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Maybe they've given up. Maybe they're passed out on moonshine. Or were scared off at the thought of the consequences, deciding that their fat wives or callused hands are safer, or easier, than what they had planned with her.
Spread-eagle at your place...
A sharp crack filled the night. She jumped at the sound. A gunshot. It seemed to come from where she'd seen the firelight. A moment later there was a second shot. Closer.
Breathing heavily in fear, gripping the coup stick. Unable to look out the black window, unable not to. Terrified that she'd see Tom's pasty face appearing slowly in the frame, grinning. We'll be back.
The wind was up, bending the trees, the brush, the grass.
She thought she heard a man laughing, the sound soon lost in the hollow wind like the call of one of the Manitou spirits of the Weapemeocs.
She thought she heard a man calling, "Get yourself ready, get yourself ready...."
But maybe not.
"You hear shots?" Rich Culbeau asked Harris Tomel.
They sat around a dying campfire. They were uneasy and not nearly as drunk as if this'd been a normal hunting trip, not nearly as drunk as they wanted to be. The 'shine just wasn't taking.
"Pistol," Tomel said. "Large caliber. Ten millimeter or a .44, .45. Automatic."
"Bullshit," Culbeau said. "You can't tell it's an automatic or not."
"Can," Tomel lectured. "A revolver's louder--because of the gap between the cylinder and the barrel. Logical."
"Bullshit," Culbeau repeated. Then asked, "How far?"
"Humid air. It's night ... I make it four, five miles." Tomel sighed. "I want this thing to be over with. I'm sick of it."
"I hear that," Culbeau said. "Was easier in Tanner's Corner. Getting complicated now."
"Damn bugs," Tomel said, swatting a mosquito.
"Whatta you think somebody's shooting for this time of night? It's almost one."
"Raccoon in the garbage, black bear in a tent, man humping somebody else's wife."
Culbeau nodded. "Look--Sean's asleep. That man sleeps anytime, anyplace." He kicked through the embers to cool them.
"He's on fucking medication."
"He is? I didn't know that."
"That's why he sleeps anytime, anyplace. He's acting funny, don'tcha think?" Tomel asked, glancing at the skinny man as if he were a snoozing snake.
"Liked him better when you couldn't figure him out. Now he's all serious, it scares the shit outa me. Holding that gun like it's his dick and all."
"You're right 'bout that," Tomel muttered then stared into the murky forest for several minutes. He sighed then said, "Hey, you got the Six-Twelve? I'm getting eaten alive here. And hand me that bottle of 'shine while you're at it."
Amelia Sachs opened her eyes at the sound of the pistol shot.
She looked into the bedroom of the trailer, where Garrett was asleep on the mattress. He hadn't heard the noise.
Another shot.
Why was somebody shooting this late? she wondered.
The shots reminded her of the incident on the river-- Lucy and the others firing at the boat they thought Sachs and Garrett were under. She pictured the geysers of water flying into the air from the stunning shotgun blasts.
