The Bone Orchard: A Novel (Mike Bowditch Mysteries) by Paul Doiron Page B
Authors: Paul Doiron
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retrieve the cell phone from where it had landed on the floor mat. I left a message: “I’m headed back your way, Kathy. I’ll be there in ten minutes or so.”
I buckled myself in and restarted the engine, then pulled an abrupt U-turn in the road in front of a speeding pickup truck. He was going fast, but I was going faster.
* * *
The road to Kathy’s house zigzagged up the side of the ridge through the blueberry barrens. Tumbled stone walls ran along the edges of the asphalt. I tried not to crash into them as I cornered the Bronco.
As I turned into the driveway, I leaned forward against the shoulder belt and saw the lights of the farmhouse on the hillside above me. Seeing the homey glow made me relax for a few seconds. There was something reassuring about the sight of the illuminated windows. Then I realized that one of the bright shapes I was looking at was a wide-open door.
I eased my foot off the gas pedal. The truck slowed to a crawl as I approached Kathy’s dooryard. The high beams searched ahead of me into the gathering darkness.
There was a black shape lying on the flattened grass where I had parked my vehicle a few minutes earlier. At first, I thought it was a bunched-up blanket or discarded coat. I braked hard as the headlights brought the object into view.
It was Pluto. He was lying in a pool of blood.
I shoved the shift into park with my right hand and reached for the door handle with my left. That was when the windshield exploded.
Everything happened in an instant. Broken glass filled the air. I felt the airborne shards tear at the side of my face and neck. Simultaneously, I heard the crash of the shattering windshield and the bang of a gun. Reflexively, I ducked down behind the steering wheel and dash.
My cheekbone stung. I clapped a hand to the side of my face, and it came away red with blood and glistening with powdered glass. The entire passenger side of the Bronco was coated with blue shards. The windshield was entirely gone except for a webbed section directly in front of me.
The second blast tore the rest of the windshield away.
This time I heard the distinctive pinging of shotgun pellets. Atomized glass rained down on my right arm. I had pulled the flap of my raincoat over my head to protect myself, the way a frightened child hides under a blanket during a thunderstorm.
My hair was matted and wet. Blood was pooling inside my ear and running into the corner of my eye. I hurled my body across the passenger seat, nearly impaling myself on the gearshift. I pawed at the glove compartment before realizing it was locked and that I needed to turn off the engine and remove the keys. I managed to drop the keys on the floor twice before I got the glove compartment open and saw my newly cleaned pistol inside.
My slick hand closed around the textured grip of the Walther. It was a .380. In the gravel pit where I practiced shooting, I could put all seven bullets in a tight cluster from a distance of fifteen yards. Beyond that, my aim got iffy. I pulled back the slide and chambered a round.
I stared at the heavy little pistol in my hand, trying to feel confident about it, telling myself that at least the Walther gave me a chance, while I waited for the next blast to come.
Rolling onto my side and looking up at the ceiling, I tried to make sense of the wreckage inside the vehicle. The first blast had angled toward the right side of the vehicle before the shooter had corrected his aim and taken out the rest of the windshield. The driver’s side window was also shattered. My quick guess was that the shots had been fired from that direction: up the hill and to my left.
I managed to get my entire body on the right side of the vehicle, then popped the handle on the passenger door. Even before it had fully swung open, I lunged through the crack and dropped hard to the wet grass. I landed flat on my chest and stomach, a belly flop in the mud.
I wriggled away toward the rear of the Bronco, hoping
I buckled myself in and restarted the engine, then pulled an abrupt U-turn in the road in front of a speeding pickup truck. He was going fast, but I was going faster.
* * *
The road to Kathy’s house zigzagged up the side of the ridge through the blueberry barrens. Tumbled stone walls ran along the edges of the asphalt. I tried not to crash into them as I cornered the Bronco.
As I turned into the driveway, I leaned forward against the shoulder belt and saw the lights of the farmhouse on the hillside above me. Seeing the homey glow made me relax for a few seconds. There was something reassuring about the sight of the illuminated windows. Then I realized that one of the bright shapes I was looking at was a wide-open door.
I eased my foot off the gas pedal. The truck slowed to a crawl as I approached Kathy’s dooryard. The high beams searched ahead of me into the gathering darkness.
There was a black shape lying on the flattened grass where I had parked my vehicle a few minutes earlier. At first, I thought it was a bunched-up blanket or discarded coat. I braked hard as the headlights brought the object into view.
It was Pluto. He was lying in a pool of blood.
I shoved the shift into park with my right hand and reached for the door handle with my left. That was when the windshield exploded.
Everything happened in an instant. Broken glass filled the air. I felt the airborne shards tear at the side of my face and neck. Simultaneously, I heard the crash of the shattering windshield and the bang of a gun. Reflexively, I ducked down behind the steering wheel and dash.
My cheekbone stung. I clapped a hand to the side of my face, and it came away red with blood and glistening with powdered glass. The entire passenger side of the Bronco was coated with blue shards. The windshield was entirely gone except for a webbed section directly in front of me.
The second blast tore the rest of the windshield away.
This time I heard the distinctive pinging of shotgun pellets. Atomized glass rained down on my right arm. I had pulled the flap of my raincoat over my head to protect myself, the way a frightened child hides under a blanket during a thunderstorm.
My hair was matted and wet. Blood was pooling inside my ear and running into the corner of my eye. I hurled my body across the passenger seat, nearly impaling myself on the gearshift. I pawed at the glove compartment before realizing it was locked and that I needed to turn off the engine and remove the keys. I managed to drop the keys on the floor twice before I got the glove compartment open and saw my newly cleaned pistol inside.
My slick hand closed around the textured grip of the Walther. It was a .380. In the gravel pit where I practiced shooting, I could put all seven bullets in a tight cluster from a distance of fifteen yards. Beyond that, my aim got iffy. I pulled back the slide and chambered a round.
I stared at the heavy little pistol in my hand, trying to feel confident about it, telling myself that at least the Walther gave me a chance, while I waited for the next blast to come.
Rolling onto my side and looking up at the ceiling, I tried to make sense of the wreckage inside the vehicle. The first blast had angled toward the right side of the vehicle before the shooter had corrected his aim and taken out the rest of the windshield. The driver’s side window was also shattered. My quick guess was that the shots had been fired from that direction: up the hill and to my left.
I managed to get my entire body on the right side of the vehicle, then popped the handle on the passenger door. Even before it had fully swung open, I lunged through the crack and dropped hard to the wet grass. I landed flat on my chest and stomach, a belly flop in the mud.
I wriggled away toward the rear of the Bronco, hoping
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