A Dark Path #5
“I put you and Grohs-mammi right in the middle of my problems.” Christina wiped at the tears and rain streaming down her face. “You could have been hurt—or worse.”
“You did no such thing,” Esther said firmly. “And as you can see all of us are just fine.”
Before the girl could respond, the rumble of an engine sounded in the distance. Squinting against the rain, Herman saw the headlights appear on the road ahead.
“Oh, sis yuscht.” Oh no. Christina put her hand over her mouth. “I think it’s Tyler,” she whispered. “He’s coming back.”
Esther went to her granddaughter, put her arm around her shoulders. “Everything’s going to be fine,” she cooed.
Herman wasn’t so sure as he watched the headlights approach. Through the din of rain and wind, he recognized the sound of O’Connor’s truck. It was a loud thing that smelled of burning oil and exhaust.
He’d never been much of a worrier; he knew everything that happened was in God’s capable hands.
That philosophy had served him well for eighty-two years.
But at the sight of those headlights bearing down, he worried and then some, especially for Christina.
Tyler O’Connor was prone to drinking and had a nasty temper to boot.
A bad combination when it came to the measure of a man’s character.
Herman wasn’t sure of the young man’s intent.
He couldn’t even say for sure that the buggy smashup had been accidental.
He wanted to believe O’Connor had been blinded by the rain.
But Herman wasn’t born yesterday; he knew it was possible, likely even, that O’Connor had run them off the road on purpose.
Was he coming back to help them? Or was he returning to finish the job he’d started?
Herman looked at his wife. “I want you and Christina to run to the farm. Run as fast as you can. If the truck comes your way, hide in the trees.” He said the words with a calm he didn’t feel. “Right now. Go.”
Esther huffed. “We’re not leaving without—”
“Now! Quick! Get around that bend before he sees you!” For the first time in fifty-three years of marriage, Herman raised his voice to his wife. “When you get home, run to Mr. Besecker’s house and call the law. Quick! Run! ”
Looking shocked and frightened, Esther stepped back and took Christina’s hand. “Kumma,” she said. Come. And the two women started down the road.
His granddaughter tossed a lingering look over her shoulder. Herman saw a combination of fear and shame in her eyes, and at that moment he thought he’d never felt worse in his life.
“Run! ” he whispered, gesturing. “God will see you through.”
Forcing his eyes back to the headlights, Herman waited for Tyler. A scant minute later, the vehicle pulled up. Through the pouring rain, he watched the younger man get out, slamming the door behind him with a little too much force.
“Where the hell is she?” Tyler demanded, his eyes scanning the brush on the other side of the road.
Herman was pretty sure he’d been drinking. He had a mean look about him. And his eyes were glassy and red.
“I asked you a question, geezer. Where the hell is Christina?” Even as he barked out the words, Tyler’s eyes darted down the road in the direction the women had gone.
Herman schooled his face into what he hoped was an expressionless mask. “She’s not here.”
“Don’t play dumb with me.” Tyler’s lips peeled back in a snarl. “I saw her in the buggy earlier, you old fool.”
Tyler O’Connor was twenty years old going on two and epitomized everything that could go wrong with a young life.
He might be handsome—Herman would give him that—but his anger and propensity for blaming others for his problems detracted from any superficial good looks.
He didn’t understand what his granddaughter had ever seen in this troubled kid and wondered if maybe she’d been trying to save his soul. …
“You and your wife spent two months badmouthing me to her,” Tyler hissed. “You turned her against me. She was going to marry me! This is all your fault!”
“Christina isn’t here, son.” Herman swept his hand to encompass the road ahead. “Now why don’t you just go on home and sleep it off?”
“I’m not your damn son!” he roared, spittle flying from his mouth. He looked around wildly. “Christina! Get out here or I’m going to deck this son of a bitch!”
Herman stared hard at the young man. He’d never thought of O’Connor as dangerous, but he didn’t like the too-bright light in his eyes.
The desperation seeping from his every pore.
Or the way he was clenching his fists and gritting his teeth.
Even as he felt a wave of pity for the younger man, he was aware of the fear pressing into him.
Not for himself, but for his granddaughter and wife.
And he prayed the women could make it to the farm before Tyler went looking for them.
“Christina doesn’t want to see you anymore.” Herman said the words kindly but with enough resolve to drive home the point. “It’s time for you to move on. Get your life back on track.”
Tyler leaned so close Herman could smell the booze and cigarettes on his breath, feel the anger pouring off him. “You lecture me again and I swear to Christ I’ll belt you in the mouth!”
“You do what you’ve got to do,” Herman said. “Leave Christina out of it.”
Without warning, O’Connor punched him square in the face.
Herman’s head snapped back. He reeled backward, arms flailing, and landed on his behind so hard his teeth clacked together.
Twenty years ago, a whack like that might’ve made him mad, might’ve spurred him on to do something he’d regret later.
At eighty-two, Herman wasn’t up to the task; he wasn’t even sure he could get to his feet of his own accord.
But he did.
“See what you made me do?” Tyler snarled. “Egging me on like that? All that pacifism bullshit doesn’t fly with me. Now where is she?”
Wiping his mouth, Herman looked down at his sleeve, saw blood. He frowned at Tyler. “I don’t know what you think you’re going to accomplish with all this. But it’s not going to get you anywhere. Not with Christina. Not in life.”
“You son of a bitch.” Tyler swung around, eyeing the woods to his left, the road ahead, his eyes seeking … “Christina! ” he screamed. “Get out here and talk to me or I swear to God I’ll cap this old fucker!”
Herman didn’t like the sound of that; he didn’t like the way this was playing out. The boy had a hot head and zero common sense, all of it fueled by a bad temper and whiskey.
Not sure how to defuse the situation—or keep the women safe—Herman turned away and started down the road in the opposite direction of the farm.
He didn’t know where he was going. Or how far he would have to walk.
The only thing he knew for certain was that he had to keep this confused and angry man away from his family.
Tyler choked out a roar of frustration. “You think I’m kidding around? You think this is some kind of joke?”
Herman looked over his shoulder in time to see the younger man yank a pistol from his pocket. A chill scraped up between his shoulder blades. The kind of feeling his mamm used to call the whisper of the devil’s wings.…
“Stop right there or I swear to Christ I’ll put a bullet in your back!”
Herman stopped and faced the younger man. “You do what you have to do. I’ve nothing more to say to you.”
With that, he turned away and started to walk.
The dog and I had traveled a hundred yards when a gunshot echoes through the air. I’m familiar with firearms; for a gunshot to be heard over the storm, the caliber is large and the shooter is close.
Eyeing my surroundings, I pull out my cell, hit the speed dial for Tomasetti. “I got shots fired.”
“Where are you?”
“The ravine on the south side of the road. Half a mile east of the Explorer.”
“You got eyes on the shooter?”
“No.”
“ID?”
“No.” I take a breath. “Could be a hunter. A farmer.”
He growls. “Or the boyfriend.” Over the din of rain, I hear the surge of his vehicle’s engine and I know he’s picked up the pace.
“I’m six minutes out,” he tells me, frustration hot in his voice. “Wait for me if you can.”
“I’ll do my best.”
He hangs up without saying goodbye.
I drop the phone into my pocket and break into a run.
Stickers and thorns tear at my slicker as I sprint along the deer trail.
I travel thirty yards and stop to listen.
Above the roar of wind and rain, the rumble of an engine sounds.
Coming from the road right above me. I look up, squinting against the deluge, but the angle is too steep for me to see who’s there.
Climbing straight up isn’t going to be easy.
There are, however, plentiful saplings for my rope and ample brush to keep me hidden.
Any sound I make should be covered by the rain and wind.
I look at the dog. “Stay put,” I whisper. “And whatever you do, don’t bark.”
The animal springs forward, placing his front paws against the cliffside, but the incline is too steep. Probably best for him to stay down here out of sight, anyway.
Unlooping the rope from my head and shoulder, I toss one end of it over a jut of rock twenty feet up and begin my ascent.
The climb is nearly vertical and I fight mud and brush and rain every step of the way.
I utilize the rope as much as I can, but it’s not as effective as I’d hoped.
Mainly, I rely on exposed roots, the trunks of saplings, and the thorny brush.
By the time I reach the top, I’m breathing hard and my hands are cut and raw.
I glance down into the ravine to see that the dog has disappeared.
I’m standing a few feet from the road’s shoulder, hidden within the thick brush. Through the trees, a few yards down the road, I spot the vehicle. A pickup truck. Dodge. Dark—blue or black. Short bed. Judging by the sound of the engine, it’s the same vehicle that nearly struck me earlier.…
O’Connor.