Helen Myers - Final Stand

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Epilogue

Bitters, Texas

Thursday, August 24, 2000

10:30 p.m. CST

With a sharp strike against the small box’s score, the match ignited. A flash of light, a ghostly puff of smoke, the nose-stinging scent of sulfur, and it was done. The arsonist’s ragged emotions were set free. Instantly, any doubt or anxiety about this decision vanished, replaced by righteous conviction.

The flame stayed steady and bright as it was lowered to the mass of dry wood piled on the board stairs leading to the church’s vestibule. Whole lengths of browned evergreen branches and other dead vegetation had been easy to collect, thanks to the wild terrain and yet another year of drought.

As expected, the brittle debris caught quickly. Flowing like liquid, the flames spread, advanced and climbed. It wouldn’t be long before they gave birth to a torch, a pyre, a veritable shaking fist against this serene night, this star-studded summer sky, luminous and wide, unmarred by the slightest hint of a cloud. This silent witness to everything.

Soon the vestibule doors would catch, and then…maybe the interior. It was possible if help was slow to respond.

Tossing the box of matches into the intensifying blaze, escape became the next focus. There might not be anyone on this remote highway tonight, but there was always the chance an alert trucker on I–10, or worse, a state trooper, would spot the distant glow and mention it on his radio, initiating an alarm too soon. However, the arsonist’s escape vehicle was parked facing the road; even that had been thought through. What hadn’t been was the unreliable nature of the vehicle itself.

It took try after terrifying try, but just as the smell of gasoline could be detected, the engine finally roared to life and the arsonist peeled out of the lot making a skidding turn west onto the unlit single-lane highway.

“No!”

The dog came out of nowhere, a streak of black, darker than the night, cutting across the single-lane highway, directly into the path of the van. The driver hit the brakes, but in that surreal instant, the young woman noticed that the animal was hobbling along on only three legs. The poor creature didn’t stand a chance.

Tires protested in a high-pitched squeal as she pulled at the steering wheel in an instinctive attempt to direct the vehicle away from catastrophe, and the van slid across the double yellow line. Luckily there was no other traffic on the dark, unlit road. Fully expecting the sickly thud of impact, out of the corner of her eye she caught the brief, amazing glimpse of the black mass hurling itself into a ditch. For a few seconds, she almost got to savor relief—until logic returned with stomach-roiling bitterness.

She may not be responsible for killing the dog, but that survivalist’s dive had probably finished the poor thing. Even if it hadn’t, maimed as it was, it wouldn’t last much longer out here. Either way, she couldn’t let herself care. It was imperative that she keep going.

But no sooner did the van come to a full stop than she shifted into Reverse and backed up. She angled off to the shoulder, all the way until her headlights found the animal.

A pair of glowing amber eyes watched her from the deepest part of a shallow draw.

“Damn it.”

The dog had to have a cat or two in its family tree. Just her luck, since staying in one spot for any length of time was nothing short of an invitation for trouble. She should have taken the chance and gotten on the interstate.

With a sharp, angry yank, the woman shifted into Park, set the emergency brake and turned on the flashers. This surge of compassion was as unwelcome as it was risky. Here she was prepared to kill, and what was she doing? Playing nursemaid. On the other hand, if it was her lying out there…

“Bet it was born crippled,” she muttered as she fumbled in the dark for a flashlight.

Her fingers brushed against the gun that would be hidden in the litterbag and covered with trash should police lights flash in the rearview mirror. For a moment she debated whether to take the automatic, too, but decided against it. The dog might be someone’s pet and known as the friendliest thing since Lassie; however, she’d had enough experience with canines to know they tended to react negatively to firearms, wild or not. Hopefully, this one wasn’t. But better to end up with a tooth tattoo than to disrupt the calm night with a gunshot this close to town.

The dog didn’t budge as she approached it. As she drew nearer, she understood why, and whatever resentment she’d been feeling vanished.

“Oh, hell. Who else did you have a run-in with tonight?”

The woman winced at the sight of the pup that she now guessed was no more than four or five months old. A retriever mix…female, she determined as the dog rolled submissively onto her back. Starved, and scared out of her wits, she concluded as she came close enough to see how the animal was trembling.

Pointing the light beam off to the side so as not to frighten her any more than necessary, the woman crouched beside her. “Hey, little one,” she crooned. “Good girl. I’m going to see how bad things are. No fast moves or rough handling on my part, so no hostility on yours, deal? I’m giving you fair warning—I have a reputation for biting back, and that’s when I’m in a good mood. This isn’t one of those times.”

With a whimper, the dog offered a paw.

“Nice to meet you, too.”

The woman’s crooked smile vanished as she noticed the deep, bloody scratches around the dog’s face, and worse, the torn flesh on the inside of the left back leg. There was a long gash that stretched halfway along the abdomen, and she couldn’t quite hold back a sympathetic groan at the sight of the ugly wound. A gash like that couldn’t be from a run-in with another vehicle; the unfortunate pooch must have been on the losing end of a fight. The question was, with what?

“Who’s the bully in your neighborhood? Some older sibling, or was it a coyote or bobcat?”

The wounds looked fresh, and that had the woman scanning her unfamiliar surroundings with new unease. She should have brought the gun after all. From what she’d determined, this was a wild section of southwest Texas and sparsely inhabited. The town she’d just passed through had been called Bitters of all things, population a whopping three hundred eleven, a road sign had announced. A block-long testament to ghost towns, the sign would have been memorable regardless because of the notation some wise guy had added in spray paint: And dropping. In fact, she’d been thinking of the fitting editorial, which is the other reason for her near miss with the dog. This was challenging land, the geography no less dramatic than what she’d been driving through most of the day—minimal vegetation, rolling terrain interspersed with craggy draws meandering across the prairie and sudden stark outcroppings of weather-and-man-chiseled rock. More than once she’d wondered what people did to survive. The only industry aside from oil-field services appeared to be ranching. Exotic-game farming seemed a particularly profitable investment, meaning there was no necessity for extraneous guessing about what was lurking out in the denser shadows.