in Blog, Serial Fiction 3:06 pm Sunday, November 11th, 2007

“Death On The Breeze”
A Danny Stark Mystery
by James Walling

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15

 

Danny, Bean, and Fox talked softly in the cab of the truck. They were parked alongside an unpaved private road next to a driveway that led off a hundred yards or so to a nearby clearing in the woods.“The trouble is,” Bean said in a nervous voice, “I never actually got a look at the place.”

“This has to be it,” Fox said, jabbing his finger at a dot on the map where the road they were on intersected with the line Bean had drawn with his compass. “X marks the muthafuckin’ spot.”

Bean shook his head and muttered, “I don’t know…could be anywhere, for chrissake.”

Over the previous week, Charlene had volunteered to deliver the Hummer to a buyer in Seattle, and Danny, Bean, and Fox had made a daily routine of checking off the different routes on their map at a rate of two or three a day. Until now, their efforts hadn’t borne any fruit.

Fox opened the door and slid out of the driver’s seat.

“There’s one way to find out,” he said, pulling a snubnose revolver from a small duffle in the truck.

Danny exited the passenger side, followed by Bean, who stopped to fish a tire iron out of the utility box in the truck bed.

It was morning still, and the ground was damp with the previous night’s rainfall.

“What are we gonna do if we find him?” Bean asked, his face a set mask of fading bruises and fear.

Danny zipped up his jacket and pulled a beanie over his short hair.

“First thing we’re gonna do,” he said in a reassuring voice, “is pay him out a first-rate ass-whipping.”

Fox loaded the revolver and slipped it into his boot.

Without further discussion, the three of them started down the driveway.

In the clearing there was an old singlewide trailer and a ramshackle series of outbuildings.

Smoke issued from a cylindrical stovepipe in the roof of the trailer, but the place was otherwise dark and devoid of any sign of life. The only sound was the barely audible crunch of gravel under their feet and the rush of the river in the distance.

Danny suggested they check the outbuildings first, and work their way inward to the trailer. Fox peered in the window of the nearest structure. The panes were obscured by grime and cobwebs and he couldn’t make out much. Danny caught the scent of gasoline and cut grass.

Bean pushed open the door and slowly stepped inside. All he found was an old riding mower and a collection of rakes, shovels, and brooms.

“Nothing, “ he whispered, closing the door behind him.

A second structure contained wood scraps clearly intended for burning; old shingles, plywood, two-by-fours, and some pine boughs.

The last outbuilding was just opposite the trailer. Bean pushed open the door and gasped. A sullied black hood lay on the floor next to a bundle of cord and a short wooden bat, the sort of thing commonly used for clubbing salmon, sturgeon and other large fish.

Bean took an involuntary step backward and tripped on the lip of the doorframe, dropping the tire iron with a clang. He managed to right himself, but the commotion was loud enough to scatter a murder of crows from a nearby tree.

A light switched on in the trailer and Fox jerked the handgun from his boot and started across the yard.

Bean was frozen in place. Danny placed a hand on his shoulder to comfort him.

At Danny’s touch, Bean turned and began to follow Fox, who was already climbing the makeshift steps to the trailer.

“Hello?” he hollered, pounding on the door.

Nobody answered. Bean mounted the steps behind him, but Danny hung a few steps back, listening intently.

“Hello?” Fox said again, banging the door. “Anybody home?”

“Who is it?” asked a timid female voice from behind the door.

Bean recognized it at once. He stumbled off the porch muttering, “It’s her…the woman…”

His eyes scanned the perimeter frantically.

“He-he’s here,” Bean stammered, trundling into Danny.

“Go away,” the woman yelled. “Git on outta here!”

Fox continued banging on the door.

“Open up, lady, we just want—“ but a load of buckshot blasted a hole in the door at knee level just inches to his right, and Fox went down hard.

Bean froze. Danny pushed him to the ground and listened.

“You know what they say,” shouted a familiarly menacing voice from inside the trailer. “A blind man makes a good guide on a dark night,” said the man, pausing to chuckle, “but come morning, only a fool follows a cripple…”

“Asshole,” Fox snapped, rolling onto one knee and firing two shots into the trailer.

Buckshot exploded through what remained of the door and Fox tumbled under the steps for cover, blood tailing behind him.

Suddenly, Bean found his courage and rushed forward. Fox hobbled to his feet and tackled him halfway to the door just as a third blast issued from a kitchen window.

The pair splayed flat in the wet grass and then scrambled for cover around the far corner of the structure.

A door slammed and someone ran off in the direction of a carport at the other end of the driveway. An engine sputtered to life. Bean got to his feet and ran toward it, Fox limping close behind him.

Danny crouched behind a fencepost and waited. He seemed to have lost his bearings in the chaos. A feeling of uselessness swept over him. He’s here… he thought to himself over and over, he’s here.

Somewhere in the distance he could hear Fox and Bean hollering instructions, and the sound of the engine died.

Then he heard it. In the sudden silence, he could make out footfalls leading away from the back of the trailer at a run. A wave of impotent rage engulfed him, and without thinking he leapt to his feet and gave chase.

In an instant, he was past the trailer and crashing into the brush. Leaves and thin branches whipped his face. The rush of his own feet plowing through the undergrowth drowned almost everything out, but he could just discern the rhythm of heavy feet pounding the earth up ahead.

The roar of a shotgun filled the air, but Danny wheeled forward, heedless of the risk.

The ground grew suddenly steeper and Danny stumbled, touching a knee to the ground before correcting himself and hurrying on with reckless abandon.

The hollow din of the river grew louder and the ground flattened out as the thick brush opened onto an open plain. Danny broke into a sprint, knowing he might lose his quarry in the rush of the river at any moment.

At the river’s edge, he stopped and cast about for a sign. An instant later, he was running flat out upstream along the bank.

Harsh laughter rang out as he approached a large outcropping of rocks. He pressed on, scrambling onto a chest-high boulder, expecting a load of buckshot or a rifle butt to the face, but unable to stop himself nonetheless.

The laughter ended and a new sound, the sound of a body entering the water, met his ears just as his right foot slid off the edge of the boulder. He waved his arms frantically, trying to catch his balance as he careened over a void.

Realizing he was too far gone, he pushed off with a kick of the leg and fell forward into the river with a splash.