Zion (25 page)

Back at the screen door, he opened it and dialed the Redfield telescopic sight to six power. He looked through it aiming at the hat, but it went out of view. He kept the rifle and the scope ready and scanned the tree line. Then the hat as well as the face came back into view. “That dumb-assed Donald Brownlow,” he said.

James Luke shot so quickly it surprised him. He immediately realized that he’d probably missed. He pumped the gun and leaned against the door jam, bracing the rifle forearm against it. His shoulder throbbed. This time he tried to find the marshal in the optical sight, put him in the crosshairs and take a decent aim, make it slam home. But the marshal was no longer there. He couldn’t see anymore. James Luke searched back and forth. Maybe the stupid bastard slipped off, he thought. Maybe I hit him after all. Maybe he’s dead.

But before James Luke could find the marshal again, his left hand exploded in blood, the pinky finger a mangling of flesh that flowered before him. He screamed and howled in pain and got back into the house, slamming the screen door and bolting the solid door shut. The twice-wounded man dropped the gun on the table and wrapped his hand in a dishtowel, holding it above his head. He paced a few agonizing steps. Then he removed the towel and looked at it. It wasn’t as bad as he’d thought, but a chunk of flesh was gone from his hand, and his little finger was now baptized in blood. He writhed in pain, grabbing another towel from the cooking area and then ran to the truck out back with his deer rifle hanging over his shoulder on a leather strap. He cranked the Suburban and looked at his hand under the towel again, unsure how he wasn’t hit in the chest with the bullet. He barreled down the logging road wide open and cursing. It snaked behind the camp as it came near a hay pasture at the rear of Sarepta Baptist Church.

 “Oh my God,” the marshal hollered. He lay flat on the ground like a big hound dog flopped out for a rest. “I thought we were pinned down, but I hear a truck.”

Tom crouched behind a beech tree. He’d leaned over and used a low limb to steady his rifle for a second shot. He saw a glimpse of the blue vehicle as it fled from behind the camp into the thick woods. Much of Tom’s life had been spent trying to avoid violence, attempting to live in a manner different from his fighting uncles, and now he was just like his father wading into the fray to stop the conflict. Yet now he wanted to kill James Luke and wished he had. “I just saw James Luke’s blue Chevy. There must be a way out the back of the place. But you okay?” Tom asked.

“Yeah, but I heard a bullet hit a limb above me. Did you do any good?” The marshal sat on his butt.

“I believe I hit him, but I don’t know how bad. Not bad enough to stop him from driving the truck.”

“His wife didn’t say nothing about a road into the woods. Look, you’re in better shape than me. Go get the truck and come on back for me. I’ll wait here in case he doubles around. But Tom, I didn’t whistle.”

“No and you’re mighty lucky I didn’t wait.”

“Thank you. Give me your rifle in case he comes back through. I might need some range.”

Tom helped the man to his feet. They swapped guns and a cardboard box of ammo apiece. Tom took the truck keys. He left jogging in his cowboy boots, pounding the dirt and grass to get to the road, the short-barreled 12 gauge in his hand.

The marshal’s heart was throbbing, beating dangerously fast. He checked the rifle chamber in the Savage lever action for a live .308 round and tried to get into a better position to see the driveway and the front of the house, but he heard the truck winding out in the woods covering a distance, leaving north of the camp at a demonic pace.

James Luke’s countenance fell when he saw a new bright yellow gate ahead on the pathway to the pasture. It was a steel gate made of sturdy oilfield drilling pipe painted canary yellow. It was at the end of the easement through the woods and on land owned by the church. He had driven this route many times since he started coming to hunt in Meadville. There had never been any talk of a new gate, and this yellow monster must have been built by the church after hunting season ended. He could see a heavy brass padlock on it, and at first he thought about taking the rifle to it, shooting it clear through. He was half a mile from the camp and knew better than to try to back out on the trail. Bleeding badly from his hand, he had no time to waste. Instead of using the rifle bullet in place of a locksmith, he backed up the Suburban about fifty feet. He strapped himself in with the seatbelt, the first time he’d ever put it on, and he had trouble doing this because of his wounds. Then he floored the accelerator on the big block engine and was at the gate in seconds, feeling the concussion run through his bones like lightning, causing his shoulder and hand to throb even worse than before, the towel falling off his bleeding left hand. He barreled past the gate and into the open pasture and heard steam spraying out of the radiator, but he slammed down the pedal again and headed across the pasture toward the rear of Sarepta Baptist Church.

Hot steam began to cover the windshield, and he could tell the truck was favoring the right side. The rifle had fallen to the floorboard and lodged itself halfway under the seat. He hoped it wasn’t broken. James Luke was trying to drive as fast as the motor could turn by the time he hit the main road, but he knew he’d blown a front right tire, and all he could do was curse like a demon.

Tom drove the marshal’s pickup all the way to the camp. Brownlow met him near the front steps of the place and stood at the passenger side door, the dogs barking madly when they saw their master at the front of the camp.

The marshal said, “It sounded like a genuine collision, but the truck kept on a-going. Let’s try to follow him. But Tom, I’m about whipped. Crawling on the ground took my strength.”

“All right, get in,” Tom said, staying put in the driver’s seat.

The hounds barked in the truck bed. They made a commotion as soon as the marshal got into the passenger’s seat. Tom drove around to the back of the house and followed the tracks in the tall grass where the old logging road was located, and they followed James Luke’s route through last year’s orange sage grass and over some young saplings.

Marshal Brownlow sat with the shotgun barrel out of the window, having swapped weapons again. The rifle lay propped up on the seat beside Tom, the steel barrel pointing to the floor. Tom drove down the logging road at a reasonable speed. He was cautious. The worst thing that could happen was an ambush, Tom thought. I could get myself killed in a hurry just like my son. He grimaced.

They came to the tangled yellow gate and saw the skids in the dirt and the tracks where the tire had gone flat, but the vehicle tracks kept on heading across the field.

The chrome bumper lay on the ground. “Son of a bitch. He ’bout tore his truck to pieces,” Brownlow said. He got on the radio and began to attempt to call any law enforcement in radio range. After a time, the marshal found a volunteer fireman listening, and he said he’d telephone the sheriff’s office in Meadville to ask for help. When they passed Sarepta Baptist, they could see a line of ruts going north toward the old Union Church.

They followed the tracks cautiously, unsure of what might await them. The men didn’t even know if James Luke was alone. It appeared that two tires were flat, the front tires. The vehicle couldn’t go very far. They slowed, listening for the truck, but he could no longer hear the revving Chevrolet engine. It wasn’t long before dark.

“He can’t be no piece from here. Let’s hold out a while,” Brownlow said.

“We’d better wait on that deputy. At least we have the dogs if we need to hunt him up,” Tom said.

A Volkswagen Beetle with two teenaged boys careened toward them on the gravel road. The marshal waved his arms to get them to pull over, and they skidded the tires to a stop near his police truck.

“Howdy, officer,” the young driver said to the marshal.

“Did you see a blue panel truck on the way over here?” Brownlow asked

“Yes, sir. It turned toward Aldersgate Chapel back yonder, and the front tires were on the steel rims. We about met him head on. I saw that he made the right turn onto the chapel road. I watched him in my rearview mirror. Looked kind of funky, officer.”

“Boys, y’all stay away from here. There’s a killer on the loose, and you just passed him on his way to hell,” the marshal said.

Brownlow thanked the boys, and the Volkswagen traveled south toward Meadville.

Tom and the marshal discussed the danger, their guns held tight in their hands. The Franklin County deputy sheriff soon pulled in behind the marshal’s truck where they’d been waiting ten minutes on the road.

“What happened to you?” the marshal asked.

“I never could find the camp or the right road,” Deputy Lewis said. “I drove all around here but gave up. I never found the right Forest Service road. Ain’t no Number 179 sign nowhere.”

“We tried to radio you but never got anybody,” said the marshal.

“My radio is dead broke,” the deputy said, a frown on his face.

“Y’all can’t buy a new one?”

“No, the county’s broker than I am, and that’s awful damned broke.”

The marshal gave him a summation of events. “Can’t we assist you in discharging the warrant?” The marshal tried to be deferential.

“Yeah, don’t mind if I see it, do y’all?” Lewis said.

“Be glad to show you.” The marshal gave the deputy the warrant. “You got any backup?” asked Brownlow.

“No, I’m it. The sheriff’s in Osyka at a funeral. At least you got them tracking dogs.” The deputy handed the warrant papers back to the marshal.

“Yeah, I’ve got two good bloodhounds. And Tom here’s a marksman.” Marshal Brownlow gestured to Tom.

“Is the Aldersgate Chapel Lane a dead end?” Tom asked.

“I reckon. I don’t recall ever going down that lane, but I suspect it’s like most of these little side roads that go nowhere,” said Deputy Lewis.

They drove a couple hundred yards to the chapel road, and the tracks clearly made an easterly turn into it. Deputy Lewis established a roadblock with his patrol car to keep anyone in or out, and the marshal parked his truck near Aldersgate Chapel Lane, but not in the middle of the road in order to provide a safe place to hide if necessary.

 Up ahead was an opening where they could see the front corner of the white clapboard building with its tin-topped steeple as sharp as a bayonet. The Suburban was stopped on the side of the road, and steam spewed out of the radiator at the front of the vehicle. The driver’s side door was open. The men studied the situation but were cautious. They stood behind the patrol car.

“He’s either inside or behind that church,” the deputy said. “I guarantee it.”

“Yeah, I believe he is,” said the marshal. “If I can keep from getting shot, I’ll turn my dogs on him, but I’ve got to be careful when I let ’em go. I don’t want to lose a dog or have one take a bullet. Dixie’s bad to bite, and she might get on him. I don’t want her shot today. Don’t try to catch her neither.”

They discussed the situation, night falling on them fast. They decided to flank the church by going through the woods, the deputy and Tom, taking three coordinate positions. Let the marshal go straight in from up the road following the dogs.

The marshal took the pair of dogs out of the cage and put them on the leather leash with a two-way coupler on the end, and they followed the ruts in the dirt road with Tom and the deputy behind, the dogs pulling and tugging Brownlow, the hounds happy to be out of the big cage in the back of the truck and doing what they were bred to do.

Tom and the deputy followed the marshal as he led with his dogs up to the Suburban and saw it still steaming from the busted radiator. They realized the engine was probably burned up. It must have seized by the smell of it, the front tires flat on the rims. The Chevy was empty. James Luke had fled, which was obvious when they first saw the broke down truck as empty as a pauper’s cupboard.

The evening gloam was all around, sounds of crickets in the air. Deputy Lewis and Tom took to the woods at the right to flank the chapel.

Marshal Brownlow saw a bloody rag on the seat and gave it to the two bloodhounds, and this got them excited. Howling with canine joy, they immediately took the scent. He stood behind the truck door, hoping to use it as a shield if shooting started. He waited to give Tom and the deputy ample time to move into place. He braced the shotgun against his hip. Then he let the dogs go, and they made a beeline howling and barking toward the church house. He pointed the 12 gauge at the building like a gun bull at a penitentiary, though he knew it was out of buckshot range.

From the place where Tom stood taking his position, he could see the deputy and the little church. He hid behind a magnolia tree and waited with the Savage deer rifle trained on the front steps. There was an uncertain haze out, a light fog all of a sudden, and the cross on top of the steeple gave off a strange glow.

Both dogs went up to the front door of the church and stopped. They sniffed around and then came down and trailed beside the chapel, tails wagging, followed by barking with their deep bass tones. Afterward, there was a commotion coming from underneath the building, a gunshot and a loud yelp.

Tom could see and hear from his post. He began to run toward the chapel as fast as he could. He held the rifle in his right hand as he dashed forward. When he got near the building, he saw James Luke beginning to emerge from beside a concrete pier under the church and into the evening dusk. The Remington barrel came into view first and then his head. James Luke had pushed the gun forward from under the church and pulled himself out. The man lay flat on his stomach, his rifle in his hand, as he struggled to get to his feet, a bloodhound fighting him and biting his legs. He was hollering as he fought, trying to get loose. He attempted to stand and tried to aim the rifle at the snarling animal attacking his leg, but he was off balance, unable to shoot.

Tom slowed to a stop and pointed the rifle at James Luke, and he hollered, “No!” He was twenty yards away and could have split James Luke’s skull like a dropped melon with one shot from the .308, just like James Luke did his boy. The front sight took in the man like a deer in the swamp. But Tom began to run faster now than he’d run in years. Tom saw James Luke trying to fight off the dog, trying to point the scoped rifle, but he was upon him, and he hit James Luke in the jaw with the steel butt of the gun, a blow as hard as a mule’s kick.