Killer Summer

87

The crack of a gunshot echoed off the rocks. In the confusion, it sounded as if a second round had been fired. Then a third.

“KEVIN!!” Summer screamed, spotting him atop the rock face, Christ-like, arms outstretched.

Kevin felt a searing jolt to his right shoulder-not exactly pain but the presence of something foreign and frightening-the impact of the bullet spi

He opened his eyes. He was still conscious.

The pilot and copilot had stopped dead in their tracks, their weapons raised in Kevin’s direction.

The cowboy came out of the bog at a sprint from behind the three, their attention being on Kevin, reaching them in four or five long strides. John hit the pilot in the ribs and sent him to the ground. A gun discharged, but Kevin couldn’t tell whose. John then scooped Summer off her feet, cradling her in his arms, angling himself in such a way so as to shield her, anticipating the shotgun blast from the copilot. He took the hit, went down on one knee, then somehow managed to stand back up, still holding Summer tight. He continued toward the rocks.

The copilot tracked him with the shotgun, took aim.

The revolver’s nickel plating sparkled not five inches from Kevin’s face on the ledge.

Without thinking, he reached for it, his finger finding the trigger, and, extending his arm, aimed it.

Red spray erupted from the center of the copilot’s back, directly behind his heart. He didn’t move. Still standing up, he was already dead. Instead of falling, he wilted to the ground like a marionette having its strings slowly released. His knee struck his chin, throwing his head back, and the shotgun discharged. A waft of gray smoke rose into the morning sky.

The pilot placed his hands on his head and spread his legs, making a dusty angel in the soil. Deathly silence followed, with not a bird or squirrel or even the wind a

Recovering, he couldn’t see the cowboy or Summer and didn’t know if they’d made it to the rocks.

He released the revolver from his hand, its barrel brushing his forearm as it tumbled to the dirt. The barrel was cold, not hot. The gun hadn’t been fired.

Had the cowboy shot the man?

Footfalls came ru

The footfalls slowed. Then a silhouette appeared.

Kevin closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger.

There was a pop, followed by loud ringing in his ears. The smell of cordite hung in the air.

He opened his eyes. The silhouette was gone. Only rock and sky remained. No Matt.

“Put down the gun, Kevin!”

Kevin heard the voice of the man he wished were there instead of the man who wished to kill him. He heard his uncle’s voice, not Matt’s. Were his ears playing tricks on him?

Before leaving this earth, Kevin was determined to summon up the defining moment of his short life: his finding his father’s body. But he couldn’t do it like he usually could. Instead, he only saw peaceful blue sky and pristine white clouds.

“Kevin!”

No mistaking it this time: it was his Uncle Walt. There was no way it could be but it was.

In his mind’s eye, Kevin replayed, videolike, the shots striking the copilot’s chest. His uncle could hit a matchbook at a hundred yards.

“Kevin, is the gun down? Put the gun down!”

“Okay,” Kevin muttered, releasing the revolver, “it’s down.” It tumbled off the ledge and landed in the sage.

Kevin heard something and stole a look at the pilot. The man was now facedown, his hands still over his head. The cowboy, five yards away, his rifle trained on the man, was missing his shirt. His back was bloody.

Walt’s face appeared cautiously over the edge of the rocks. He reached out a hand and pulled Kevin up.

Matt lay awkwardly on the ground ten yards away, his eyes blinking, his legs twitching, with two holes in his chest. Kevin had to look away.

“Good thing you’re a lousy shot,” Walt said.

“I thought it was-”

“That arm okay?”

“It’s felt better,” Kevin said. Then he shouted: “Summer?”

His uncle smiled.

“Down here!” came her voice.

For Kevin, it was all that mattered, it was all he’d wanted to hear. But then purple orbs loomed at the periphery of his vision. He felt faint.

“Morgan Ranch,” Walt said into his radio.

“Is he okay?” Summer cried out in panic.

“He’s going to be fine,” Walt answered. “Just fine.”

Kevin felt his uncle’s arms around him. He felt a sense of peace he had not known in a long time. And then the world went dark.

88

Using a first-aid kit, Walt cleaned Kevin’s wound and wrapped his arm-the through shot that was no longer bleeding too badly-before boarding Garman’s four-seater. Garman had transferred the cell repeater, which was about the size of a briefcase, to the plane’s small cargo hold, allowing Summer to occupy the front passenger’s seat while Walt sat with Kevin in the back. Walt held Kevin’s upper arm firmly, keeping the compress on the wound. Despite the pain, Kevin didn’t complain.

The FBI was reportedly on their way in a helicopter to Morgan Creek Ranch to “establish supervision.” A Life Flight chopper out of Boise was coming for Salvo. While Cantell was dead, Salvo was critically wounded and needed medical attention. But who had decided the evacuation of Kevin and Summer took precedence over Salvo.

Summer, now wearing a headset, listened to radio traffic and communicated with Garman. She checked over her shoulder every few minutes to assure herself that Kevin was still there. She seemed to be in surprisingly good spirits.

“What on earth possessed you to just… stand up like that?” Walt asked Kevin, raising his voice to be heard.

“I don’t know,” Kevin answered.

“You could have gotten yourself killed.”

“I guess.”

“John said the plan was for you to fire a couple shots, create a distraction.”

“Did he?”

“Was that your idea of a distraction?”

Kevin shrugged, then winced with pain. He wouldn’t be shrugging again anytime soon. “Plans change,” he said.

“You were lucky it was John. Not many like him.”

“Do you know him?” Kevin asked, thinking it sounded like he did.

“I know him professionally. He’s a good guy who got himself in a bad situation maybe eight or nine years ago. Two men dead. In Lemhi County, not my case. Way I heard it, it was self-defense. That’s the way the judge saw it too. Trial was in Hailey, to get a fair jury. John couldn’t seem to get it right after that, even though he was acquitted. He took to drinking, got himself in more trouble. Then there were these men in Challis and Salmon, relatives and drinking buddies of the two who were killed, and they’ll never see it the way the law sees it. It’ll never be safe up there for John. So he just dried up, went to work on Mitchum’s Ranch, and has been a hermit ever since.”

“Without him-” Kevin started, his throat constricting. He hung his head, not wanting Walt to see.

Walt tousled the boy’s hair with his free hand, an intimate, fatherly, forgiving gesture that Kevin couldn’t remember anyone doing for years.

“Listen, he said the same thing about you. Said how you saved his life back there at the river.”