Nelson DeMille - Spencerville

It took them over twenty minutes to navigate through the dark woods around the perimeter of the clearing. They crossed the open dirt road in a quick rush, and continued on in a semicircle through the pines and toward the lake.

They stopped at a point where they could see the lake ahead. The moon was almost behind the pines now, and the lake looked much darker. Keith figured they had only a few more minutes of good moonlight left.

There were some felled pines in the area, cut down, it appeared, to expand the clearing. Keith used the sawed base of a tree trunk to steady the stock of the crossbow. He scanned through the bow sight and saw the Labrador retriever on its wire run, sitting about twenty yards away on its haunches, looking out at the lake.

Billy was watching the house through the telescopic sight of his rifle. He had an oblique view of the sliding glass doors on the front deck and whispered, "House okay." He shifted his aim and found the golden retriever. "Third dog sleeping."

Keith lined up the bow sight's crosshairs over the Labrador's left flank. The dog raised its head and yawned. Keith pulled the trigger. Except for the twang of the bowstring, there was no sound as the arrow flew off. A second later, the dog jerked, let out a short, surprised sound halfway through its yawn, and rolled over. It whimpered softly for a few seconds, then became quiet.

Keith rolled over, too, on his back, and with the butt against his chest, recocked the bowstring as Billy handed him another arrow from the quiver. Keith fitted the arrow, then jumped to his feet. With two dogs gone, absolute silence was not as important as speed. He noted on his watch that it was one twenty-eight A.M.

Keith left the cover of the pine trees and made directly for the golden retriever, who was curled up on the ground about fifty yards away, apparently sleeping. Keith got within twenty yards before the dog awoke and jumped to its feet. Keith fired, and before he even saw if the arrow would hit or not, he dropped the crossbow and sprinted toward the dog, drawing his knife as he ran.

The retriever yelped and tried to run at Keith, but the arrow had pierced his rear haunch, and he stumbled. As the dog looked back over his shoulder to see what was wrong, Keith landed on him with both knees, breaking his backbone, and at the same time grabbing its muzzle and holding it closed while he slit the dog's throat.

Keith felt the dog go into spasms, its blood pouring from its slashed throat. In a few seconds, the dog lay limp.

Keith glanced up at the house a hundred yards away. There was nothing between him and the house now — no dogs to warn Baxter, but also no cover or concealment for him. Just three hundred feet of open space. The clearing was dark, but not as dark as it would be in a few minutes when the moon dropped behind the pine trees, and he knew he should wait, as per plan. But he was psyched now, the adrenaline was pumping, he'd drawn blood, and he was as ready as he'd ever be.

Billy had moved up into a concealed position among the trees behind Keith, at a slight angle from the sliding glass doors, so he could cover Keith without Keith being directly in the line of fire. Billy whispered loudly, "Keith — get back here or get moving. You can't stay there."

Keith turned to Billy and gave him a thumbs-up.

Billy said, "Okay, I got you covered. Good luck."

Keith turned back toward the house and with no hesitation began the hundred-yard sprint across the open field.

He didn't want to be slowed down, and he didn't need his rifle for this, so he carried only the police revolver and the hunting knife.

Eighty yards. Ten more seconds, and he'd be on the steps to the porch. He focused on the dark sliding glass doors.

Sixty yards. He felt very exposed, very naked, charging across the open field, and he knew that if Baxter came through that door right now with the rifle and infrared scope, Baxter wouldn't even have to rush his shot and could even take the time to smile and say something nasty. Keith hoped that Billy Marlon was a good shot.

Cliff Baxter, responding to the alarm clock, had risen from bed and, still in his underwear, came into the living room and turned on the table lamp. He had his gun belt and holster draped over his shoulder and was wearing his bulletproof vest, but didn't have his AK-47 or shotgun with him.

Annie was kneeling on the floor in front of the rocking chair, her manacled ankles behind her. The poker was squeezed tight between her thighs, the end protruding between her feet and under the rocker, not visible to Baxter.

He asked, "Why you kneeling there in the dark?"

"I couldn't sleep in the rocking chair. I'm going to lie on the floor."

"Yeah?" He walked toward the sliding glass door. "I'm gonna wake the dogs."

He drew his pistol, unlocked the sliding glass door, and opened it just enough to point the pistol in the air and fire a shot. He began to close the door but froze and listened. The dogs weren't barking.

Billy Marlon, sighting through the telescopic sight of his M-14 rifle, covered Keith's run across the open clearing, the scope's crosshairs lined up on the glass door.

Suddenly, a light went on in the house, and a few seconds later he saw a backlighted figure at the door, but he couldn't be sure it was Baxter. The door seemed to move, and Billy heard a shot, then before he could squeeze off a round, the figure was gone. "Damn!" He saw Keith come into the view of his scope, still running. "Okay. Okay." Then a few yards from the base of the stairs, Keith veered off and disappeared from the scope. "What the hell?"

Billy Marlon stood there a second, confused, angry with himself, and feeling that he'd somehow let Keith down. There was nothing in the world more frustrating than a shot not taken, a target not engaged. He lowered the rifle, and without much thought, he began charging across the open field toward the house.

Thirty yards. Four or five more seconds. Keith looked up and saw a light come on inside the house. He didn't slow up or break stride, but kept going.

Twenty yards. A backlighted figure was suddenly at the glass door, and Keith thought he saw the door sliding open. Keith made a snap decision and veered off, running under the cantilevered deck and bringing himself to a short stop against one of the concrete-block columns that held up the house. A shot rang out. Keith put his back to the column and aimed his revolver straight up. The light from the house cast a faint illumination through the spaced deck boards. He kept the revolver pointed up, waiting for a shadow or movement on the deck above him, but he saw and heard nothing. A second later, he heard the door slide shut with a thud.

Keith was fairly certain that it was Baxter at the door and that Baxter hadn't seen or heard him approaching the house, or he wouldn't have turned on the light. Baxter had just picked that bad moment to rouse his dogs with a gunshot, and the dogs hadn't responded. Nor would they ever respond. Cliff Baxter knew he had company.

Cliff Baxter locked the glass door and took a long step away, his back to his gun rack. He stood absolutely still with Keith's Glock 9mm automatic pointing at the door. He glanced back at the table lamp about twenty feet away. He wanted to turn it off but didn't want to move. He listened.

He kept telling himself that no one could have gotten all three dogs, that they weren't dead, that the pistol shot just hadn't woken them. But that was not possible. Damn it.

He looked at his wife kneeling across the room, and their eyes met.

Annie maintained eye contact with him, and she recognized that look she had seen on his face when she'd pointed the shotgun at him. She wanted to smile, to smirk, to say something, but she sensed that death was near, and she didn't know whose.