Mean Streak(52)

Will, reacting too quickly to think about the shotgun, rolled off the sofa and came up like a sprinter leaving the blocks.

He dropped his cup of coffee in time to catch Will’s chin with an uppercut that sent him staggering backward. Moving quickly, crushing the coffee cup beneath his boot, he grabbed the shotgun, swung it up, and aimed it at the brothers, freezing them in their tracks as they were lunging for him.

Emory opened the bedroom door. “What’s going on?”

Keeping his eyes on the brothers, who were still poised to attack, he backed his way over to Emory where she stood in the open door. “You feel okay about leaving Lisa for the time being?”

“Yes, I think she’ll be all right.”

“Good.”

“Sure as hell, I’m gonna kill you,” Will said through his clenched teeth.

“Not today, you’re not.”

He took the pistol from his waistband and passed it to Emory. “If either of them moves, don’t stop to think about it. Pull the trigger. Got it?”

*





Dumbfounded, she nodded her head once. He slipped past her into the bedroom.

Norman and Will stood facing her, breathing hard with wrath, reminding her of snorting bulls. Norman said, “Who is that son of a bitch?”

“I don’t know.”

“Bull. Shit,” Will said. “You two are in cahoots. Barging in here like you own the damn place. What are you up to?”

“All I did was come here to take care of your sister.”

“She would’ve done all right without you.”

“Possibly, but I’m glad I could help.”

Norman asked, “You really a doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, well I think you’re lying,” Will said, pugnaciously raising his chin where a fist-sized bruise was forming. “What’s his story?”

The subject of the question moved up behind her, closed his left hand around her biceps, and pushed her forward. “Don’t let go of that pistol.” Emory kept her eyes forward as he propelled her across the living room and out the door. “Get in the truck.”

Before releasing her arm, he gave her a little push and she started down the porch steps. She heard Will say, “He’s stealing our shotgun!”

Beneath the tree, the dog stood up and wagged his tail. Apparently she’d become his friend by association. When she reached the pickup, she opened the passenger door and looked back to see him still on the porch, watching her while guarding the door with the shotgun.

“Why aren’t you coming?” she asked. “What are you going to do?”

“Get in the truck and don’t get out.”

She hesitated.

Enunciating, he said, “Get in and shut the door.”

She climbed in and pulled the door closed. He waited until he was sure she would stay, then turned and disappeared through the front door. A few seconds later, there was a shotgun blast that sounded like an explosion in the morning air.

It was followed by a second.





Chapter 17



Emory pushed open the door, leaped from the truck, and ran toward the house, colliding with her scowling protector as he came down the steps. “Dammit, I told you to stay in the truck.” He spun her around and thrust her in that direction.

“You shot them!”

“No I didn’t.”

No, he hadn’t.

Because she could hear the Floyds’ obscenity-laced tirade, then both burst through the front door. Fury made Will clumsy as he tried to reload the shotgun. Norman, in stocking feet, slipped on one of the porch steps.

Emory was hoisted none too gently into the cab of the pickup, then its owner came around, got in, and started the engine, every motion efficient and controlled, as though he didn’t have two bloodthirsty men on his heels.

He accelerated so hard that the tires spun before gaining traction. They sped out the drive, leaving the Floyds shaking their fists and yelling threats.

Emory was paralyzed with disbelief. They rode in silence for the brief time it took to reach his cabin. He got out and opened the gate, then drove the truck to its usual parking space. Getting out again, he went over to a chopping block and worked the ax blade from the heavily notched surface.

She tracked his progress across the yard, back through the gate, and across the road to the pickup truck with the listing tree still embedded in its grill. He went around to all four tires, methodically hacking great gashes in them.

Then he came back through the gate and latched the padlock, testing it with a sharp tug to make certain that it was secure. After replacing the ax in the chopping block, he came back to the truck, opened the passenger door, and reached inside.

Instinctively, she recoiled. He frowned at her. “I want my pistol back.”

She’d forgotten she still had it. Her right hand was clutching it in a cold death grip. “Are you going to shoot somebody?”

“Not before breakfast.”

This time when he reached for it, she let it go. He stuck it back into his waistband as he turned and started toward the cabin.

She stepped out of the truck and looked back at the gate, considering if she should climb the fence and take off running. He had lied about having neighbors. In addition to the Floyds, surely there would be others reasonably nearby.