Man on a leash - By Charles Williams Page 0,41
way in a hurry. He jumped down into the edge of the ravine and lifted the binoculars from their strap around his neck. It was a sports car. It disappeared from view behind the trees before he could get more than this brief glimpse of it, but his eyes were coldly watchful as he waited for it to come into view in the yard at the side of the house. It did in a little more than a minute, and even as it came to a sliding stop, he saw it was Bonner’s Porsche.
The big man leaped out, almost before the car had come to a full stop, and lunged toward the wall of the house, flattening himself against it between the windows, and Romstead could see he had the flat slab of an automatic in his hand. He hadn’t known the other car was there until he’d made the turn into the yard, Romstead thought. He was being blinded with sweat and had to lower the glasses to wipe it away. When he replaced them, Bonner had eased along the wall until he could peer into the kitchen window.
He went around the corner then, up onto the porch, and pushed the door open and went inside. That took guts, Romstead thought, not knowing who might be in there waiting to blow your head off—guts or wild, bullheaded rage. He’d already seen the other was incongruously dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and a tie; he’d just come from his sister’s funeral.
Bonner emerged from the house, strode to the rented car, and opened the door to lean in. Looking for the registration, Romstead thought. The big man straightened up then with the Steadman County map in his hand. He studied it for a moment, threw it back on the seat, and dropped the automatic in the pocket of his jacket. He strode over to the barn, emerged from that after a brief moment, and went to the chicken house to peer inside. He looked once around the flat and then began to stride furiously straight back toward the hillside and the ravines where Romstead was.
He’s not after me, Romstead thought, unless he’s gone completely berserk and stopped thinking altogether, but I’d better find out for sure before he gets right on top of me with that gun. Better to have him open up at fifty yards so I can haul ass than to let him stumble over me. He stood up as though he’d just climbed out of the ravine and started to walk toward the other. Bonner saw him but made no move toward the gun in his pocket; he merely quickened his pace. He began to run up the slope toward the bench where Romstead was. When he reached the top he slowed to a furious walk beside the ravine and shouted.
“Romstead! What the hell are you doing here?”
“The same thing you are,” Romstead called back.
They were less than twenty yards apart when it happened. Romstead heard the whuck of the bullet’s slapping into flesh and bone a fraction of a second before he heard the crack of the rifle up on the ridge to his right. Bonner’s body jerked with the impact, he spun around, thrown off-balance, and started to fall. There was another whuck, and his body jerked again even as it was going down. Romstead was already diving for the ravine. He landed on the sloping side of it and rolled and skidded to the bottom, and as he was spitting out dirt and trying to get the dust and sweat out of his eyes, he heard the rifle fire again.
The ravine was a good seven feet deep, so he was safe here as long as the rifleman stayed where he was, but he had to try to get Bonner down from there if he could locate him. He ran bent over, hugging the wall, and tried to remember just where the big man had fallen. Then he saw the dark coat-sleeved arm. The ravine wall was steeper here. He grasped the hand to pull, and at the same time there was another whuck above him, followed by the crack of the rifle. He hauled. Bonner’s head and shoulders dangled over the lip of the ravine, and a stream of foamy, bright arterial blood gushed downward through the dust from the throat that was almost completely shot away.
Romstead gagged and retched and pushed himself to one side to get out of the way of