The Demolishers Read Free Page B

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    I brought my mind back to ducks, but too late: a pair of pintails had dipped low over the blocks and disappeared before I could get to my feet and get the gun to my shoulder. I’d barely sat down again when a larger bunch of assorted ducks pitched in to the decoys. They flared in all directions as I rose; the sky seemed to be full of them. I picked the one that made the best target, and hit it, and saw it fall. Happy was after it instantly, a yellow streak exploding from the blind. I swung on another and missed, but corrected my lead and dropped it into the marsh behind us.
    Suddenly the sky was empty again. I reloaded and waited for the pup to bring me the duck that had landed in the water, a shoveler drake with an outsize bill, very gaudy and handsome; but they usually taste a little fishy. However, Happy was proud of it, and that was what counted today. He hadn’t seen the second fall, but he followed me back there and went to work willingly, searching where I indicated. Soon he hit the scent and dug the bird out of the tall reeds, a nice pintail, the best duck of the day so far. Then back into the blind in time to repel the next airborne assault . . .
    By the time Bert’s truck appeared, I was sitting on the levee on the outer side of the pond, where it was more or less dry. I was field-dressing my ducks while Happy kept telling me that there were still birds flying, so why weren’t we shooting them? He didn’t understand about game laws and bag limits.
    “Looks like you did all right,” Bert said, coming up. “Any problems?”
    “Yeah, this dumb dog doesn’t know when to quit,” I said. I grinned, scratching the pup’s ears and trying to keep him from climbing into my lap. “No, no problems. He did just fine.”
    “I was a bit worried when you first brought him here,” Bert said. “We’ve had some yellow Labs that didn’t have a lot of hunt in them, if you know what I mean; not compared to the usual run of blacks. But this one’s turning out pretty good. Give us a little more time to teach him manners and you’ll have yourself a retriever.”
    When we drove up to the lodge in the bright morning sunshine, a big car was parked by the stairs that led up to the veranda that ran around three sides of the raised building. Bert glanced at it curiously.
    “Rental car from the airport,” he said. “But we’re not expecting any . . . Doreen?”
    His wife was coming down the wooden stairs, looking slender and competent in jeans and a checked shirt. She didn’t respond to her husband’s implied question, but came straight to me.
    “You’ve got some visitors, Matt,” she said. “They’re waiting for you in the living room.”
    “Visitors?”
    Instinctively, I unzipped the shotgun case I was holding and reached into my hunting coat pocket for shells. If people had gone to the trouble of tracking me here, I preferred not to meet them unarmed. A duck load will do as well as buckshot at short ranges.
    Doreen laughed in an odd, strained way. “Oh, no, you won’t need a gun, Matt. It’s nothing like that. But . . . but I’m afraid you’d better brace yourself for bad news. I’m sorry.”
    I looked at her for a moment, but she obviously wasn’t going to tell me, so I went past her and up the stairs and around the veranda to the front door. The sea view was great from up here, except for a few oil rigs, but I wasn’t into scenery at the moment. I slid the door back and stepped inside, closing it behind me, a little hampered because I still held the cased shotgun.
    Of the two women who sat on the sofa side by side, the smaller was the one who’d have drawn a normal man’s attention first. Basically a pretty girl, and quite young, she was spectacularly beat-up-looking at the moment. In the glance I gave her, I noted a-sling, a head bandage, and some ugly facial bruises; but I’d already recognized the woman beside her and couldn’t be bothered with taking the inventory any further. To hell with