I had been in my share of firefights. Ninety percent of the time, no one got shot. The reason for this was simple: The target usually ducked.
I tackled Linderman to the ground. A split-second later, a gunshot rang out, the bullet flying over our heads. Either the shooter had lousy aim, or was trying to scare the daylights out of us. Buster, who’d been sniffing the catfish, took off running.
We lay with our stomachs on the soft ground, staring across the top of the pond. A pack of crows had exploded out of the trees and turned the sky black.
“Where are they?” Linderman whispered.
“On the other side of the pond.”
“How many rifles?”
“Just one.
“Show me where they are.”
I pointed at the spot where I’d seen the rifle poking through the trees. Linderman took aim and squeezed the trigger of his Mossberg. The shotgun’s pellets ripped through the branches and echoed across the forest. Screams followed, accompanied by Buster’s frantic barking. I jumped to my feet. Linderman was right beside me.
“I’m going to my right. You go to the left,” the FBI agent said.
Linderman took off in a crouch. I did the same, the two of us moving around the pond at the same speed. I could hear Buster ripping something apart behind the trees. A pair of high-pitched voices screamed for mercy.
As I drew closer, the voices became more distinct. Two boys, maybe a few years past puberty. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Linderman aim high into the trees, and fire another shell. One of the boys screamed for his life.
“Don’t shoot me… please!”
Linderman halted when he was twenty feet from the trees. “Both of you come out with your hands in the air. Right now!”
“Get your dog away from us,” the second boy pleaded.
I hollered for him. I heard a yip, followed by Buster exploding out of the trees. He came over to my side with a wild look in his eyes.
“Now come out, and do it slow,” Linderman ordered.
Two adolescent boys walked single file out of the trees. Each wore green camouflage clothing and a baseball cap with the visor pointing backward. One of the boys’ pants legs had been ripped to shreds by Buster. They were so scared that both of them had started bawling.
“Are there just two of you?” Linderman asked.
“Yes, sir,” one answered.
“See if he’s telling the truth,” Linderman said to me.
I skirted around the boys and entered the woods. I came to the spot where they’d been hiding, and found a pair of. 22s in the leaves. I brought the rifles out and showed them to Linderman.
“Keep your eye on them,” Linderman said.
I kept my shotgun trained on the boys. Linderman took the. 22s and emptied them of their ammunition. Then he tossed the rifles into the middle of the pond. He watched them sink, and turned back to me.
“Let’s find out what they’re up to,” he said.
We separated the boys, with Linderman taking one to the other side of the pond, while the boy with the ruined pants stayed with me. Buster had not calmed down, and several times I told him to lie down, afraid he might again go on the attack.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Clayton,” the boy mumbled.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you, Clayton,” I snapped.
He lifted his gaze. He had muted brown eyes and peach fuzz on his cheeks. Sticking out of his baseball cap were several wisps of curly black hair.
“How old are you?” I asked.
“Thirteen.”
“You live in Chatham?”
Clayton vigorously nodded his head. Fear has a powerful effect on people, and often cleanses their consciences. He looked ready to confess.
“Why’d you shoot at us?” I asked.
“We thought you were the Bledsoes.”
“Who are they?”
“They’re a family that lives in town. They come out and steal our fish.”
“Do you know Mister Kaplan? He owns the farm down the road. Someone burned down his barn and killed his horses. Was that you and your friend?”
Clayton stared at the ground and didn’t respond. My heart was racing from being shot at, and I wasn’t willing to put up with any of the kid’s crap. I nudged Buster with my foot, and my dog emitted a vicious bark. Clayton jumped back in alarm.
“Don’t let him bite me!”
“Did you set that fire?”
“No, sir. It wasn’t me.”
“But you know who did, don’t you?”
Clayton glanced at his buddy on the other side of the pond. Satisfied his buddy wasn’t watching him, he said, “Yes, sir. I know who did it. It was the Bledsoes.”
“Tell me why they did that.”
“Some men from Jacksonville came to town and started asking questions. Word got out that nobody should talk to them. Only Mr. Kaplan did, and his place got burned.”
“Who else talked to them?”
“The Webber family did. They ain’t around anymore.”
“The men who were asking questions… were they policemen?”
“No, sir. They were private investigators. They worked for some big insurance company. I don’t know what they wanted.”
I had heard enough. Clayton had answered my questions without hesitation, a sign that he was probably telling the truth. Linderman and Clayton’s friend came around the pond toward us. I pulled Linderman to one side, and we compared notes. Their stories were the same, and we decided the boys were telling the truth.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“Outside of the fact that they shot at us, I think they’re harmless,” Linderman said. “I vote for letting them stay. Maybe we can pull some more information out of them.”
I agreed, and turned to the boys.
“Grab your poles,” I said.
We let Clayton and his friend fish the pond with us. They stood a good distance away, and kept to themselves. Had we let them run into town and tell everyone about the strange men with the shotguns, I knew our chances of saving Sara Long were doomed. Better to keep them around, and let them enjoy the afternoon.
Using the boys’ bait, Linderman and I caught six of the prettiest flathead catfish I’d ever seen, and stored them in their cooler. As the sun started to set, I called the boys over. They reluctantly joined us, and glanced nervously at the shotguns lying in the grass.
“Here’s the deal,” I said. “Each one of you gets to pick a fish. We’re going to take the rest. I’ll pay you for the cooler. Deal?”
The boys nodded woodenly. Clayton picked the largest of the catch, while his friend took the next biggest fish. I handed Clayton a twenty-dollar bill, which was more than enough for the cooler and the ice.
“You boys have a nice day,” I said.
Clayton had a funny look on his face. Like he’d come to an understanding about what had happened, and needed to get it off his chest. He took off his baseball cap.
“I’m sorry we shot at you,” Clayton said.
