Killing Time Read online

for an elderly codger... It took an hour and ten minutes before the light went off in the bedroom. I calculated twenty more minutes before both would be so worn out that they would be in deep sleep. I hadn't planned on collateral damage, but from the looks of her I wouldn't waste any time regretting it. I removed my .22, reached in my jacket pocket and screwed the silencer on the end and stood.

  I carefully maneuvered my way to the bedroom, eased the door open and listened. All I heard was heavy breathing meaning deep sleep from both. I glided across the room, stood by the bed looking down at him because he would be first. No covers on either. Easy shots. I aimed the gun directly at his heart. I moved it to within about two inches and pulled the trigger soundlessly twice. His body humped once and then sagged back into the indention he had created. I walked around the bed, looked at her on her left side. Her breast was in the way, but I didn't dare touch it. I placed the silencer about one inch from her left breast and centered it over where her heart would be under it. Two shots, no movement on her part. I rose and listened for any sounds of life. No breathing, no response when I shook both of them.

  I tracked back to the front room, grabbed the case, left the house and walked back to the car. I drove a southern secondary highway back to Comfort and re-entered the resort from the same route I had taken out, but with the lights off. I put the car in the same parking spot, took the case and secured it inside my locked suitcase. In the event anyone was watching the cabin, I undressed in the dark to prevent any of the late night light from showing at the windows. I pulled the bedding down and slipped under the covers. I rested well with the assessment that I was well-satisfied with the results of my reconciliation with Hachell. My plans for reconciling with Lenore Hatchell are now the priority of my concentration. But that can wait until I am in Savannah.

  I hadn't pulled the shades. The morning sun was burning my forehead as I awakened on Saturday. I showered, dressed went to the car and drove to downtown Comfort in search of breakfast. I was starving. I ate in San Antonio but that was at about five yesterday afternoon and I hadn't had anything since that plate dinner at a Tex-Mex cafe after I picked the car up. Not being familiar with the local places, I opted for the McDonald's Big Breakfast. It was satisfying, the coffee is always good, and the biscuits usually consistent and tasty. I glanced at the San Antonio papers while I was eating and saw nothing of any interest to me because it was mostly state or local news.

  On leaving McDonald's I drove back to Eaze taking the same dirt road and facing the identical dust clouds. This time I drove a little faster since I could see better with the morning sun being behind me. Eaze, is a very small interruption of the drive west. It is less than a thousand population and was not a complicated place to locate the business establishment I was seeking. It was the second largest, but the busiest spot in town this morning. I parked at the meter-less curb, read the sign--'Stubby's Sports Shop'--"If it involves a sport, we're the place." I stepped on the crumbling, cracked sidewalk and opened the door. Nice and cool. I imagine some of the good ol' boys hang in here on some hot summer days only for the free air conditioning. I saw the cash register in the left backend of the store. Stubby had it all. Hunting. Fishing. Boating. Soccer. Basketball and any other sport you can think of was represented in the mix of merchandise.

  I stood by the register and waited to catch the attention of a clerk. One passed by with a customer buying fishing lures. When he had bagged the items, I asked, "Is Stubbs here?" The young man, identified on a badge as 'Julian,' pointed at the gun counter and said, "In the yellow Nike shirt behind the gun counter." I thanked him as he scurried off to grab another customer. I took a card from my pocket, crossed the room and stopped at the upper end of the gun display. He and two men were merely jawing about the coming bird season. When he saw me, he shut the conversation down and came toward me. I handed him the card that identified me as Wade Endicott, Private Investigator, 1324 Elk Avenue, Dundalk, Maryland. He read the card, looked up and said, "How can I help an Investigator this morning?"

  I grinned, held out my hand and he grabbed it in a vise. We shook, he released his grip and I answered, "Sleepy Paul told me that if I needed anything in the way of sports that Stubbs was the man to see. I need two boxes of ammo for my Kimber Ultra Carry II. I want to get in a little practice this afternoon to keep my eye sharp while I travel. I didn't want to pack ammo. Too dangerous when you're flying." I pulled the left side of my jacket open and displayed my Kimber nestled inside its shoulder holster."

  Stubbs nodded and said, "Nice weapon, Wade. The best ammo, as your probably already know, is the ACP .45. I have them on the ammo shelf. Follow me."

  While we were dodging customers on our way to the ammo shelf, Stubbs asked, "How do you know Sleepy? You being from Maryland makes me have to ask."

  I laughed and said, "Yeah, we' are pretty far apart, but we were once buddy-buddy in Iraq a few years back. I haven't seen him in three years but we text and e-mail back and forth. Iraq is where I got my training to be an investigator."

  "Just like Sleepy was able to join the State Police. I'm a firm believer that everyone ought to have a military tour. It gives you a lot of skills plus the savvy to put them to work. Just like you and Sleepy. I got my training in Nam but couldn't pass the physical because of my knee injury. So I hocked it all and opened this dump. Where do you intend to shoot today?"

  "I don't have a place. I was hoping you could recommend one."

  We stopped at a shelf loaded with ammo of all types, brands, and prices. He picked out two, handed them to me and said, "Since you're only plinking today these will be the ones I would use. Put them in your pocket. These are on the house. Any pal of Sleepy is a pal of mine. Now, let me show you the map."

  The map was pinned to the wall. He pointed to where we were and then used his finger to show me the farm to market road to use. He told me it was nearly a mile up the hillside to where I would see a cinder block building and small cinder block wall. That was where the locals went to practice with both rifles and handguns. He handed me three targets to use and then said, "Behind the building there's a barrel where we dump our cans and bottles for shooters to use. Check and see if there's any available. Take all you want. Have a good practice, Wade. Let me know if you need anything else." I shook his hand, smiled at his wave and I left his store a happy man on this sunny, yet dusty, morning in Eaze.

  I went to town, stopped at the Cypress Cafe and ordered a cheeseburger, a bag of potato chips and a bottle of Pepsi to go. I observed the crowd as I waited. No one was excited, no hush-hush whispers among the groups, so I knew that Hatchell and Blondie hadn't been discovered yet. I drove up the dirt road until I saw the cinder block building on my left. I backed into the trees to hide the rental sticker in the back window. I removed the front license plate using my Swiss Army knife. I didn't want any questions to pop-up about the vehicle because my story now was that I am driving back home to Maryland after a visit to relatives in Demming, New Mexico. After eating, I loaded my weapon and began shooting. I had been firing at five cans I had arranged on a log for about three minutes when a pickup of three young boys stopped and they took their rifles from the rack in the back window. I nodded as they moved farther up the hill from me. One of them waved at my nod. They didn't speak, only fired about a box of ammo each before they packed up and left.

  I was starting the second box of ammo when a Sheriff's car pulled up; a man somewhere in his late fifties stepped out and came to where I stood. He said, 'Howdy, Stranger. Nice pistol." He looked at the log and continued, "Killing the old cans I see. Mind if I ask who you are, where you're from and where you're staying?" His thumbs were tucked in his leather multi-purpose belt that held his pistol, stanchion, handcuffs and what appeared to be a Taser.

  I smiled and said, "No sir, don't mind at all." I passed him my Maryland investigator's card, flipped open my wallet and showed him the driver's license from Maryland with my current picture on it. He read the card, merely glanced at the driver's license and th
en asked, "Where you staying, Wade?"

  I told him I had taken the cabin at Cypress and was currently residing there but was leaving tomorrow morning to continue my trip to Maryland. He pocketed my card, turned to leave and said, "Sorry about interrupting your practice. I was actually on my way to see Timber Jack on up the hill when you caught my ear with the firing."

  I said, "Timber Jack? Is he the one's that's sawing the trees? I have heard his saw off and on since I came to the range."

  "Yeah, he's a recluse. He fells trees in the summer, cuts them into firewood and then takes them into Boerne and San Antonio in the winter to sell to homeowners. He has no market here except for the convenience stores that stock some for campers and a few elderly homeowners who can't cut their own wood any longer. That may be me in a couple of years," he laughed as he sat in his cruiser and keyed the radio to tell the office his destination. I waved and he drove off never to be seen again.

  I had dinner at the Cypress Creek Cafe. I was served excellent food by a very competent lady in a place where the decor was heavily used old barn. But I wasn't hungry for aesthetics, so I paid