Ken Douglas - Dead Ringer

“Okay.” Maggie took Gay’s hand, led her crawling along the fence, between it and the hedge bushes. They went fast, squirming along like Brer Rabbit in his briar patch, stiff branches scraped their arms as they struggled to get away from the spot where they expected Ponytail to come over the fence.

The collies they’d encountered in the backyard diagonal to Greenthumb’s went berserk. One was howling. Ponytail was getting close. They heard him grunt as he went over the fence. Now he was in the yard behind. Either he’d keep going, in which case Maggie and Gay could exit through Greenthumb’s gate and be out on Nighthyde’s street, but then they’d still have to get to the car, or he’d come over the back fence. For reasons she couldn’t explain, Maggie thought he’d come over the fence.

And he did, thudding and cursing as he crashed into the bushes. He bullied his way through them, an elephant in a nursery, was halfway through the yard, stopped in the center, under one of the palm trees. It was as if he knew the women were close. He moved to the tree, seeking cover. In his right hand he held a pistol. It looked like a revolver. Didn’t they hold six shots, like in the old cowboy movies? He’d fired three, so he had three left, at least.

The back porch light came on. Mr. Greenthumb, alerted by the collies who were still barking to beat the band. Ponytail dashed from the palm to the base of a plum tree, stepped behind its trunk.

Greenthumb came out onto the back porch. An old man, Maggie saw him clearly through the bushes. He appeared confused. He put a hand to his forehead, as if he were shielding his eyes from the sun. The gesture wouldn’t help him see into the dark, it was just a reflex, Maggie thought. For a second he seemed to be staring right at her, then his gaze turned to the palm trees, then to the plum that hid Ponytail.

And it started to rain. Not a passing cloud, but a quick shower. Greenthumb stood, feet at parade rest and looked up into the night sky. Water fell around him, but he didn’t seem to mind. He turned back toward the door, but the collies started barking even louder. Greenthumb ran a hand through his hair, turned away from the door, took a step down from the porch. The dogs had helped him make up his mind. He was going to check out his garden, despite the rain.

Now the sirens vied with the dogs for attention. They weren’t off in the distance any more. They were close and getting closer, loud. The collies continued their wailing, but apparently Greenthumb decided it was the sirens and not intruders that had set them off, because he turned, climbed the porch and went back into the house. He eased the door closed after himself. The light went out.

The bushes were keeping Maggie and Gay dry, but wouldn’t for much longer. One siren screamed louder. A police cruiser had turned the corner on Nighthyde’s street, was fast approaching Greenthumb’s. Maggie reached out, squeezed Gay’s elbow, then started along the fence toward the garage as the cruiser roared by out front, it’s siren covering their noise.

The bushes stopped at an area behind the garage. There was about a three foot space between it and the fence running behind it. Maggie peered into the dark, a long tunnel like affair. Greenthumb had extended the garage roof, so that it covered the area.

Maggie slipped out from the hedge bushes, moved behind the garage. Gay followed. It was dark as a cave, but it was dry, whereas Ponytail wouldn’t be. Maybe the rain would drive him away. Maggie hoped so. It started to fall harder now, beating a metallic tattoo on the overhang above. Tin, Maggie guessed. It sounded like African drums, war drums.

She put a hand out, felt the back of the garage. It was dark, she was blind as Ma now. The thought of Ma gave her pause. That bastard out there killed the old woman, was trying to kill her and Gay. All of a sudden Maggie knew he wouldn’t leave. He was like a bird dog and he had their scent. The others were going after the children. He was coming after her and Gay. Maggie clenched her fist. She’d been running so much lately. No more.

She put a hand on the wall, moved along it, back into the dark tunnel. She was looking for something, anything she could use against the man in the yard. She found it. A wooden handled thing leaning up against the garage. Like a broom. She felt down the handle. Not a broom. A rake. The kind with curved metal spikes to gather up dead grass and leaves. She picked it up. It was heavy.

She scraped it against the garage wall.

“What are you doing?” Gay whispered, urgent, fear in her voice.

“Get back!” Maggie said. “I need room to swing this.”

“What?”

“Hurry, you’ll be in the way.”

Gay moved back into the tunnel. Maggie backed up a little too. Her heart thumped in her chest, matching the tattoo of the rain.

Then, suddenly as it started, the rain stopped, but it wasn’t quiet. The collies were both howling now. And they were close, only a few feet away. The dogs hadn’t attacked them before, but they might now. Maggie and Gay were at the back corner of Greenthumb’s yard, the collies at the back corner of theirs. The only thing between the dogs and them was the fence. Maggie wondered if they could jump it.

She moved back to where Gay was, put her mouth to her friend’s ear. “Get down, in case he shoots into the dark.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“He might,” Maggie said.

Gay crouched on her hands and knees.

Maggie moved against the back of the garage, willed herself to be invisible, hoping Ponytail would be as blind, staring into the tunnel behind the garage, as she’d been. She raised the rake above her head. She had to choke up about halfway on the handle or the rake would hit the tin roof.

But he didn’t come. Maybe the dogs were drowning out the sound of the rake scraping against the garage. She scratched it against the wall again, a little harder.

And then he was there, at the entrance to the tunnel, looking in. He stood, legs together, relaxed, arms at his side, gun still in his right hand. In her mind, Maggie knew he couldn’t see through the dark, but the way he seemed to be looking right at her chilled her more than the cold night or wet rain ever could.

“Come on,” she mouthed. For an instant, she thought she’d said it aloud, but it was only her lips moving in the dark. “Come on in, just a little.”

He took a tentative step forward, then stopped, as if waiting for his eyes to get used to the dark. Could they do that? Maggie wondered. Maybe they could. After all, she could see him. But that was because what little light there was from the night was behind him.

“Come on,” she mouthed again.

And as if he’d heard, he took another step forward, arms still at his side, gun still pointed toward the dirt. But he stopped again, turned his head to the side, cocking it like a frightened deer listening for the wolf.

Maggie held her breath, tightened her grip on the rake. “Come on, get closer. Just a couple more steps.” Sweat trickled her face, caught on her lip. She licked it away.

And Ponytail took another cautious step into the dark. He stopped again, brought the gun up, pointed it ahead of himself, moved it back and forth. If Maggie wasn’t afraid to breathe, she’d have sighed. He couldn’t see. But he knew they were back there. Felt it. He was a hunter.

But he wasn’t a very good one, Maggie thought, because he pointed the gun toward the back of the tunnel. If he fired, the round would go well over Gay’s head and it wouldn’t even be close to Maggie.

“Come on,” she silently said. “One more step.”

And he took it. Gun hand in front of himself, finger on the trigger.

Maggie brought the rake down with everything she had, hitting him square on the head. He slumped to the ground without a sound. The gun went flying and, for a second, Maggie thought it might go off, but it didn’t.