Neil McMahon - Dead Silver

I turned to face it as its source came abreast of me-Ward Ackerman's big green rust bucket of a sedan. It was traveling ten or fifteen miles per hour, not aimed at me like he was going to run me down, but close enough to brush me. My instant thought was that he was going to slam on the brakes and jump out, and we'd go through another bullshit confrontation.

Instead, the son of a bitch threw open his door without slowing down. I just had time to cover my gut and chest with my right arm, like I was blocking a body punch. The door caught me hard enough to knock me clear off my feet and send me skidding, with the groceries flying in every direction.

Ward screamed something at me and stomped on the gas, screeching away and waving his raised middle finger out the open window.

But my bile was swept aside by a flood of illumination. My mind, all on its own, suddenly created-or maybe discovered-a realm called Pissant Purgatory, where all the nasty, sneaky little shitweasels like Ward would do time when they died. There were no burning flames, no demons with pitchforks. The punishment was that they were forced to hang around with others just like themselves, with no nonpissants to suck blood from.

I got up carefully, wary of my still-healing ribs. They let me know they'd been hit, but my elbow and upper arm had absorbed most of the shock. The only other part of me that felt impaired was my dignity. A couple of the eggs were broken, but otherwise the groceries were okay, too.

I gathered everything up, popped open a frothing can of beer, and drank it on the way home.

The last tree-lined stretch of Stumpleg Gulch Road opened into a football field-sized meadow at the front of my property. My father had set the precedent of leaving a few big firs around the cabin for shade, but otherwise clearing a swath as a fire break, and I kept it that way.

So as I drove up to the gate, I had a clear view of a surprising and unsettling sight. My black tomcat was crouched under the fence, not moving.

Like a lot of pets, he recognized the sound of familiar vehicles like mine and Madbird's, and he'd usually meet us, stalking around and yelling at us to say hello, or just complaining.

But he stayed right where he was, hunkered down tight. He acted that way when he had a mouse or other varmint between his paws, but his tail would flip back and forth like a windshield wiper, and within a few seconds he'd jump, bat the critter around, and pin it down again, especially if he was showing off for an audience.

Now he didn't so much as twitch.

I stopped the truck, got out, and knelt down beside him. His eyes looked glazed, his chin was wet with drool, and he was purring loudly.

"What's going on?" I said. I passed my hands over him lightly, starting behind his ears-and immediately felt wet sticky fur at his left front shoulder. My fingers came away red with blood.

The bobcat. I'd damn near forgotten about him.

I stood and did a quick 360-degree scan of the surrounding tree line. The nearest cover was fifty yards away, and it was relatively thin for another ten or twenty yards beyond that; there were no suggestive shapes in there. Most likely the assault had happened someplace else and the tom had escaped, or maybe the bobcat had been spooked by the approach of my truck. But daylight was fading, and he could be hidden where I couldn't see.

I strode back to the pickup for the.41-Magnum pistol that Madbird had lent me, loaded it, and shoved it in my belt. Then I grabbed a hooded sweatshirt and went back to wrap up the tom. I'd never had to use an animal emergency room before, but I knew there was a veterinary hospital in town with an after-hours service.

"Come on, buddy," I said, picking him up gently. "You're going to hate this, but you've got to trust me."

He made a hoarse growl deep in his throat like he was ready to fight, but he stayed docile-a sign that he was badly hurt. It was a tribute to his toughness and a near miracle that with the big cat biting him so close to his head and throat, he'd managed to get away.

I carried him around to the passenger side of the truck to settle him on the floor, still watching the woods for any movement.

If I hadn't been on the alert like that, I'd never have seen the figure near the cabin, stealthily slipping behind a tree.

But, just as I'd known instantly when I first saw the bobcat that it wasn't a deer, I knew this wasn't the bobcat. It was hunched, but standing on two legs-human. And even in that glimpse, there was something familiar about the bulky shape.

I dropped to a crouch and lunged toward the back of the truck. There came the pop of two quick gunshots, the first one smashing into the passenger window and the second spanging off the metal behind me. I kept on scrambling around to the driver's side, got behind the protection of the rear wheel, and clawed the pistol from my belt.

I waited there, shaking, trying to understand who the fuck wanted to kill me this time.

The answer came fast. The reason the shape seemed familiar was because it was Lon Jessup. He must have come to get revenge for the part I'd played in outing him.

But the truth of that came clear fast, too. He had assumed that Renee would be with me. She was the one he wanted to kill.

I'd been an idiot to think he'd let her go. He knew perfectly well that everyone assumed he'd left the area, and he'd decided that murdering her now was a safer course than coming back in the future. In this isolated place, no one would hear his silenced gunshots or even know it had happened for a day or two-just like with Astrid and her lover, an eerie, ugly parallel.

And it was a gunshot from Jessup, not the bobcat, that had wounded my tom. He greeted strangers with the same kind of noisy show he put on for friends, letting them know that this was his place and they didn't belong here. Maybe Jessup had feared that the yowling would give him away. Maybe he was superstitious, and the feisty black cat had unnerved him. Most likely it was sheer meanness.

But that was what had saved me from already being dead-or worse, first being forced by Jessup to tell him what I knew about Renee's whereabouts.

That was when I made up my mind to kill him.

I'd heard that after you'd done it once, it was easier to do again. The first time had been unintentional, a fluke of self-defense, and I'd have done anything to relive that moment so it hadn't happened, even though the son of a bitch had it coming.

Now I just hoped to Christ I'd succeed.

I took off in a crouching run for the tree line across the road, keeping the truck between me and Jessup. The gunshots sounded like they had come from the silenced.22 pistol that Darcy had seen. At that range, moving fast, I'd be hard to hit-although he might also have a bigger pistol or a shotgun or rifle.

And he undoubtedly had a vehicle hidden nearby. He might already be on his way to it, figuring he'd blown his chance and he'd better get out of here.

Then again, he might be stalking me.

I was no Madbird, and no match for a man with SEAL-type training even if he was aging and out of shape. But I'd hunted all my life, and these woods had been my childhood playground. I knew every stick and stone. The fading daylight was in my favor; my eyes for the terrain were in my feet. The.41 Magnum was an excellent weapon for this, with long-range power and accuracy.

I settled the cat under a pine and kept on running down-road. For sure, I could cover ground faster than Jessup could, then work my way back up-cut him off he if drove out, or if he was still on foot, try to find him before he found me.

I glided along like my feet were barely touching the earth, straining to listen for the rustling and cracking sounds of a big animal on the move. But the evening forest was as peaceful as an enchanted land in a fairy tale, with only an occasional birdcall and the whisper of the breeze through the treetops.