The Empty Chair

the others responded, “Where?” She thought it was Tomel.
    “I think . . . wait.”
    Then silence.
    Sachs crawled toward where she’d seen Tomel and O’Sarian a moment ago. She could just make out a bit of red and she steered in that direction. The hot breeze pushed the grass aside and she saw it was the kerosene can. She moved a few feet closer and, when the wind cooperated again, aimed low and fired a bullet squarely into the bottom of the can. It shivered under the impact and bled clear liquid.
    “Shit,” one of the men called and she heard a rustle of grass as, she supposed, he fled from the can, though it didn’t ignite.
    More rustling, footsteps.
    But coming from where?
    Then Sachs saw a flash of light about fifty feet into the field. It was near where Culbeau had been and she realizedit would be the ’scope or the receiver of his big gun. She lifted her head cautiously and caught Lucy’s eye, pointed to herself and then toward the flash. The deputy nodded then gestured around to the flank. Sachs nodded.
    But as Lucy started through the grass on the left side of the cabin, running in a crouch, O’Sarian rose and, laughing again madly, began firing with his Colt. Sharp cracks filled the field. Lucy was, momentarily, a clear target and it was only because O’Sarian was an impatient marksman that he missed. The deputy dove prone, as the dirt kicked up around her, then rose and fired one shot at him, a near hit, and the small man dropped to cover, giving a whoop and calling, “Nice try, baby!”
    Sachs started forward again, toward Culbeau’s sniper’s nest. She heard several other shots. The pops of a revolver, then the staccato cracks of the soldier rifle, then the stunning detonation of the shotgun.
    She was worried that they’d hit Lucy but a moment later she heard the woman’s voice call, “Amelia, he’s coming at you.”
    The pounding of feet in the grass. A pause. Rustling.
    Who? And where was he? She felt panicked, looking around dizzily.
    Then silence. A man’s voice calling something indistinct.
    The footsteps receded.
    The wind parted the grass again and Sachs saw the glint of Culbeau’s telescopic sight. He was nearly in front of her, fifty feet away, on a slight rise—a good spot for him to shoot from. He could pop up out of the grass with his big gun and cover the entire field. She crawled faster, convinced that he was sighting through the powerful ’scope at Lucy—or into the cabin and targeting Rhyme or Mary Beth through the window.
    Faster, faster!
    She climbed to her feet and started to run in a crouch. Culbeau was still thirty-five feet away.
    But Sean O’Sarian, it turned out, was much closer than that—as Sachs found out when she sprinted into the clearing and tripped over him. He gasped as she rolled past him and fell onto her back. She smelled liquor and sweat.
    His eyes were manic; he looked as disconnected as a schizophrenic.
    There was an immeasurable beat and Sachs lifted her pistol as he swung the Colt toward her. She kicked backward into the grass and they fired simultaneously. She felt the muzzle blast of the three shots as he emptied the clip, all the long rounds missing. Her single shot missed too; when she rolled prone and looked for a target he was leaping through the grass, howling.
    Don’t miss the opportunity, she told herself. And risked a shot from Culbeau as she rose from the grass and aimed at O’Sarian. But before she could fire, Lucy Kerr stood and shot him once as he ran directly toward her. The man’s head lifted and he touched his chest. Another laugh. Then he spiraled down into the grass.
    The look on Lucy’s face was shock and Sachs wondered if this had been her first kill in the line of duty. Then the deputy dropped into the grass. A moment later several shotgun blasts chewed up the vegetation where she’d been standing.
    Sachs continued on toward Culbeau, moving very fast now; it was likely that he knew Lucy’s position and when she stood again he’d have a clear shot at her.
    Twenty feet, ten.
    The glint from the ’scope flashed more brightly and Sachs ducked. Cringing, waiting for his shot. But apparently the big man hadn’t seen her. There was no shot and she continued on her belly, easing around to the right to flank him. Sweating, the arthritis pinching her joints hard.
    Five feet.
    Ready.
    It was a bad shooting situation. Because he was on a hill, in order to acquire a clear target she’d have to roll into the clearing