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Oh, Lord, his ears and his legs . . . Everything hurt . . . His wife—beautiful, sensual Trudie—wasn’t moving, just lying on the grass in front of him, not thirty yards from the breezeway and back door of the house. On his knees, he reached out to her. “Trudie,” he whispered, his voice cracking, “Don’t . . . don’t leave.” But, in his heart, he knew she was already gone.
Footsteps.
He sensed the heavy tread and twisted his head to look over his shoulder. He was vaguely aware of grass tickling his nostrils and the scent of damp earth and the menthol smell of the eucalyptus tree Trudie had refused to let him cut down, but those were fleeting thoughts that came in and out of his head.
He thought he noticed a movement in the shadows.
Ned squinted, his heart pumping wildly, his fingers gripping the slick pitchfork as if it were a lifeline.
As he focused, lying still, he saw the monster, a hulking, faceless sh
adow that swam before his eyes as it approached.
To find out if you’re dead.
Now the assailant was close enough that Ned saw the rounded toes of the killer’s leather boots, then the barrel of a rifle, so close, so damned close and smelling burnt, of gunpowder, pointed straight at his heart. He played dead and hoped the night veiled the movement of his left hand, half tucked behind his body as he slid the wire cutters out of his pocket. They slipped and fell to the ground beside him.
“Let it shine, Crenshaw,” the killer said cryptically as he aimed, “Let it shine.”
Ned was never one to give up without a fight.
Give me strength; this SOB killed Trudie!
Throwing his weight forward, he grabbed the barrel with his left hand, yanking the killer off balance. With his right, using all his strength, he swung the pitchfork in an arc that sliced through the air and landed hard on the stunned killer’s face.
“What the—”
Whack! Whack-whack!
“Oooawwa, shit! You stupid cocksuck—” His words were cut off by a howl of pain as Ned swung again, the sharp tines cutting through clothing and scraping across raw skin.
Whack! Whack!
Sharp metal spikes hit hard again, bounced a bit, then sliced across the attacker’s chest, ripping through clothing and slicing skin to the bones of his ribs.
“Aarrrgh! You stupid fucker! You’re gonna pay for that,” the attacker yelled, jumping back, jerking hard, the barrel of the rifle sliding from Ned’s sweaty, bloody fingers.
Ned, fading, swung again, and the killer caught the weapon on the neck, where the metal was attached to the handle. Gloved hands gripped hard. With a sharp pull and twist, he yanked the pitchfork from Ned.
Furious, the attacker flung the pitchfork toward the house.
Ned rolled to one side, agony searing through his body, his fingers grappling through the grass as the killer took aim again. The tip of his index finger touched metal, and he swept up the wire clippers. With the barrel of the gun pointed at his chest, Ned flung himself forward and lunged at his attacker, the sharp point of the clipper jabbing jeans and flesh to bury deep in thigh muscle. Ned hoped to heaven he might somehow sever the bastard’s femoral artery.
The assailant screamed, another satisfying, primeval howl. “Arrrggghweee!”
Ned clung to the clippers, using his weight, and twisted the grips as blood poured through the ripped fabric.
“You stupid ass-wipe!” Kicking forward, the killer connected with Ned’s chest, and he heard a rib crack with the blow. He lost his grasp of his makeshift weapon and went down, no longer on his knees, but flattened to the cool ground.
The killer fired.
Craaack!
So loud! So damned loud!
The shot went wild.
Another blast.
