tossed the keys to Savich. He looked after them, and sighed. He turned to look at Roy Bob and Rachael. Roy Bob was holding his arm, his eyes nearly whirling in his head, not from pain but from excitement. And Rachael looked pretty pumped herself. Sheriff Hollyfield said, “Roy Bob, that was fine shooting. You said you shot him in the arm?”
“No,” said Roy Bob, “it wasn’t me.”
The sheriff’s left eyebrow arched as he looked at Rachael. “Sorry, that’s my bib overalls talking. All right, you shot him. Tell me exactly what happened.”
She laughed, couldn’t help herself. “That was funny.”
“Yeah, well.” The sheriff was embarrassed he’d been sexist, and it calmed her, even made her smile a bit. She said, “Roy Bob and I were discussing how speedily he could get my car fixed when a bullet whizzed by our heads. Roy Bob would have shot him, but he got hurt, as you can see. I crawled to his office, got the rifle, and shot the guy. Fact is, Sheriff, he could have run in and shot us both dead, but he didn’t. Maybe he was afraid Roy Bob had a gun handy and so he waited and shot from the bay door.”
“I didn’t realize,” Roy Bob said, still riding so high on adrenaline he couldn’t hold still, didn’t even pay any attention to the blood still dripping between his fingers and down his arm, “it was bullets. Then there was another shot and she pulled me down behind those Goodyears. The guy kept shooting, I got hit in the arm with a piece of concrete, and Rachael crawled into my office and got Daddy’s Remington. Boy she knows how to use a rifle, good as my grandpa, and she stood right up and fired, hit the bastard—pardon my Russian— her first shot. She fired again but he was moving fast so she missed.” He paused for a moment, grinned real big. “Would you marry me, Rachael? I don’t want Ellie, she can’t shoot worth spit.” He paused, looked down, and paled. “Oh, dude, I’ve got blood running down my arm.”
Rachael tore the sleeve from Roy Bob’s shirt and wrapped it around his arm. “It’s nearly stopped bleeding, you’ll be okay.” She thought of her Charger and knew it was all over, she’d have to leave it here.
“And you, Miss Abercrombie? How’re you doing?”
“I’m purely fine, just fine.” She felt flushed with victory, lit up like a neon sign. “I got him, Sheriff, I got him.”
“You shoot often with a rifle, Miss Abercrombie?”
“Not for a long time. It’s nice that you don’t seem to forget. It felt natural, you know what I mean?”
“Yes, I do. So you were raised around guns?”
“Where I was raised, everyone knew how to shoot and shoot well.”
“I see. And where was that?”
Roy Bob burst out before she had to come up with a believable answer, “A Remington as old as my daddy, I haven’t seen anybody so smooth with that sucker since Grandpappy died back before the turn of the new century.” He beamed at Rachael, not a single bit of macho irritation showing in his proud face. He added, “And would you look at how pretty she is, Sheriff. Can you imagine how good our kids would shoot and what they’d look like doing it?”
The sheriff wanted to laugh, hut instead he turned a dark eye on Roy Bob. “So someone waltzes right in here and starts shooting. You gambling again, Roy Bob? You stupid enough to take on old Mr. Pratt after what he did to you last fall? You know he explodes like a firecracker.”
Roy Bob drew himself up. “No, sir. I haven’t gambled since Ellie walked out on me. I’ve been too depressed, just sitting home, beer and baseball my only pleasures.”
The sheriff sighed. “All right then, Roy Bob, Deputy Glenda is going to help you over to the clinic.”
“No, Sheriff, not Deputy Glenda, she’s not too pleased with me right now. Besides, I ain’t no wuss, I can get there under my own steam. Hey, Rachael, I’m thinking you look familiar.”
“That’s because I shoot well,” she said, and poked him in his good arm.
The sheriff said, “Okay, Roy Bob, you go on over, see Dr. Post. As for you, Miss Abercrombie, I need you to come back to the office with me and we’ll talk this all over, you can give me a formal statement. Hopefully Agent Savich and Sherlock will bring this fellow down.”
“Roy Bob, about my car—”
“You gonna hurt my other arm if I don’t fix your fuel pump right away, Rachael?”
Rachael pointed gun fingers at him. “I just might. Then you might think I look like your mother.”
Roy Bob laughed, then moaned as he jerked his arm. “I’ll get to it then.”
The sheriff turned to see his youngest, greenest deputy come running into the bay.
Deputy Theodore Osgood, called Tooth because one of his front teeth was chipped half off, just turned twenty-one, was big, beefy, and panting. He wheezed out, “That guy in the black truck—he nearly hit old Mrs. Crump—missed her, but scared her so bad she fell into a hydrant. We’re getting her over to the clinic.”
Rachael wasn’t listening. She was thinking,
But how? ELEVEN
The sheriff was right, Savich thought as he sped the powerful Chevy to Judge Hardesty’s airfield. Bobby, their pilot, was sitting beneath a pine tree, puffing on a pipe, reading a Juan Cabrillo adventure.
He had them in the air in under five minutes.
Sherlock said into her headphones, “I bet he’s going to head back to the main highway, Bobby. He needs traffic to get lost in, and he’s not going to find it on this road.”
Savich said, “Agreed. We’re looking for a black Ford pickup, the first three letters of the license plate are F- T-E.”
Bobby swung the helicopter in a tight circle and headed toward the junction of 72 and 75.
Sherlock said as she scanned the highway below, “He’s also hurt, shot in the arm, so depending on how bad it is, he might drive erratically, maybe pass out, but there’s no way he’d stop.”
Bobby cruised at three hundred feet over the highway. Savich said, “Let’s not go any lower yet. People have seen enough attack helicopters in movies. We don’t want anyone to freak, cause an accident. Okay, traffic is getting heavier.”
Five minutes later Sherlock said, “There—there he is. He just turned off 75 onto a parallel access road. He’s in and out of sight, with all those trees canopying the road, and he’s having to go real slow what with all the ruts.”
Savich said, “You sure?”
“Yep, the license plate begins with F-T-E,” Sherlock shouted.
“Continue on about five miles, Bobby, then bring us down. Sherlock, make sure he stays on the access road.”
She grinned at him, gave him a thumbs-up.
The landscape was littered with dense clusters of oaks and pines, and rolling hills between higher peaks. About six miles up the road, Bobby brought them down not more than fifty feet from the access road. Savich and Sherlock jumped out of the helicopter, bent low, and ran toward the road.
Only seven minutes passed before they heard the Ford coming. SIGs drawn, they stood in the shadow of a trio of skinny pine trees.
When the truck was beside them, Savich fired three bullets into the front passenger-side tire and Sherlock blew out the back tire. When the truck swerved to a stop, Savich yelled, “Federal agents! Come on out now, easy!”
The driver’s-side door opened slowly. A man yelled, “I’m coming out, don’t shoot me!”
“Lock your hands behind your neck,” Savich shouted. He couldn’t see the man clearly, but he did see one hand go up to grasp his neck. That was okay, Rachael had shot him in the other arm. Then, so fast Savich barely had time to react, the man raised a pistol and fired off six fast rounds over the top of the hood. Savich fired back even as he hit the ground and rolled.
The man ducked behind the door, and Savich shoved a new magazine into his SIG and came up to his knees behind a big maple. He saw Sherlock out of the corner of his eye making her way around the back of the truck. She looked back once to see that he was all right, then crouched down and ran.
