Jeffery Deaver - Shallow Graves

What he'd do is let the guy go for the gun then shoot him in his leg. Watch him fall. Then let him crawl a little. Shoot again.

Maybe he'd aim for Pellam's boots. They were a good contrast, black on the white gravel. But so were the man's eyes, which glinted two reflections from the yellow porch light. And his white shirt under the dark jacket.

But then he decided there was something about the way the man had opened his jacket that made Bobby uneasy. Don't play games. Do Pellam, do Torrens. Go back to the boy. Or the mother. Or both.

Go for a chest shot.

Without really deciding, or thinking, Bobby dropped into a crouch.

He swept the gun upward in an arc, keeping his arm straight the way he knew to do and practiced every week. None of this two-hand combat shooting that nobody who knows guns really ever does. Squinting, but leaving both eyes open, as the blade sight rose right toward the white slash of Pellam's shirt. He started to pull the trigger.

Thunk.

A shovel.

Bobby thought: Goddamn… who did that?

Somebody'd snuck up and hit him in the chest with a shovel. Or… Damn, it hurt. He coughed. Or maybe it was an ax handle. Bobby dropped his unfired gun. He looked down. Where'd it go? He looked behind him. There was nobody. He looked at his chest again and saw the blood. Oh, that hurts. He was getting dizzy. Then he saw Pellam holding the Colt at his hip, surrounded by a cloud of smoke. Bobby reached for his gun. He fell to the porch. He looked for the shovel.

He asked, "Who?…"

He died.

Pellam spun around, looked behind him, into the fields to the side of the house.

No Billy.

He whispered to Keith, "Get down. Don't move." And started forward. But he didn't get very far.

The door crashed open and Billy, staggering out, dropped to his knees over Bobby, shrieking. He lifted his own gun and fired sloppily at Pellam.

Ragged blue flashes appeared in the man's hand, the huge crack of the shots filling the night. A bullet popped the sound barrier inches from his left ear with the noise of a huge snapping finger.

All Pellam had time for was one shot, from his hip. He felt the kick, smelled the sulfur from the black powder. He saw the slug dig out a chunk of the porch. Billy fired fast and Pellam dove to the ground. He hit hard, landed on his right elbow. There was a loud snap, followed by breath-taking pain. His vision went black and dusty from the dislocation. He rolled onto his back. His shoulder joint popped back into alignment. He fainted for a second. Sweat shot from his forehead and he felt nausea in a bristling wave.

He lifted the Colt. It fell from his hand. His right arm was useless.

"Bobby, oh, Bobby…" Billy was moaning.

More shots from the automatic. Bullets dug into the camper and the ground near him.

Six shots, seven, eight.

"Sonabitchsonabitch! Son… of… a… bitch!"

Pellam lifted the Colt again. But it was a replay-the gun did a double gainer to the ground.

Christ, how many shots in that clip?

Ten, eleven, twelve…

Click, click, click.

Empty. He was out. Thank you… Pellam raised his head and watched Billy reload.

Pellam felt the cold wet touch of the gravel, smelled the sour earthy-oily scent of the stone. He saw Billy coming closer. He lowered his head and heard the crunch of the gravel under the man's loafers.

Pellam grabbed for the Colt. He hit the butt with his fingers and knocked it out of reach.

He heard the man's breathing. Pellam looked up, opened his eyes. He saw the bore of the gun in the man's hand, six feet away.

Billy stopped.

A good day to die…

Billy stopped.

He looked behind him as if he'd heard something.

Then he was flying through the air.

Sailing, the way stunt men did, off springboards mounted on either side of black powder charges in the war movies.

Billy sprawled on top of Pellam, knocking the wind out of him with a high, love-making grunt. The twin rolled over, uttered, "Bobby," then studied the gravel an inch away from his face. "Son of a bitch." He closed his eyes. "Son of a bitch." He shuddered once and was still.

Pellam pushed himself up, fainted for a few seconds. He came to then sat up again.

In front of him, on the porch, Meg was crying, clutching the smoking Springfield. She dug frantically into her pockets-for more ammunition, he guessed.

"Meg!" he called. "It's okay. They're gone. They're both gone."

But she paid no attention, dropped to her knees and slid a new shell into the gun, cocked it with both hands. She stood once more, wiped tears and scanned the yard like a sentry then returned to the house, calling to her son.

"You all right?" Keith asked. Pellam nodded, gasping at the pain. And Keith continued into the house, following Meg.

Pellam made sure that Billy was dead then staggered inside.

He found them in the living room, Keith's arm around Meg, standing over Tom, the sheriff. He was dead.

Meg looked toward the front door, at Pellam, with eyes wide in terror.

Keith was on his knees, hugging Sam. Who glanced at Pellam but said nothing. He was crying. "Did they hurt you?" Keith asked.

The boy shook his head.

Meg, crying too, gasped. "He was going to… He took him in there…" She nodded toward the living room. "But then they heard the horn and he went outside to see who it was."

"Oh, honey…"

Keith stood and Meg lowered her head to Keith's shoulder.

"What happened?" Keith muttered

"Honey, your phone, in the car. We've got to call the police."

"My phone?"

"In the car. They cut the line here. The phone doesn't work."

"I left it at the factory," he said. He seemed numb, unable to say any more than a few words at a time.

"Then drive to the Burkes, use theirs!"

"What happened? I don't…" He looked around the house. "I don't understand."

"It was so terrible…"

"Why was Tom here?" Keith asked.

Meg glanced at Sam and whispered something to her husband. He frowned. She nodded. "Then one of them shot Tom. They got in somehow. I don't know why. I have no idea why."

Keith said nothing for a moment, just stared at the sheriff's body. He glanced at Sam. "I'm going to take you up to bed. Your mother and I have to talk."

"Keith…" Meg started after him. But Pellam, wincing at the pain in his shoulder, stepped forward, touched her arm. "Meg, wait."

Father and son disappeared up the stairs.

She turned. "You're hurt…"

"Sit down."

Meg hesitated.

"I have to talk to you. I have to tell you why I came back tonight…"

She was staring at Tom. "Keith has to call. He has to go to the Burkes."

"Meg… Listen to me. Tonight I went to see your friend."

She stiffened and her attention on the body in her living room vanished. "My friend?" she asked.

"Ambler."

She considered this, then asked, "How did you know he was my friend?"

"We had a talk." Pellam paused, looking at the stairs. But Keith was still with Sam. He added, "He likes you. He likes you a lot."

She wasn't sure what to do with this information. She found an afghan, placed it over the sheriff's head and chest. Pellam wanted to put his arm around her but he would probably have fainted; any motion was pure pain in his shoulder.

"Why did you go to see him?" Meg asked.

"I thought he might've been the one who had Marty killed."

"What?"

Pellam shook his head. "He didn't. But he did plant the drugs and he had me beat up."

"Wex wouldn't do…" But her voice faded and she obviously concluded that, yeah, he could very easily do that.

"The reason he did it was that he was afraid I was going to take you away with me."