Ninety-Two
BUMPER AND I are out for her last walk of the night, later than usual and not all that far from where she’d nearly been run over on the night when Roof Crockett and his boys had come for me, when I hear the first shot.
“You never forget that sound,” Burt Webb had told me. “Like a tiny sonic boom.”
If they’ll shoot a cop in broad daylight, I tell myself, they sure as hell won’t hesitate to shoot me.
I dive into the high grass next to the road, yelling, “Home!” at Bumper as soon as I do, knowing it’s one of the few commands from me she’s ever actually listened to, seeing her turn and run as fast as she can back up the road and in the direction of the house.
I’m still crawling on my belly through high grass and away from where the shots are being fired when I see some headlights flick on and then off.
The bullet from the next shot kicks up dirt a few feet away from me.
I can’t believe the next one is going to miss.
So then I’m hauling myself up and into a crouch like I really am a pass rusher now, keeping my head down, running for cover into the pine trees that line both sides of the road.
Praying I’m still fast enough.
And praying for a sign that EJ has heard the shots.
I look over my shoulder through the trees and, in the distance, can see an upstairs light go on in the house.
EJ’s bedroom.
By the time I get to the first trees, Burt Webb’s Glock is out and in my hand.
No more headlights now. No more shots right away. But I can hear low voices and, even without much moonlight, can see silhouettes, two of them, spreading out from a truck.
No way of knowing if there might be more, maybe circling around behind me so that even with the trees I’d have nowhere to hide if they got me in a cross fire.
Helene Mayes’s pledge to take down the Southern Mafia, with or without the National Guard, had gotten my attention.
War, she had said.
“There he is!”
I see the shape of a man step into the middle of the road, see him stop and raise the gun in his hand and fire directly into the tree I’m trying, and failing, to hide behind, just because I’m wider than it is.
I don’t step out and return fire.
Not yet.
Not even as the headlights come back on now, like they’re once again trying to put a spotlight on me.
Make me even more of a target than I already am.
Instead, I dive to my right, feeling the searing pain behind my right shoulder as I land on it, and this time when I come up, barely hidden by the next grouping of trees, I steady my breathing and my right hand.
Not shooting at soft drink cans now.
Shooting at somebody who just shot at me, shooting the way Burt Webb had taught me at the range, three shots in a row, one after another, the first one staggering him back and the next two putting him on his back.
“Fuck!” I hear now. “He’s got a fucking gun!”
I see a big man running across the road and back toward the truck, maybe thinking he needs to regroup, or they all do, now that I’ve put one of them down.
The door on the driver side opens up, and there is a moment when the big man turns to look back in my direction, firing off two more wild shots into the trees as the headlights come back on.
I clearly see the big man’s face then, if only for a couple of seconds.
A face that looks as if it’s covered with a map.
Not of roads. Just with tattoos.