Blood Trail

“Oh no,” Urman said. “Oh no. Who did I just hit? What have I done ? ”

Urman’s hunting rifle sailed out of the wall of pines, catching a glint of moonlight. Urman followed, holding his face in his hands.

A FULL AUTOMATIC WEAPON, at least a mile behind me, deep in the forest. What can that possibly be about? All I know is that some kind of mistake has been made, some kind of foul-up. And not by me. This is why they should never be allowed to leave the cities, where they belong, and come up here.

But in chaos, there is opportunity for the one who keeps his head.

Now I know why there are only two in the pickup truck on the horizon; it’s because the others have been tracking me. I wonder if the men in the truck heard the gunshots as well? If so, I prepare myself and ease the safety off my rifle with my thumb. . . .

“DID YOU hear that?” Robey said, sitting up straight. He’d spent the last ten minutes trying to reconcile and process what Conway had told him about Randy Pope, about the other victims. Everything he had thought about the crimes had turned out to be potentially wrong, as if the foundation he’d relied upon was not only crumbling away but had been blown to bits. The information was explosive, so much so that Robey had briefly considered calling Joe with it, urging him to come back to the truck so he could tell him the world as they both knew it had suddenly changed. The only reason he didn’t was concern for Joe’s safety if Robey broke radio silence at the wrong time.

“I heard something,” Conway said.

Robey said, “It sounded like automatic fire. Lothar has an AR-15, so it was probably him.”

“Maybe they found our man,” Conway said with gravity.

“God, I hope so,” Robey said. “I hope they call in to tell us what’s going on.”

There was a pause as both men stared at the radio under the dash, at the softly glowing light of the channel.

“Talk to me, Joe,” Robey whispered.

“Should we call him?” Conway asked.

“We’ll give it a couple of minutes. I’d rather they call us so we know whatever happened is over.”

“What if they don’t?”

“I don’t know,” Robey said, feeling a line of sweat break across his upper lip like an unwanted mustache.

“JESUS, WHO IS THIS GUY?” Urman said to Joe. “Why didn’t he identify himself? He scared the shit out of me, and then he started blasting—”

“His name is Buck Lothar,” Joe said, pulling himself to his feet as the realization of what had just happened hit him. He ran to where Lothar was splayed out in the grass. No pulse, just involuntary twitching of his arms and legs. Blood flowed through the dry grass under his body, smelling hot and sharp.

“He was hired by the governor to track the man who shot your uncle,” Joe said.

“Ah, man,” Urman cried, dropping to his knees before Lothar’s body. “I’m so sorry. Is there anything we can do? CPR or something?”

“I don’t know,” Joe said.

Urman bent over and struck Lothar’s chest with his fist. The body bounced. “Anything?” he asked.

Joe shook his head.

Urman hit Lothar again and again, so hard Joe thought he heard the dull snap of a rib.

“That’s enough,” Joe said. “He’s gone.”

Urman sat back, his face so pale it was the same blue-white shade of the moon and stars. “I killed a man,” Urman said.

“It was self-defense,” Joe said. “I’ll back you up on that one all the way.”

“Jesus,” Urman said, his eyes glinting with tears. “All that time in Iraq and I never killed anyone. . . .”

“And all this time,” Joe said, his stomach turning sour, “we were following you.”

THE FRONT of the pickup Robey and Conway were in bucked slightly and a sharp crack snapped through the night. Robey reacted instinctively by grabbing the steering wheel with both hands.

“What was that?” Conway asked, his voice high. “A stray bullet?”

“I don’t know,” Robey said. “Listen . . .”

He could hear a hissing sound outside and felt the truck begin to list to the side. “I’m going to see what happened,” he said, reaching for the door handle.

I SEE the dome light come on inside the pickup, illuminating the two men inside. I’m confused momentarily. I don’t recognize them at first. Then I do. The one on the driver’s side was in the airport today with the game warden and Randy Pope waiting for a passenger on the plane. The other at first confounds me because I didn’t expect him here, never saw it coming.

I can’t believe my good fortune. It’s as if he was delivered to me, presented as a gift. He was the least guilty of them, but guilty all the same.

I quickly work the bolt action and chamber another round. The acrid but sweet smell of gunpowder haloes my head from the first shot. I make a mental note to retrieve the spent brass before I leave.

The pickup door opens and the man I don’t know gets out. He walks to the front of the truck, squats down to look at the tire I shot as it flattens. As I thought, the action drew him out.

I clearly hear the man squatting by the tire say, “Come look at this,” and see my prey reach for his door handle and I thank my good fortune once again and know my plan has worked. I put the crosshairs in the