"How many - ? Perry couldn't complete the question, but Cal knew what he was asking.
"I saw five last night. I hope that's all." Five friends, lying where they'd fallen. He hadn't been able to get to them last night, didn't know who they were, but regardless of their identities, they had been friends. He'd be able to tell more in the daylight, though he might not be able to get to them until tonight.
"Five," Perry murmured, shaking his head as grief entered his eyes. "What in God's name is going on?"
"I don't know, but my guess is it has something to do with those two sons of bitches who roughed up Cate and Neenah." If it was them, they'd brought in help. Cal had counted four different firing positions, including the one beside Neenah's house.
"But what do they want?"
Cal shook his head. Cate had given them Lay ton's belongings, so the only thing left was revenge, which, as far as he was concerned, was a piss-poor reason for attacking an entire community. Come after him if they felt they had to prove their balls were bigger than his; he was the one who'd gotten the better of them, not those poor people lying on the ground. This whole thing was so over the top it didn't make sense.
And if those two guys had nothing to do with this, then it really didn't make sense and he was completely in the dark.
Chapter 23
Cal worked his way under the Contrerases' house, crawling on his belly through mud, debris, and spiderwebs. All sorts of bugs love the dark, damp protected spaces under a house, and this one was no different from most, in that it offered lots of darkness and dampness. Good thing he wasn't bothered by bugs and spiders.
He paused at every ventilation grate, cautiously peering through with quick movements of his head, in case one of the shooters was scanning with a thermal scope and just happened to notice that one of the grates in the foundation was glowing brighter than the others. Catching him looking would be nothing more than luck - bad on his part, good on theirs. Scopes didn't have a wide field of vision, so they couldn't get a good overall view; the shooters would be scanning, constantly moving, which upped the odds in Cal's favor. A fixed thermal-image camera would have been much more difficult to evade.
The shooters were still firing off the occasional shot to make the inhabitants keep their heads down, keep them from moving around. Head games. At some point, though, they would have to stop shooting and try to make contact, establish what it was they wanted, otherwise there was no point that he could see to this whole damn disaster.
Coming in from behind the house, he'd caught a glimpse of Mario Contreras lying half on, half off the front porch, on the left side. What he hadn't been able to see was any sign of Gena and little Angelina, nor had they answered when he called their names. Now he was trying to see if they, too, were King on the porch, out of his previous field of vision.
He felt sick - sick and furious. Mario's brought the number of bodies he'd visually identified up to seven. Norman Box was dead, and so was Lanora Corbett. Mouse Williams would never again rattle on and on in the squeaky voice that had given him his nickname. Jim Beasley had died with a rifle in his hand, trying to fight back. Same with Andy Chapman. Maery Last, a sweet little woman in her seventies, was lying in the road in front of her house. Slowed by arthritis, she hadn't been able to move as fast as the others. Friends, all of them, and he was afraid he'd find more. Where were Gena and Angelina? God, if that cute little girl was dead -
He pushed the thought away, not wanting to anticipate the worst. Thank God the twins had gone home with Cate's mom. If they'd been here, if anything had happened to those two little imps, he'd have gone nuts.
He continued crawling from grate to grate, but he couldn't see anyone else in the yard. No Gena, no Angelina. That didn't mean they were okay; they could be in the house, dead, or King on the porch where he couldn't see them.
He'd found several people alive; terrified, bewildered, but alive. Two people here, four there, a few who were alone - he hadn't bothered to keep count of how many, because that would come later. He'd sent them all toward the Richardsons' house, telling them the safest way, and how to get across the clear areas. Everyone needed to be in one place, so they could get organized. Several plans were formulating in the back of his mind, and he knew Creed was working on a course of action; when they knew exactly where they stood, then they'd decide what to do.
He worked his way out from under the house and tried to brush the worst of the mud off his clothes. He was wet and cold again, though the sun was now working its magic and the day promised to be considerably warmer than the day before. His boots were still wet from his soaking in the stream, and his feet were freezing. He could make do with whatever clothing the Richardsons could find for him, but he needed to get to his place if possible for another pair of boots. First, though, he had to finish locating everyone.
He picked up his shotgun, which he'd left propped against the house next to the crawlspace opening, and eased up the back steps, taking care to stay low in case one of those random shots came his way. Testing the back door, he wasn't surprised when the handle turned easily; most people in Trail Stop didn't bother locking their doors, Cate was one of the few who did, but she had adventurous voting children and she was careful they didn't get it into their heads to wander at night.
He was in the eat-in kitchen, a room he knew well because he'd helped Mario install Gena's new cabinets and countertop. She'd been as excited as a child at having more storage room, at having the kitchen looking nice. "Gena," he called softly. "It's Cal." Again, there was no answer.
A belly crawl was safest, so he dropped to the floor and cradled the shotgun in his arms as he moved into the living room. He'd half expected to find their bodies there, but the room was empty. The windows had been shot out, and he had to be careful not to slice himself to ribbons on the shards as he looked for blood on the floor. None. He checked the front porch. It was empty.