“I assumed he wasn’t there because I couldn’t see any vehicles.”
“He parks around back. There’s a garage and workshop about thirty yards behind the house and some trees. You can’t see it from the front.”
You mean that asshole might have been there all four times I drove by! Greta thought.
“Where should we meet?”
“At his place,” said Plummer. “Let’s say at ten o’clock.”
“Thanks, James. See you then.”
She hung up and went out to continue canvassing. She finished the houses left on Sea Swallow Drive and moved on to Sandpiper, but by then it was time to head out on 130. She got to Umstead’s turnoff at ten o’clock. There was no sign of Plummer, and she realized they hadn’t made a clear plan on how to link up. After wondering whether he might have driven in, she decided it wasn’t likely and pulled to one side of 130. Eight minutes later, Plummer’s sheriff sedan approached westbound on 130. He waved to her and turned into Umstead’s drive. She followed.
As with every other visit, the two pit bulls were chained next to the house and the driveway. Instead of that stopping him, as it had her, Plummer drove slowly to the house. The dogs went ape-shit. Even with the car windows closed, she heard them snarling as they slavered and jumped up against Plummer’s car first and then her vehicle. It reminded her of the Stephen King movie Cujo.
Plummer drove around to the rear of the house, then past some trees, where a garage became visible. When she pulled up behind him and turned off her engine, Greta noticed two pickups and a beat-up car.
Plummer got out of his car, and she saw three men unloading jugs off the back of a pickup. Plummer said something she couldn’t hear, and she stepped out of her vehicle. One man jumped into the pickup being unloaded, started the engine, and, with spinning tires, accelerated toward Plummer, who dove out of the way. The pickup roared by his car and took off the driver’s side mirror as it passed.
Without thinking or planning but simply reacting, Greta stepped to the rear of her vehicle as if to seek shelter. As the fleeing truck passed, she got a glimpse of a bearded man with streaks of gray, a dark sweatshirt, and a wide-eyed look. Their eyes briefly connected when he passed not six feet from her.
What happened next could have been out of a TV show. Someone who looked like Greta stood behind her vehicle with her service pistol in one hand and fired a series of shots at the left rear tire before the truck disappeared around the corner of the house.
The sound of the gunshots and the dogs’ increased frenzy in front lent a desperate sense to everything. She heard a crashing sound reminiscent of metal and glass and ran to the corner. The truck had veered off the driveway and rammed up against the trunk of a coastal Douglas fir a good three feet in diameter.
Another sound roared at her from behind—a vehicle engine. A beat-up car zoomed past her and the house. She saw two men in the front seat. The car didn’t slow for the two dogs. They yelped and barely jumped out of the way before the car hurtled past them and down the lane.
Another sound. Someone yelling. Everything seemed to be in slow motion, including her brain. She turned her head sluggishly again. Plummer limped toward her, holding his pistol in his hand. He said something, but what? She couldn’t focus. He must have been shouting because his mouth was open wide.
“I’m okay! Where’s Umstead?” Plummer gasped.
She didn’t respond.
“Greta? Greta!”
Plummer reached her and put out a hand to steady himself. Something was wrong with his leg, he had scratches on his face, and his hands shook. They both looked at the truck. They could see someone hunched over the steering wheel.
Plummer sat on the ground. She started to lean down to help him.
“See to the driver, Greta.”
Her head cleared, but it was still as if she were watching a video. She walked toward the truck. When the two dogs noticed her, they transferred their attention to her. There was no way she could walk past them and not come within fang range. She looked to the sides. An embankment on the left ruled out that route. On the right, tree trunks and tangled foliage formed a barrier. She later vaguely remembered deciding she didn’t want to fight the jungle.
The area covered by the pit bull on the left included most of the driveway. She shot the dog three times. The first shot hit a rear leg. The dog yelped in surprise and pain and leaped straight up in the air. When it hit the ground again, the second round hit it squarely in the chest, knocking it backward. It quit moving after the third round, and she stepped pas
t.
When she reached the truck, a thin trail of smoke came from the bent hood. The driver hadn’t moved. She holstered her pistol and grabbed the door handle. The door opened a fraction, then stuck. Although the impact was on the opposite side, the body of the vehicle had twisted slightly, and the driver’s door jammed.
She gripped the door handle with both hands this time, braced her feet, and jerked as hard as she could. Metal screeched, and the door opened several inches. Three more pulls and she could reach through for the driver. Fortunately for her, he hadn’t had time or the inclination to use the seat belt, and she pulled him onto the ground. She shifted her grip to grasp him under his armpits and dragged him halfway back toward the house. He breathed steadily and had a gash on his forehead where he must have hit the steering wheel or the dashboard. His profuse bleeding didn’t alarm her. She knew from basketball that head cuts looked worse than they were.
“My God, Greta, my God,” said a voice behind her. Plummer limped to her side, taking in the mashed pickup, the injured driver, and the dead dog. The other dog continued its berserk behavior until Greta turned to it and put her hand on the grip of her pistol. The pit bull shrank back, lowering its head, and the snarling transformed into a whine. When she didn’t move, it turned and walked to its doghouse, where it glanced back at her once more and then went inside.
“My God, Greta. That was certainly more excitement than I expected. Or needed.”
“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice returning.
“Bruised a bit and a pretty good sprained ankle, though I don’t think it’s broken. How about you?”