okay,” Cappy conceded. He looked in the back. With one rear seat folded, he could get the BMW in there, no problem.
They were coming up to the turnoff, and as they came down off the blacktop onto the gravel road, Lyle Mack said, “Okay, listen, I got an idea.”
HONEY BEE’s house wasn’t much, an early twentieth-century clapboard farmhouse with a front porch that was no longer square to the rest of the structure, and a round gravel driveway big enough to circle a pickup with a two-horse trailer. The barn was newer, red metal, with a loft for hay. A detached garage was straight ahead, an exercise ring off to the left.
They pulled in, and the Macks climbed out of the van, opened the side door and took out the big bag of Home Depot stuff. Instead of walking up to the house, they walked back to the barn, talking loudly. Lyle Mack slipped on what might have been a big puddle of frozen horse urine—it was yellow, anyway, and ice—and they went to the barn door and Lyle Mack went inside while Joe Mack waited outside. Joe Mack said to Lyle’s back, “I’m gonna be sick. I think we oughta call it off.”
“Gone too far,” Lyle Mack said. “Just hold on. It’s your ass we’re trying to save.”
A minute later, Joe Mack said, “Ah, shit, they’re coming,” and Lyle Mack said, “Uh-huh.”
Outside, Joe Mack called, “Lyle’s looking at one of the horses. Honey Bee’s worried that one of them got something.”
Lyle Mack heard a reply, couldn’t quite make it out, and then, closer, heard Shooter Chapman say, “Horse’s supposed to be good eatin.’ I saw on TV that the French eat ’em.”
“Yeah, the fuckin’ French,” Joe Mack said, friendly. His face was white with the stress, and he could feel the words clogging in his throat.
Then Haines said something and Lyle Mack didn’t understand quite what it was, just that Chapman and Haines were walking up. He stepped outside and saw the two men coming up to the van with its open door, his brother frozen like a statue.
Haines glanced at the open van as he passed and said, “Hey...”
Cappy was right there with the shotgun. He shot Haines in the face and, without looking or waiting or flinching, pumped once and shot Chapman.
Both men went straight down. Cappy stepped out of the van, pumped again, stepped close, carefully, kicked Chapman’s foot, looked for a reaction, got none, kicked Haines. Then they all looked around, like they were sniffing the wind: looking for witnesses, listening for cars. Nothing.
“They’re gone,” Cappy said. “No couch, no problem.”
“Okay,” Lyle Mack said. His heart was beating so hard that he thought it might jump out of his chest. Chapman and Haines looked like big fat bloody dead dolls, crumpled on the beaten-down driveway snow. Shooter might have looked surprised, but the surprise part of his face was missing, so it was hard to tell. Mikey had a hand in his pocket and Lyle Mack could see the butt of a pistol in his fist. Joe was leaning against the barn, with a stream of spit streaming out of his mouth.
“Look at this,” Lyle Mack said to Joe Mack. “They got guns. I bet the motherfuckers were going to kill us. Can you believe that? Can you believe it?”
“Well, yeah,” Joe Mack said, spitting again. “They were probably thinking the same way we were.”
They looked at the bodies for a few more seconds, and then Lyle Mack said, “Well, I’ll get the garbage bags. We won’t need the Scrubbing Bubbles. See if there’s a shovel in the barn, we should scrape up any ice that’s got blood on it.”
Joe Mack went into the barn and found a No. 5 grain scoop, which would be okay for the snow, and scraped it away, though it was hard work; the blood just kept coming. Lyle fished the wallets out of the two men’s pockets, retrieved the money he’d given to Chapman, and passed it to Cappy. “Your two thousand. It’s my money, not theirs. I loaned it to them this morning.”
Cappy nodded and
They were coming up to the turnoff, and as they came down off the blacktop onto the gravel road, Lyle Mack said, “Okay, listen, I got an idea.”
HONEY BEE’s house wasn’t much, an early twentieth-century clapboard farmhouse with a front porch that was no longer square to the rest of the structure, and a round gravel driveway big enough to circle a pickup with a two-horse trailer. The barn was newer, red metal, with a loft for hay. A detached garage was straight ahead, an exercise ring off to the left.
They pulled in, and the Macks climbed out of the van, opened the side door and took out the big bag of Home Depot stuff. Instead of walking up to the house, they walked back to the barn, talking loudly. Lyle Mack slipped on what might have been a big puddle of frozen horse urine—it was yellow, anyway, and ice—and they went to the barn door and Lyle Mack went inside while Joe Mack waited outside. Joe Mack said to Lyle’s back, “I’m gonna be sick. I think we oughta call it off.”
“Gone too far,” Lyle Mack said. “Just hold on. It’s your ass we’re trying to save.”
A minute later, Joe Mack said, “Ah, shit, they’re coming,” and Lyle Mack said, “Uh-huh.”
Outside, Joe Mack called, “Lyle’s looking at one of the horses. Honey Bee’s worried that one of them got something.”
Lyle Mack heard a reply, couldn’t quite make it out, and then, closer, heard Shooter Chapman say, “Horse’s supposed to be good eatin.’ I saw on TV that the French eat ’em.”
“Yeah, the fuckin’ French,” Joe Mack said, friendly. His face was white with the stress, and he could feel the words clogging in his throat.
Then Haines said something and Lyle Mack didn’t understand quite what it was, just that Chapman and Haines were walking up. He stepped outside and saw the two men coming up to the van with its open door, his brother frozen like a statue.
Haines glanced at the open van as he passed and said, “Hey...”
Cappy was right there with the shotgun. He shot Haines in the face and, without looking or waiting or flinching, pumped once and shot Chapman.
Both men went straight down. Cappy stepped out of the van, pumped again, stepped close, carefully, kicked Chapman’s foot, looked for a reaction, got none, kicked Haines. Then they all looked around, like they were sniffing the wind: looking for witnesses, listening for cars. Nothing.
“They’re gone,” Cappy said. “No couch, no problem.”
“Okay,” Lyle Mack said. His heart was beating so hard that he thought it might jump out of his chest. Chapman and Haines looked like big fat bloody dead dolls, crumpled on the beaten-down driveway snow. Shooter might have looked surprised, but the surprise part of his face was missing, so it was hard to tell. Mikey had a hand in his pocket and Lyle Mack could see the butt of a pistol in his fist. Joe was leaning against the barn, with a stream of spit streaming out of his mouth.
“Look at this,” Lyle Mack said to Joe Mack. “They got guns. I bet the motherfuckers were going to kill us. Can you believe that? Can you believe it?”
“Well, yeah,” Joe Mack said, spitting again. “They were probably thinking the same way we were.”
They looked at the bodies for a few more seconds, and then Lyle Mack said, “Well, I’ll get the garbage bags. We won’t need the Scrubbing Bubbles. See if there’s a shovel in the barn, we should scrape up any ice that’s got blood on it.”
Joe Mack went into the barn and found a No. 5 grain scoop, which would be okay for the snow, and scraped it away, though it was hard work; the blood just kept coming. Lyle fished the wallets out of the two men’s pockets, retrieved the money he’d given to Chapman, and passed it to Cappy. “Your two thousand. It’s my money, not theirs. I loaned it to them this morning.”
Cappy nodded and
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