink Lyons, found out by the Bronco. And Samantha Norris, lying under the giant oak in Devil’s Garden.

Byrne Kavanagh had been taken out in an ambulance, his throat slashed, half his blood gone from his body, but still alive.

And Swann…

Louis hadn’t even seen him as he raced through the dark after Sam. It was only as he walked back, holding his ripped cheek, that he saw Aubry cradling Swann in the high weeds. Swann’s shoulder had been slashed, and he had a bullet in his thigh. But by the time the sheriff’s deputies arrived, Swann was already trying to talk his way out of going to the hospital.

“Coffee?”

Louis turned. A tall man in slacks, dress shirt, and jacket was standing there holding a Styrofoam cup. There was a gold badge hanging from his breast pocket. His name tag above it read MAJOR GENE CRYER.

“Thanks, Major,” Louis said, taking the coffee.

Cryer looked out over the pen and the trees. “Lot of land,” he said.

“Four thousand acres,” Louis said.

Louis looked over to where Burke Aubry stood with three deputies. He had a map of the ranch open on the hood of the cruiser and was helping direct the search.

They had questioned Swann, Aubry, and Louis. Cryer himself had grilled Louis for more than an hour.

They had taken the rifle and Louis’s Glock; it was routine in any investigation. But after Louis had told them what had happened and that he hadn’t shot Tink Lyons, they had begun a search for a second gun. They were also looking for other victims. No one, not even Louis, could be sure there weren’t more.

“I’ve had some time to go over everything,” Cryer said. “And right now, I am inclined to believe you’re telling the truth.”

“What about Carolyn Osborn?” Louis asked.

“We’ll check her out.” He paused. “She’s a senator, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“What makes you think she had anything to do with this?”

Louis was quiet for a moment. “I just know.”

“Well, senators are printed for security clearance. So, if she was in the Bronco, we’ll find out.”

The crunch of gravel drew Louis’s eye to the road. A tan sedan pulled between the cruisers and stopped. A bulky man got out and looked around.

“Christ,” Louis muttered.

Barberry spotted him and came toward the cruiser, his badge on its chain bouncing on his belly.

“Hey, Major,” Barberry said. He didn’t even give Louis a glance.

“Where the hell have you been?” Cryer said.

Barberry finally looked at Louis and ran a quick hand through his messy hair. “I was home in bed all night,” he said. “Got a damn stomach thing going on.”

Louis could smell the medicine stink of Listerine from where he sat.

“Why didn’t you respond when Kincaid called you last night?”

Barberry gave a shrug. “Nobody called me.”

“I checked the logs, Ron. You were paged four times. You never answered.”

Barberry looked at Louis. “Look, I don’t know what this asshole’s been telling you, Major, but I’ve been all over this case from day one. You can check my reports.”

Cryer stared down at Barberry, then turned away, his jaw grinding. “Get out of here,” he said.

“What?”

Cryer looked at Barberry. “Just get out of here.”

Barberry shot Louis a final glare and stomped off. Louis watched the tan sedan back out and disappear down the gravel road.

Cryer tossed out the last of his coffee in disgust. “I’ve been looking for a reason to unload that guy. Maybe I can get him demoted to warrants.”

“Well, he looks good in puke green.”

Cryer managed a smile. “You’re from Fort Myers, right?”

Louis nodded.

“Somebody said you’re hoping to go home soon.”

Louis nodded again. He was dog-tired, and the wound on his cheek hurt like hell, even with the antiseptic and butterfly bandage.

“I’ll try to move your Glock through the pipeline and get it back to you in a couple days,” Cryer said.