house? I suddenly realized that he wasn’t wearing a badge, and he was swinging his automatic up toward me. I slammed the door and dove for the carpet. Two .45 slugs punched through the door, throwing splinters, and slammed into the wall behind me.
Turk, Stan’s eighty-pound husky, set up a frantic ruckus of barking and snarling in the backyard. I crawled for the bedroom. Angie was lying on her belly on the bed, hugging a pillow. Her eyes will haunt me forever: red rimmed, tears brimming, but they were empty.
The shots and my scrambling across the carpet on all fours jerked her back to the present. “What’s the matter, what’s happening?”
“I don’t know. Where’s Stan’s shotgun?”
“It’s in the closet.”
The shotgun and a .30-06 hunting rifle were leaning against the back of the closet. I grabbed the twelve gauge, pump action, three shells, and jacked one into the chamber. Turk was outside the bedroom window, growling and lunging at his chain, concentrating on the woods past the end of the house. Stan had set a pole in the middle of the backyard and Turk was tethered to a ring on top of it.
“Is Stan’s canoe still on the riverbank?”
“Yeah, it’s there. Alex, what is happening?”
“Angie, I haven’t the foggiest, but two guys are here to kill us. Grab your jacket and crawl, don’t walk, to the back door. When you hear me shoot, run for the canoe, and leave the door open.” She got the message, grabbed a denim jacket from a hook behind the bedroom door, hunched down and ran. I raised the window sash. The twelve-gauge belched an explosion of fire and smoke and splintered the top of the pole. Turk’s eyebolt ripped loose and he was into the trees like a shot.
I was setting a new personal best, but it was a long fifty-foot run across the yard to the riverbank. It was almost dark, but I could see Angie crouched down wrestling to turn over the canoe. The sounds of cursing and crashing brush were coming from the trees on the right, much too close. I handed Angie the shotgun, grabbed the canoe, flipped it over, and shoved the craft into the water. Angie scooped up two paddles that had been under the canoe, cradled them and the shotgun, and scrambled in on elbows and knees. I shoved us out into the river, grabbed the shotgun out of Angie’s bundle, and sprawled on top of her. Two shots came from the woods, a yelp from Turk, then silence.
Angie lay flat on the aluminum canoe bottom. I raised up on my elbows and stuck the shotgun over the side, but realized that if I fired over the side, recoil would roll the canoe. Trees were moving by fast; we drifted toward mid river. Stan’s clearing disappeared behind us and nothing moved along the bank. I turned around carefully, propped the gun on the rear seat where it would be safe to shoot over the stern, and waited.
The river gurgled. A splash and an angry slap ahead of us was a disturbed beaver. Cold water had turned the aluminum hull to an instant icicle, and the air was heavy with moisture, smelling of wet dirt and dead leaves. The canoe slowly turned crosswise to the current. Birch trees on both banks were dark and silent.
Chapter Three
I’d been wishing it were darker, now we could have used some light. In fall, the river was low but still clipping along at ten miles per. Angie sat on the front seat with a paddle; I was at the rear, but we weren’t trying to make time, just trying to steer. Shores were black now, the ragged silhouettes of trees barely darker than the sky. Water was just a little lighter than the banks, a twisting, roiling rope reflecting overcast sky. The temperature had dropped twenty degrees when the sun went down, and I guessed it was near freezing.
The Little Chena seemed to be turning constantly. The insides of curves were gravel bars, the outside crumbling banks with fallen trees waiting to impale us. Sometimes it was thirty feet across, sometimes the trees almost met overhead. Mostly, we were steering by sound. Mid
Turk, Stan’s eighty-pound husky, set up a frantic ruckus of barking and snarling in the backyard. I crawled for the bedroom. Angie was lying on her belly on the bed, hugging a pillow. Her eyes will haunt me forever: red rimmed, tears brimming, but they were empty.
The shots and my scrambling across the carpet on all fours jerked her back to the present. “What’s the matter, what’s happening?”
“I don’t know. Where’s Stan’s shotgun?”
“It’s in the closet.”
The shotgun and a .30-06 hunting rifle were leaning against the back of the closet. I grabbed the twelve gauge, pump action, three shells, and jacked one into the chamber. Turk was outside the bedroom window, growling and lunging at his chain, concentrating on the woods past the end of the house. Stan had set a pole in the middle of the backyard and Turk was tethered to a ring on top of it.
“Is Stan’s canoe still on the riverbank?”
“Yeah, it’s there. Alex, what is happening?”
“Angie, I haven’t the foggiest, but two guys are here to kill us. Grab your jacket and crawl, don’t walk, to the back door. When you hear me shoot, run for the canoe, and leave the door open.” She got the message, grabbed a denim jacket from a hook behind the bedroom door, hunched down and ran. I raised the window sash. The twelve-gauge belched an explosion of fire and smoke and splintered the top of the pole. Turk’s eyebolt ripped loose and he was into the trees like a shot.
I was setting a new personal best, but it was a long fifty-foot run across the yard to the riverbank. It was almost dark, but I could see Angie crouched down wrestling to turn over the canoe. The sounds of cursing and crashing brush were coming from the trees on the right, much too close. I handed Angie the shotgun, grabbed the canoe, flipped it over, and shoved the craft into the water. Angie scooped up two paddles that had been under the canoe, cradled them and the shotgun, and scrambled in on elbows and knees. I shoved us out into the river, grabbed the shotgun out of Angie’s bundle, and sprawled on top of her. Two shots came from the woods, a yelp from Turk, then silence.
Angie lay flat on the aluminum canoe bottom. I raised up on my elbows and stuck the shotgun over the side, but realized that if I fired over the side, recoil would roll the canoe. Trees were moving by fast; we drifted toward mid river. Stan’s clearing disappeared behind us and nothing moved along the bank. I turned around carefully, propped the gun on the rear seat where it would be safe to shoot over the stern, and waited.
The river gurgled. A splash and an angry slap ahead of us was a disturbed beaver. Cold water had turned the aluminum hull to an instant icicle, and the air was heavy with moisture, smelling of wet dirt and dead leaves. The canoe slowly turned crosswise to the current. Birch trees on both banks were dark and silent.
Chapter Three
I’d been wishing it were darker, now we could have used some light. In fall, the river was low but still clipping along at ten miles per. Angie sat on the front seat with a paddle; I was at the rear, but we weren’t trying to make time, just trying to steer. Shores were black now, the ragged silhouettes of trees barely darker than the sky. Water was just a little lighter than the banks, a twisting, roiling rope reflecting overcast sky. The temperature had dropped twenty degrees when the sun went down, and I guessed it was near freezing.
The Little Chena seemed to be turning constantly. The insides of curves were gravel bars, the outside crumbling banks with fallen trees waiting to impale us. Sometimes it was thirty feet across, sometimes the trees almost met overhead. Mostly, we were steering by sound. Mid
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