Their gambit was plain to Charlie. From behind a mound at the far end of the field, Cadaret took a shot every few seconds. His objective wasn’t to hit Charlie or Drummond-although that would have been perfectly acceptable-but rather to hold them in place behind the statue until Flattop or Scholar flanked them. Capitalizing on the rises and dips in the field, that duo had crept to within sixty or seventy yards, still too far to fire with any accuracy. At twenty-five yards, they probably would be able to split an aspirin.
Charlie hoped someone driving along County Route 1 would call the cops. The road was barely traveled, though, and the monument was far enough away that the gunfire might not be heard over an engine. If a good Samaritan heard and came to investigate still, he would find only hunters, as common in these parts as teenagers in a suburban mall. And if he investigated further, he’d die.
Charlie tried to conceive a more proactive solution. Every avenue his mind took ended with the sober realization that outmaneuvering professional killers on a battlefield was even further from his expertise than landing a helicopter.
Then there was Drummond.
“Hear those bullets, Dad? These guys are playing your song.”
“How about we shoot back?” Drummond put forth, as if it were a novel idea.
“We have Mom’s gun.” Charlie patted the Colt in his waistband. “But I think we’re going to need more than that.”
A bullet bored into the horse’s right shoulder and exited its left breast, buzzing directly over Drummond’s head. Drummond hunkered closer to the pedestal but otherwise appeared untroubled.
Charlie was troubled enough for them both: He’d figured the bronze statue was impenetrable. “We need to get down,” he shouted over the echoing report.
Drummond didn’t seem to follow. Rather than take time to explain, Charlie wrapped his arms around him and heaved them both off the front of the pedestal. They flopped onto the ground, putting the pedestal between them and the shooters.
The ground appeared to have received a fresh dusting of snow. In fact it was particles of raven excrement. Lovely, Charlie thought.
Some of the particles had filled the letters chiseled into the face of the pedestal.