Linwood Barclay - Lone Wolf

Bob said, “How is he? Is he going to be okay?”

“It’s his arm,” Betty said, already ripping Hank’s sleeve right off and turning it into a tourniquet. “If we can get him to a hospital,” she said, breathlessly, “he’ll be okay.”

“Ohhhh,” Hank said again. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I just wanted to…”

“Stupid old man,” Betty said.

“We need to get this guy to a hospital,” I said to Timmy.

He looked at me, grinned, shook his head. “That’s a good one.”

“Timmy,” I said, “can I ask you something?” He shrugged. “What’s going to happen to May? And Jeffrey?” He was silent. “You going to kill them, too?”

“Shut up,” he said.

“If you don’t, I’m sure Charlene will. May and Jeffrey aren’t her blood , you know. What’s it to her if they die?”

Timmy frowned, took a step closer to the gate. “Don’t you think you’ve got enough to worry about without worrying about my family problems?”

There was the sound of snarling and growling outside, and then the dogs made their entrance. Gristle and Bone dashed around the barn, running here and there, bumping into each other, sticking their snouts into mounds of hay, under the van, over by the workbench, then the gate.

When they got to us, they shoved their jagged snouts between the boards and started acting like they were on crack. They barked and snarled incessantly, chewed the boards, broke off bits of wood with their large, viselike jaws.

“Settle down, settle down,” Timmy said.

The dogs ignored him. In the stall, Bob, Lawrence, Dad, and I moved to the far end. Betty held her spot, tending to her husband.

“Settle down!” Timmy shouted, and the dogs fell silent. “That’s better. Sit.”

The dogs sat.

“Stay.”

The dogs stayed. The two of them sat, side by side, panting lawn ornaments from hell, staring between the boards at us with their dark, pit bull eyes.

Timmy said, “Any of you folks move suddenly, and the dogs, they’re gonna go nuts. Understand?” Our collective silence was taken as a yes. “Good. I’ve got a couple things to do.” He crawled back into the van.

Dougie entered the barn. “They kind of got away from me,” he said.

From inside the van, Timmy said, “It’s okay. I got them on guard duty.”

For the next quarter of an hour or so, not much happened. We sat quietly in our pen while Timmy did some final tinkering with the van. He hopped out the back and closed the tailgate, pulling on the handle once to satisfy himself that it was shut securely.

“I think we’re ready,” Timmy said. “The device is all ready to go. You push the button, it does its job.”

Dougie smiled. “I guess I’m a little nervous, if you want to know the truth.”

“That’s understandable. It’s like you’re going on a great mission. Actually, you are going on a great mission.”

Dougie, embarrassed, looked at the floor.

“You ready?” Timmy asked.

“Yeah.”

“You remember everything you have to do? You’ve got everything you need?”

“I do,” Dougie said. “I really do. Park the van near the town hall, along the parade route. Find a place on high ground where I have a good view. Meet up later with Wendell, he’ll give me a ride back.”

“And then we’re going to have to get out of here,” Timmy said. “We’re going to have to leave this place.”

Dougie nodded. “I’ll miss it. I’ve liked it here. It’s real pretty.” He called over in our direction. “Mr. Walker? Like, the older one?”

Dad said, “Yes?”

“Thanks for letting us rent your farmhouse. We’ve really liked it here.”

Dad looked at me, speechless.

“Okay,” said Timmy. “That’s it, then.”

“I really appreciate you letting me do this,” Dougie said, and he threw his arms around his stepfather and hugged him. Timmy patted the young man’s back a couple of times, with some reluctance it seemed, and pulled away.

Dougie opened the van door, got into the driver’s seat. He put on his seatbelt, turned the key in the ignition. The engine caught, and exhaust billowed out the tailpipe almost immediately, in the direction of the stall.

“Timmy? The door?”

Timmy Wickens ran around to the front of the van and pushed the barn door, which had only been wide enough to allow a person through, all the way open. For the first time, from our spot in the pen, we could see the yard, the farmhouse off in the distance to the left, the gate to the driveway just beyond that to the right. I thought I could see, walking toward the barn, Wendell. Coming back from the cabins with some plan for getting rid of our dead bodies, no doubt.

Dougie put the van in drive and began to pull out just as Wendell was reaching the barn.

Timmy gave a small wave goodbye, in case Dougie might see him in his rear-view mirror. Timmy turned around as the van pulled away, and his eyes landed on the walkie-talkie-like detonator, still sitting atop its plastic carrying case, over on the workbench.

“For fuck’s sake,” he said. “Can’t that boy remember anything?”

He ran over to the workbench, just as Wendell was entering the barn. “Hey!” he said, cheerful. “So Dougie’s on his way!”

Gristle and Bone put their noses to the air.

Timmy Wickens turned, the detonator in his hand, and said, “The stupid idiot forgot this! Get this to him!”

Wendell ran over to the workbench and grabbed the detonator, still not in its box, from his father, then turned to run after the van.

What happened next happened very, very fast.

The van, its rear red taillights coming on as Dougie tapped the brakes going across the bumpy yard, was nearing the house when Charlene stepped out to wave goodbye.

Then, as I strained to peer harder into the distance, I saw that she wasn’t just waving. She had something in her hand. A brown lunch bag.

Wendell took the detonator from his father’s hand like a relay runner grasping a baton. He pivoted, started running after his brother.

“Don’t hit the red button!” Timmy warned.

“Don’t worry!” Wendell shouted back. “I know how it works!”

The pit bulls, Gristle and Bone, raised their snouts again. Something had caught their attention and was distracting them from their task of guarding the prisoners. Their hindquarters lifted from the floor, and they turned about, attempting to track down the source of what was wafting up their nostrils.

They fixed their eyes on Wendell, and their heads turned with him as he ran from the barn.

I knew then what had sparked their interest. It was the scent of fish guts, smeared all over Wendell’s pants and the front of his shirt from his plunge into the pit.

The dogs were transformed into low-flying missiles.

“Hey!” Timmy shouted at the dogs. “Get back to your post!”

They were oblivious. Nothing else mattered now. They were on a mission to find their dinner. Their paws pounded the floor as they took off after Wendell, their jaws already open in anticipation, the gums pulling back away from their teeth through the sheer force of their acceleration.

Wendell never saw them coming. He was running, and then he wasn’t, as each dog grabbed hold of a leg, like a pair of lions bringing down a gazelle.

Wendell screamed.

“Hey!” Timmy shouted again at the dogs. “Halt!”

“Let’s move,” Lawrence whispered. With Timmy occupied by the dogs and what they were evidently about to do to Wendell, he wasn’t watching the stall. Lawrence hopped the gate, slid back the bolt, and opened it wide for the rest of us.

“An ambulance,” said Betty, still kneeling over and tending to her husband. “We need an ambulance.”