Spencerville

door open onto the deck, and go down the stairs. She recalled what he’d said about a bear trap, so she knew she had to climb over the stair rail near the end, go under the house where the Bronco was parked, get inside and start it. She’d be on the dirt road within seconds. She wondered if he’d shoot at the car if he had a chance. She thought about what he’d said about him camouflaging the end of the dirt road and wondered if the Bronco, with four-wheel drive, could make it through. Neither of those two questions would matter if she just went into the bedroom with the poker and smashed him over the head with it, then she could get dressed and call the police.
    She felt the heft of the cast-iron poker in her hand. The act itself would be simple, simpler than running. But if she couldn’t kill him that time when they were face-to-face and both armed, how could she kill him when he was sleeping? Another half an inch, another few minutes, and she’d be free.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
    K eith and Billy made their way through the pine forest and came to a stop at the edge of the clearing toward the back of the house.
    Keith braced the butt of the crossbow against his chest and pulled on the sixty-pound bowstring until it hooked into the trigger release catch. He fitted one of the short arrows into the groove and knelt beside a pine tree, using the trunk to steady his aim. He looked through the crossbow’s telescopic sight.
    About sixty yards away, walking in the moonlight of the clearing, was a big German shepherd. The dog was not on a wire run, Keith noticed, but was tethered to a pole with a long leash.
    Keith waited, hoping the dog would come closer, or at least stop in place for a few seconds, but the shepherd continued to pace randomly. Keith waited and watched.
    Billy focused the binoculars on the house and whispered, “Okay here.”
    Finally, the shepherd stopped pacing at about forty yards’ distance and raised its head, as though listening for something. It was a profile shot, and Keith aimed at the dog’s forward flank, hoping to hit his heart or lungs. He pulled the trigger, and the arrow shot out of the crossbow.
    He couldn’t see where it went, but it didn’t hit the dog. The dog, however, heard the vanes as they hummed past and let out a short, confused bark, then began running around.
    Keith recocked the bowstring and fitted another arrow.
    Billy whispered, “Still okay here.”
    Keith stood and fired purposely short, and the arrow sliced into the ground about twenty yards away. The shepherd heard it and streaked directly toward the arrow as Keith recocked, fitted another arrow, and aimed through the sight. The dog stopped short and snapped at the feathered vanes. Keith pulled the trigger.
    He could actually see the arrow pass through the German shepherd’s head, and he was sure the dog was dead before it hit the ground.
    Keith tapped Billy on the shoulder. “One down. Let’s move.”
    Keith reslung his M-16 rifle and carried the crossbow at his side. Billy slung his M-14 and carried the shotgun. Together, they began moving again through the pine forest, toward the other two dogs.
    It took them over twenty minutes to navigate through the dark woods around the perimeter of the clearing. They crossed the open dirt road in a quick rush, and continued on in a semicircle through the pines and toward the lake.
    They stopped at a point where they could see the lake ahead. The moon was almost behind the pines now, and the lake looked much darker. Keith figured they had only a few more minutes of good moonlight left.
    There were some felled pines in the area, cut down, it appeared, to expand the clearing. Keith used the sawed base of a tree trunk to steady the stock of the crossbow. He scanned through the bow sight and saw the Rottweiler on its wire run, sitting about twenty yards away on its haunches, looking out at the lake.
    Billy watched the house through the telescopic sight of his rifle. He had an oblique view of the sliding glass doors on the front deck and whispered, “House okay.” He shifted his aim and found the Doberman pinscher. “Third dog sleeping.”
    Keith lined up the bow sight’s crosshairs over the Rottweiler’s left flank. The dog raised its head and yawned. Keith pulled the trigger. Except for the twang of the bowstring, there was no sound as the arrow flew off. A second later, the dog jerked, let out a short, surprised sound halfway through its yawn, and rolled over. It