“Right, baby. Now you don’t worry. You can see Doc coming from half a mile away. I always come early, to observe nature. You dig?”
“I dig.”
Ten minutes later we were there.
We turned off the shoulder and drove for a quarter mile over a dusty road. When we came up to the site it was just as Brubaker described it: soft brown dirt strewn with rocks, dust, and a white clapboard shack on the edge of an expanse of dead-looking eucalyptus trees.
We parked next to the shack. Brubaker set the brake and smiled at me. I didn’t know what the smile meant, and suddenly I was terrified.
Brubaker looked at his watch. “It’s nine-fifteen,” he said. “We’ve got forty-five minutes, but you better get out of sight to be safe. I’ll stand outside my ear like I usually do. Hot, ain’t it? But pretty. God, do I love the country!”
I got my shotgun out of the backseat, wishing it were an automatic, and walked into the grove of trees. I placed it at the back of the tree closest to Brubaker’s ear, where it could be grabbed quickly when Doc Harris arrived. I got out my .38 and checked the safety, then stuck it back in my waistband and walked toward a dark patch of shade at the middle of the little forest.
“I’ll whistle once when he shows,” Brubaker called to me. For the first time I noticed tension in his voice.
“Right,” I called back, noting my own voice was stretched thin.
I leaned up against a tree trunk that afforded me a view of Brubaker and his car as well as the road. I was so light-headed from nervous tension that it was easy not to think. My mind was totally blank, and I caught myself slipping into a state of complete nervous exhaustion. I cleared my throat repeatedly and started to scratch and pick at myself, almost as if to prove that I was still there.
I heard a rustle of dried leaves in back of me, and whirled around, my hand on the butt of my gun. It was nothing–probably just a scurrying rodent. I heard the rustle again and didn’t turn around, and then suddenly I heard the ka-raack! of a shot and the tree trunk splintered above my head. I pitched to the ground and rolled in the direction of a large mound of fallen branches. I pulled my .38 from my waistband and flipped off the safety and held my breath. I dug in behind the branches, burrowing through dried leaves for a place to aim. Finding a small spot of daylight that provided aiming room and protection, I dug deeper and scanned the direction from which the shot had come.
There was nothing: no movement of any kind, no noise but the frantic slamming of my own heart and the sharp wheeze of my breath. I risked sticking my head above the mound of branches and quickly scanned the grove of trees. Still nothing. Was the sniper Brubaker?
“Brubaker,” I called. There was no response.
I glanced over to my left. The shotgun was still resting against the tree trunk. I crawled over to where I could see Brubaker’s car and the little shack. No Brubaker and no movement. I was starting to calm down a little, and starting to get angry. As I crawled back toward my hiding place I caught a glimpse of trouser legs off to my left near the far edge of my vision. Three shots rang out, and the dirt in front of me blew up in my face. I started rolling toward the shotgun when I saw a man charging me. Dimly I knew it was Doc Harris. I was within inches of my shotgun and still rolling when he fired two shots at me from within ten yards. The first shot narrowly missed; the second grazed the side of my head. I flailed my .38 in front of me, wasting precious seconds. Doc Harris saw what I was doing and aimed dead at me. He pulled the trigger, and got an empty click. Livid, he was on top of me, and he kicked me in the face just as I got my gun free, causing me to fire three quick shots in the wrong direction.