The Fourth Motive (34 page)

While struggling desperately with the dog, Ray forgot about the woman until it was
almost too late. He saw her swing the pan at his head and ducked at the last instant.
As a result, he avoided the impact of the cast-iron cudgel, but instead had the left
side of his face and neck drenched in sizzling grease.

Ray howled in anguish as the blazing hot liquid burned into his skin. The pain was
overwhelming and he fell back to the floor. His brain was momentarily numbed from
shock and his vision blurred. His body still reflexively thrashed against the marauding
dog.

Ray was vaguely aware of clearing the pistol from its holster and raising it up. He
fired as fast as he could, convulsive jerks of the trigger that emptied his pistol
of all eighteen rounds in a matter of seconds.

Suddenly, all was quiet. Ray became conscious of his own labored breathing and struggled
to sit up. The Labrador lay motionless across his legs. He had to squirm to get from
beneath the animal.

The old woman was lying face down and not moving. Blood leaked from her head and created
a small pool on the floor. Ray pulled himself up by the cabinets. He could barely
stand. He assessed the damage to his body.

His thigh was bleeding badly, and his fatigue trousers were soaked in his blood from
crotch to knee. His left arm was in no better condition; the sleeve of his camouflaged
shirt was shredded and torn away. The flesh underneath was a jagged series of gaping
wounds. Both thigh and arm throbbed in agony.

His face, however, produced a pain level making his other injuries pale in comparison.
He gingerly raised a hand to his left cheek. What he felt there evinced a guttural
sob.

His ear was shriveled and tender, and he couldn’t find his eyebrow over his left eye.
The flesh surrounding his jaw and neck was moist and tacky, and deposited a glistening
combination of fluid and cooked skin on the fingers of his gloved hand.

The dog! How could he have forgotten the dog? He’d seen the animal yesterday, trailing
along behind the slut’s boyfriend as they completed their early-morning jog. Yet he’d
failed to notice the animal’s absence this morning, when he’d observed them again
jog merrily up the trail at first light.

How could he have been so careless? How could he have made such a mistake? It must
have been the lack of sleep, or the sun, or the thirst, or the bugs, or not smoking,
or being too eager to execute his plan. In any case, it didn’t matter now. He’d been
stupid, blind, and clumsy, and his mistake had cost him the mission. He had no choice
but to abort. He would be lucky to get away before the whore and her boyfriend returned.
He certainly knew he was in no shape to deal with him again.

He looked once more at his watch. He had to scrape the blood away with his right hand
to read the dial. He didn’t know how much time he had before they returned. Ray hadn’t
planned on having to resort to his pistol to take out the old woman. It was a certainty
the whore and her consort had heard the barrage of gunshots.

He momentarily pondered searching the house for the keys to the Jeep outside and fleeing
in that vehicle, but quickly discarded the idea. Ray hadn’t brought his auto-theft
tools with him, and now knew he hadn’t long before the duo either returned or summoned
the police. Searching the large house for car keys he may never find was now out of
the question. He knew he had to make his escape, and fast, before the wounds to his
arm and leg rendered him immobile.

He picked up his knife, reshouldered the carbine, and limped out the way he’d entered,
through the rear sliding door.

Ray left an easily discernible blood trail behind him as he staggered along as fast
as his excruciatingly wounded leg would allow. He bit his lip to stifle his cries
of pain as he hobbled across the patio. He felt weak and nauseous and fought the urge
to vomit, knowing the act would weaken him further. He knew it would be much shorter
to climb the steep hill and go past his observation post and directly to the fire
road where he stashed his car. With his badly damaged leg impeding his gait, however,
he was forced to take the well-worn cow-path, an indirect but level route.

As Ray headed for the trail, he passed the two cars in the driveway.

 

   

CHAPTER 41

 

 

Kearns suddenly stopped running and grabbed Paige’s arm. They’d been on the trail
a little more than fifteen minutes.

“What’s the big idea?”

“Shut up,” he snapped, holding up his hand to signal silence. “Don’t you hear it?”

“Hear what?”

“Listen.”

She did. When she held her breath, she made out faint popping sounds in the distance.
They sounded to her like firecrackers. Within seconds of starting, they ceased.

“Gunshots,” he announced, his voice tense. “Pistol caliber.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive; those are gunshots.”

“Aunt Elsa! We’ve got to get back–”

Kearns grabbed her around the waist as she turned and started to run. She struggled
to free herself from his grasp. “Let go of me!”

“Don’t be a fool,” he said, restraining her. She stopped struggling and faced him.

“We can’t stay here and do nothing,” she said, her eyes showing the first signs of
panic.

“We won’t. But running into an ambush won’t do your aunt any good. We’ve got to get
help.”

She nodded and forced herself to calm down. She realized Kearns was right.

“Paige, you’re going to have to go for help.”

“How?”

He looked around. “We’re several miles east of the highway we came in on. If you run
west, opposite the direction of the sun, you’ll hit the road eventually. Hail a motorist
and get to a phone. Call the sheriff’s office and get them out to your aunt’s place
with everything they’ve got.”

“What about you?”

“I’m going back to the house to see what I can do.”

“I’ll go with you. I can–”

“No,” he insisted. “There’s no time for debate. Go get help. It’s the only way.”

She gave Kearns a last look, squeezed his arm, and took off at a sprint. He turned
and headed back the way they’d come at a full run.

Kearns had been a regular runner for years. He knew his pace and his limitations.
He pushed hard, breathing through his nose and lengthening his stride over the uneven
terrain. He realized he had to reach the ranch, and fast, but he also had to have
some juice left in his tank when he arrived. He didn’t know what he was going to find
when he got there.

Paige sprinted hard. The calf-high grass nipped at her ankles. She struggled to maintain
even respiration, the fear in her heart affecting her lungs and forcing her to gulp
in air. Images from the past week flashed through her mind as she ran. She tried not
to revisit them, needing all her concentration to avoid falling down or twisting an
ankle on the rocky hillside. The harder she ran, the more relentlessly the fear fought
for purchase in her consciousness.

She remembered jogging last Monday, and the unexpected and savage blow that sent her
sprawling into the sand. She recalled the raspy voice of her tormentor when he phoned
her at work. She recollected the foul epithets sprayed in orange paint on the walls
of her burned-out condominium.

Paige remembered the helpless, defeated sensation of having her stunned and immobilized
body dragged across the pavement to her captor’s waiting car. She could almost hear
the deafening gunshots as Kearns exchanged gunfire with her kidnapper.

The image of her father lying battered in the intensive care unit, tubes running into
his nose and arms, danced in her mind. She ran on.

 

Minutes passed like days. Kearns heard several more gunshots, perhaps five or ten,
in a steady, rhythmic succession. These shots were louder than the ones he’d detected
earlier, and his military-trained ear told him they were the reports of a semiautomatic
rifle-caliber weapon. Two gunmen, or one gunman with two guns? Neither scenario was
pleasant. His heart sank, but he ran on, more determined than ever.

Soon, he realized he was climbing the last hill before the final descent onto the
Callen property. He crested the hill and descended rapidly, then slowed to a walk,
crouching low. Up ahead, less than a hundred yards in the distance, lay the house.
He scanned the vicinity for signs of a vehicle besides his Jeep and Elsa’s Volvo station
wagon, but saw nothing. He duck-walked as far as he dared and then slid to his belly
and high-crawled the remaining twenty yards to the guest cottage. He could see the
rear patio doors of the main house standing open.

He squinted up at the surrounding hills. It had been several years since his army
days, the last time he’d scanned the ground above him for hidden snipers. He could
smell the odor of burnt gunpowder heavy in the air.

Kearns wasted no more time. A skilled man with a rifle would have made quick work
of him already. If Elsa was injured inside the house, he was wasting minutes that
could mean the difference between life and death. He got up and sprinted around the
front of the cottage and dashed through the open door, his fists clenched to deal
with a potential threat inside.

The cottage was empty. He grabbed the shotgun, racked the slide action, and stuck
another shell into the magazine. He peered out through the door, willing his breathing
to calm down.

Kearns didn’t hesitate. He rushed from the cottage toward the rear patio door, aiming
toward the interior. He noticed the blood trail leading away from the house but kept
his focus and the Remington on potential threats ahead. He stopped at the entrance
and put his back to the wall. After scanning behind him to see if someone had crept
up, he ducked his head inside for a quick look.

The scene that met his view was a grisly one. The kitchen was a maelstrom of splattered
blood and shell casings. More than a dozen bullet holes dotted the cabinets, stove,
and refrigerator, leaving shattered remnants of food containers and glassware throughout.
Lying on the floor, facedown, was Elsa Callen. Cody lay unmoving at her feet.

Still directing the shotgun in front of him, Kearns gritted his teeth and went inside.
He stepped over Cody’s inert form to reach Elsa.

Elsa was warm and her chest was moving. He carefully rolled her over, and to his relief,
she awoke and sat up. He checked her injuries. Her eyes were unfocused, she had a
grazing gunshot wound to her hip and a nasty gash on her forehead, but thankfully
seemed otherwise unhurt. He noticed there was a large cast-iron skillet on the ground
next to where she fell. It had a crater in the center from a bullet’s impact and was
still hot to the touch.

“Kevin–”

“Sit quiet,” Kearns said softly. The wound on her head wasn’t severe but, like all
head wounds, bled badly. He reached up on the counter and retrieved a kitchen towel
and pressed it against the injury.

“Where is he?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she answered, her coherence returning. “I think he ran out.” She took
the towel from him and held it against her head. “I’ll manage; check on Cody, will
you?”

He went to the dog. Cody had a gunshot wound through his flank and several lacerations
along his neck and shoulders. He also had a lot of blood around his muzzle, and Kearns
could tell it wasn’t his. The Labrador had taken a bite out of someone, presumably
the shooter. The dog whimpered in recognition of Kearns.

“It’s all right, old scout,” he consoled the dog, patting his head. “You did what
you could. Help’s on the way.” Cody tried to lick his hand.

Kearns stood up and grabbed the kitchen phone. Elsa reached out her hand.

“Give it to me; I can phone for help.” Her eyes met his. “Cody took a piece of him,
and I tossed a pan full of boiling grease in his face. He’s hurt bad.”

“That iron pan probably saved your life,” he said, noticing the nine-millimeter casings
strewn about the floor. He surmised one of the bullets struck the pan as Elsa was
wielding it, and the impact sent the skillet careening into her own head.

“Kevin,” Elsa said, her voice as hard as her eyes. “There’s only one road out of here.”

Kearns got her meaning and nodded. He handed Elsa the phone and wordlessly turned
and left the kitchen.

He tracked the blood trail out of the house, across the patio, over the stone walk,
past the pool, and to a path leading up the hillside. The path led in the opposite
direction of the one he and Paige ran each morning, toward the main road.

Kearns was about to head back to the cottage to retrieve the car keys to the Jeep
when he noticed that all four tires on the vehicle, and those on Elsa’s Volvo, were
flat. The second wave of gunshots he’d heard was undoubtedly the suspect shooting
out the tires to prevent being followed. He cursed under his breath.

Kearns checked his watch, biting his lip. Nineteen minutes had passed since he and
Paige first heard the shots. He knew shooting out the tires could only mean one thing:
the suspect believed he could be overtaken by a vehicle on the only road off the Callen
property leading to the main highway. That meant the suspect’s car was probably somewhere
near the main road, possibly on the county fire road he’d seen when driving in. He
presumed the suspect hiked in over the hills on foot; that’s the way Kearns would
have done it.

Kearns could easily see the blood left by the wounded stalker on the dusty path. He
started to follow the crimson trail but then abruptly stopped. It occurred to him
if he avoided the winding path and instead climbed the steep grade directly in a line
toward where the path merged with the road, he might be able to cut the gunman off.
It would mean running a long way uphill, but he wasn’t wounded like his adversary,
who was apparently limited to the flat, well-worn path out of necessity.