The Old Man(22)

The man simply came into existence forty feet behind him. When Caldwell had last looked no one had been there, but now he heard the footsteps. The dogs took notice too; their ears turned backward to listen. The footsteps quickened and the dogs wheeled around to face the man, so Caldwell turned too.

The man was only a silhouette at first, striding toward Caldwell. The shape was young—slim, supple, and fast. When Caldwell saw him coming, he stepped off the sidewalk and pulled back on the leashes to prepare to let the man pass. But as he did, he saw the man reach into his jacket pocket and grasp something. As the man walked straight toward Peter his hand emerged from his pocket. He passed through a splash of light from a streetlamp and Caldwell saw the gleam on the finish of the revolver.

Peter said, “Fassen.” Then he let go of both leashes. The two dogs dashed and then leapt at once, just as the young man began to lift his hand.

Peter charged at him, but the dogs were much faster. They jumped high, baring their teeth at the man’s neck. The man stopped and leaned his body back to avoid being bitten, but that put him off balance. The weight of their bodies pushed him backward.

Peter reached him, struck the young man’s forearm down, lifted a knee to his groin, and then landed a combination of quick punches to his face and throat. The light was dim, but Peter could see his skin was black.

The man reeled and Peter clutched his wrist and brought his forearm down over his knee to make him drop the pistol, then retained his grip to jerk the man’s arm and bring his unprotected face forward to meet a hard punch. He used the back of his calf and swept the man off his feet onto the pavement, where he landed on his back and hit the back of his head. The dogs clamped their jaws on his arms and held him there.

The army had trained Caldwell as a hand-to-hand fighter and he had continued his training through his adult life, but he knew that he never would have prevailed against this opponent if the dogs hadn’t done most of the fighting. The man was too fast, too young, and too strong.

Caldwell snatched the gun off the ground and aimed it as the man began to recover his wind and his consciousness. Caldwell used the opportunity to get a close look at the man’s face. His attacker was younger than he’d thought. He looked about eighteen. Was this a gang attack or something? Caldwell allowed himself a half second to look up the sidewalk for others, then back at the young man, and then over his shoulder, but there were no signs of other attackers. Caldwell said, “Listen carefully. You get one chance at each question. What’s your name?”

The boy looked at his arm and the gun. “James Harriman.”

“Give me your wallet.”

The young man carefully reached into his back pocket and came back with the wallet. Caldwell took it in his left hand and held it up to catch a little light from a distant streetlamp. The driver’s license had the same name. Caldwell noted that it said he was eighteen. He put a finger into the fold and saw there were twelve dollars, a ten and two ones. This wasn’t an operative or a hired killer searching for him. He was a delinquent teenager trying to rob an old man. “Is this a gang thing?”

“I needed money.”

“This is a stupid way to get it.” The shock, the adrenaline, and the exertion were adding heat to his anger, but he fought it down.

Caldwell took a step back. He tossed the wallet on the young man’s chest. “I’m going to let you go, but I’ll have to keep the gun.”

The young man looked relieved.

“But if I ever see you again, I won’t be able to let you go. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said the young man.

“Okay, then. Get the hell out of here.”

The young man sat up, put his wallet away, and got to his feet. Then he began to hurry in the direction he had come from.

“Stop.”

The young man froze. His hands were up at shoulder height and he didn’t try to look back at him. Caldwell walked up behind him and stuffed the five twenty-dollar bills he was carrying into the boy’s jacket pocket. “Take this money and don’t try to rob anybody else.”

“All right.” The young man started to walk. He called out, “Thank you.” Then he walked a little faster, and soon he had gained enough distance to break into a run.

Caldwell waited for about two minutes after the kid was out of sight. Then he turned a corner and moved off too. From time to time he turned down an alley where he would have seen a follower appear if there had been one, and a few times he stopped and crouched beside a porch or stood in a closed store’s entrance and watched until he was sure he was alone.

Just before he reached the neighborhood where he lived, he unloaded the revolver, dropped the bullets in a storm sewer, the frame in a second sewer a distance away, and the cylinder in a big dumpster behind a restaurant. He was shaken by the experience. He had come very close to firing a round into a teenager’s head because he had thought he was a professional killer. He had spent lots of time many years ago acquiring the skills to protect himself. Now he had to learn to reassess the nature of a threat.

When he reached the apartment it was after midnight. He could hear Zoe and Sarah talking while they watched something on television. He slipped past the living room into the hallway and into his bedroom. Sometime later, he heard Sarah walk past his room, go into the guest room, and close the door. Before he went to bed, he climbed up in the closet again and checked to be sure the guns, money, and identification he’d left were still undiscovered. Everything was intact and undisturbed for now.