Charlie Martz and Other Stories (18 page)

The man with the rifle was at least thirty: a tall, narrow-shouldered, thin-faced man, his cap cocked on one side of his head and the peak turned up. He nodded to Chris politely, touching his cap with one finger; but with the gesture was the trace of a relaxed, amused smile.

He said, “Can we be of some help to you?”

“Maybe she's lost,” the younger one said. “Or she come looking for somebody.”

Chris stood still, her hands deep in the pockets of the loden coat. “I'm looking for you if you've been doing the shooting.”

“A lot of people shooting,” the one with the rifle said, “during the hunting season.” He spoke slowly, with a relaxed confidence and an unmistakable Deep South drawl.

Just tell them,
Chris thought, feeling a sudden irritation. She hesitated, though, and said, almost apologetically, “I'm afraid you're hunting on private property.”

“Well, you don't have to be afraid of that,” the one with the rifle said. “Maybe the owner doesn't mind us hunting his land.”

“If I didn't make myself clear,” Chris said, quietly, “I'm telling you you'll have to leave.”

“You're saying you
own
those woods?” the younger one asked.

Chris looked at him. “I hope you're not trying to be funny.”

“I ask a simple question—”

“Of course we
own
these woods.”

“You say so and that proves it.” The younger one glanced at his friend. “Just take her word for it.”

“I don't think you're in a position to question it,” Chris said coldly.

“You don't, huh—why not?”

“You're trespassing and you know it.”

He shrugged, shifting his weight to stand hip-cocked, one hand parting the open coat and the thumb hooking into his belt. The other hand still held the whiskey bottle at his side. Noticing it again, Chris saw another rifle leaning against a stump.

“You prove you own this place,” he said, “then we're trespassing. How's that?”

“Vince,” the tall one said, swinging his rifle down-pointed under one arm and working his hands into his pockets. “She said
we
own it.” His eyes remained on Chris. “Who's we, you and your daddy?”

“My husband and I.”

“He must be off somewhere.”

“He's at home.”

“Then how come he didn't come out here himself?”

“What difference does it make whether I tell you or my husband does!” Her voice rose. Chris knew that her face was flushed. She paused. “I think this has gone far enough.”

“Maybe she doesn't even have a husband.” Vince, the younger one, kept his eyes on Chris. “I mean maybe she's just saying it . . . you know?”

The other man stood with his narrow shoulders drawn up. He seemed rigid, feeling the cold, though his voice was soft and relaxed. “I wouldn't put it past her having a husband,” he drawled. “I just don't picture him home and her coming out here by herself. I was thinking, maybe she thought it was her husband doing the shooting. She comes out to fetch him and finds us instead.”

“Crazy,” Vince said, grinning. He raised the bottle, studying it in the fading light, then took a long drink, one hand around the neck of the bottle. Lowering it his eyes were on Chris again.

“You want some?”

“No, thank you.”

“I mean it'll relax you.”

“Look,” Chris said, “either you leave right now or I call the state police.”

Vince shook his head. “I mean she needs relaxin'.”

“I was thinking,” the older one said mildly, “how come if her husband's home she'd go to all the trouble of calling the police? Why not just get him?”

Vince raised his arms, gesturing lazily. “All the talk. Why don't we just have a drink?” He extended the bottle toward Chris. “What do we need all the talk for?”

Chris half turned to walk away. “I'm warning you. As soon as I get home, I'm calling the state police. If you're still here . . . if they arrest you, I promise we'll make a charge.”

“Vince,” the older one drawled. “What she's saying is she doesn't want to drink with you.” He saw Chris moving away. “Wait a minute now.” When she stopped, hesitantly, he moved a few steps toward her.

“You scared of Vince?”

Chris said nothing at first, thinking,
Just leave. Quick.
But still she waited, watching the older one now. “I don't think there's anything more to be said.”

“Don't mind Vince any,” the older one went on easily. “Hose him off and slick his hair down he's a pretty clean-cut boy. But”—the man paused, his eyes not leaving Chris—“he's still just a boy.”

“You skinny hillbilly,” Vince muttered. “I'm all the boy she can handle.”

The older one shrugged, the hint of a smile softening his bony face. “I was thinking though,” he said, “maybe what she's looking
for is a man.” He moved toward her again. “I bet that's it. A grown man you can appreciate and trust not to tell things.”

You waited too long!
Chris knew it, feeling the need to run, to be away from them. She had been uncertain, only sensing a danger at first, feeling the tension inside her growing, warning her. But the gall of them—their posing, play-acting, self-confident gall had been too much, had sparked the irritation, had touched off the outright anger that had compelled her to stand up to them. But now—

She didn't run. Deliberately she made herself walk, though not hesitating now, or stopping or glancing back when one of them called. His voice came sharply. The younger one. Vince. Or James Dean or whoever he thinks he is. She was aware of this in her mind, in and out of her mind as she pictured them coming after her, as she tried to hear their steps but could hear only the crisp, leaf-sweeping sound of her own boots. She didn't stop to listen, to make sure, not while she was still in the trees, not even when she had reached the meadow and found herself in the open, feeling the cold wind and the frozen, humped ground beneath her.

She heard the sound of an engine then, a car starting, and she wanted to stop, to make sure they were leaving. But Chris went on, straining to keep up the same long-strided pace, until she reached the high point of the meadow, until she paused, breathing heavily, finally looking back.

One of them stood at the edge of the trees watching her and she knew instantly that it was the older one.

But the car sound—it couldn't have been anyone else.

The figure at the edge of the trees started across the meadow: a thin, dark shape against a white expanse of snow.

Chris ran the rest of the way—stumbling once while she was still in the meadow, breaking the thin ice of a low place and falling full-length in the shallow water, sobbing as she fumbled with the gate latch, running through the orchard, then in the open again, almost
to the yard, and now she screamed, calling Evan, not seeing him on the porch, but screaming his name as she ran across the yard.

Inside the barn, the sound seemed faint, faraway. Evan listened. He stood near the hay bales that were stacked high against the dividing, lengthwise wall of the barn. He wasn't sure of the sound at first, not until it came again, then there was no doubt what it was or who was calling him.

By the time Evan got to the double doors and pushed out to the cement ramp, Chris was even with the barn—running when he first saw her, but now stopping suddenly, looking toward the house.

“Hey, Chris—”

He saw the car then, the yellow convertible swinging past the corner of the house, cutting sharply and barely missing the back end of the pickup. The car braked, almost coming to a complete stop. Then it was moving again. Moving as Chris whirled and ran for the barn, the car crossing the yard in a straight, deliberate line toward them.

“Evan—” She was on the ramp now, out of breath, reaching for Evan.

“What's going on? . . . Hey, you're all wet!” He saw the car swerve to line itself up with the low ramp and Chris was pushing him inside, pulling the heavy door behind them. Abruptly they were in semidarkness and for a moment there was silence, as if the engine sound had been shut off with the daylight.

But it came again, an idling rumble, the guttural, gradual rising sound of dual exhausts. Evan moved instinctively, pulling Chris out of the way, turning with her to shield her as both doors burst open—the near one swinging toward them on its ripped hinges, raking the cement floor with a scraping, splintering shriek before the bottom of the door jammed against the cement. With it was the engine sound a yellow shape hurtling past them. The other door was sheared off cleanly, lifted, and bounced aside as the yellow shape rammed into the hay bales. The engine sound rose and died
and the top bales came down on the car, covering the hood and rolling off the canvas top.

The outside light that streaked in now was filled with fine dust. It swirled soundlessly over the car, rising to the peaked ceiling of the barn. Chris stood rigid. She could feel Evan and hear him say something, a whispered, urgent sound close to her, but her gaze was fixed on the car.

Then the whisper again, more clearly. “Chris . . . who is he?”

“They were in the woods, two of them. I told them to leave—” She could see Vince in the car sitting hunched over the steering wheel, his hands close together on it and his head almost touching his arms, not unconscious, for she had seen him move; no, more like he was resting, waiting. Her words ran together as she tried to tell Evan everything at once, quickly, before Vince looked up or got out or did whatever he was going to do.

Evan's hand moved over her shoulder gently, calming her, and her eyes rose to his face: to the weathered, angular, warm-looking face that she wanted to touch, that showed a small bulge of tobacco as he shifted it from one cheek to the other, staring at the car, studying it with intense interest, yet impassively. He could have been looking at a new tractor, deciding whether or not to buy it.

The decision was made. Chris felt his hand slip away. He started for the convertible and immediately Vince sat up. Vince moved away from the wheel and a rifle barrel came through the open window.

“If you got any ideas—”

Evan walked toward him. “I thought you might need some help.”

“Hold it there!”

“You looked for a minute like you were hurt.”

“You hear me!” The barrel moved, a short, threatening jab, and Evan stopped. He stood five or six feet from the car door.

“I think you better give me the rifle,” Evan said.

“Move again I'll give it to you.”

Evan frowned. “Are you serious?”

“Try something.”

“You've been watching television too much.”

Vince's eyes shifted to Chris. “Tell her to come up where I can see her.”

“What'll you do, shoot me if I don't?”

“I'm telling you one time.”

“You're absolutely nuts. Do you know that?”

“You get to the count of three,” Vince said.

“Then what?”

“Tell her!” He screamed it, jabbing the rifle again.

Evan glanced over his shoulder at Chris. “You want to hand over the rifle, Vince? Then we'll talk about what you're going to do about my doors.”

Vince stared, his pose showing no more expression than if he were asleep with his eyes open. “I'm going to teach you a lesson, man.” He barely moved his mouth saying it, yet the words came out clearly.

Evan stared back at him. “Sitting in the car?”

“I'm coming out.”

“Today?”

Vince pulled himself toward the door, the rifle barrel coming out farther. “You just keep asking for it, don't you?”

“And you keep sitting there,” Evan said mildly.

The door latch clicked free. Evan waited. He waited until the door started to open, until the rifle barrel angled away and he saw one of Vince's feet beneath the door, Vince stooped and momentarily off balance, just beginning to straighten up—

Evan moved then, pivoting as he lunged, and threw his hip solidly against the car door, slamming it into Vince's legs and stomach.
The door swung open as Evan bounced off and now he let it come, stepping in and around it, hooking his fists into Vince's body, hitting him twice, then a third time, before Vince could cover himself and turn away. Evan pulled the rifle out of his hand, stepping back with it, and Vince slumped against the car door as a boxer hangs on the ropes of a prize ring.

From where she was standing, Chris saw only Evan's back and the barrel of the rifle almost touching the ground at his side. She heard him say something to Vince, not the words, only the sound of his voice that seemed softer, more gentle, now that it was over and she was aware of the dimness again and the hay dust still hanging in the shaft of light.

But the other one,
Chris thought.

And that suddenly she knew it wasn't over, that this was no more than a lull, a moment's rest that ended abruptly as her gaze moved from Evan and she saw the other man in the doorway, his tall, hunch-shouldered frame sharply silhouetted in the outside light.

He was watching Evan, though not facing him directly, his rifle held in both hands across his body, holding it as he might have carried it walking to the barn, holding it lightly, but with the barrel almost squarely on Evan.

She saw the man look at her quickly, then back to Evan, edging one foot out as if to stand more firmly. Evan was looking at him now—Chris was sure of that—though he hadn't moved and the rifle he'd taken from Vince remained at his side.

She watched them, feeling the silence like a tight string between them, waiting to be broken by a word or a movement or whatever it would take. It could happen. It wasn't a dream. She was standing here watching them, feeling it, not knowing what to do, but knowing it could happen.

Until Evan spoke, the sound of his voice coming quietly out of the silence.