“Got it.” And the damned kid hung up on me.
Praying he was actually calling emergency services, I slammed the truck into gear and peeled out of the lot. Kevin was an awesome kid for thirteen, but he had a terrifying amount of faith in people and the universe. For a boy who’d faced his share of bullying, he still somehow believed everything would work out for the best if he just threw himself into helping.
As I took the back route around to Riverside East toward Culver Street, trying to dodge traffic, I called on fate or karma or whatever to please make it so. Kevin had a lot of good karma saved up. It would take the fingers of both hands to count the number of stray cats and injured wildlife the kid had saved, but none of that would protect him from a bastard with a gun and the willingness to use it.
If I’d had a hands-free phone set-up, I’d have called Kevin’s dads myself, but the truck was too old to make that easy. I concentrated on driving fast.
That address was less than ten minutes away. As I cruised down the three-thousand block, I didn’t see any cop cars or crowd. Hopefully that meant nothing bad had happened. Yet.
3027 was the last house before the ravine that led down to Gaynor River where it cut the town in two. That maybe explained why Kevin was there because he liked to explore the parkland along the riverbanks.
I parked and got out, listening. Raised voices came from behind the house, and then, before I could head back there, the sound of a shot rang out. I froze.
Kevin!
A tall blond man who was approaching down the sidewalk stared at me, then as one, we turned and sprinted up the lawn at the side of the house. I didn’t know this dude from Adam, but if he was the kind to run toward a gunshot, I wasn’t going to turn down help. “Call 9-1-1!” I shouted at him as we ran, and his steps slowed as he fumbled out his phone.
I rounded the corner of the house with blond dude a couple of steps behind me and there was Kevin standing in an untidy yard. Alive. Not bleeding. At least as far as I could see. He had his arms out at his sides and his back to a rickety wooden structure the size of a kid’s playhouse raised up on legs, backed by a chicken wire enclosure.
“Arthur!” he called.
At his call, the man standing across from him whirled my way. This guy was short and skinny, at least ten years older than me although I couldn’t tell fifty from sixty from seventy. Bushy gray hair, a weathered face, and work-worn hands holding a gun. A pistol of some kind. Handgun. Despite growing up in rural Minnesota in a family that loved their hunting and fishing, I’d never liked guns, so I had no clue.
I raised my hands. “Hey.” My tone automatically fell to the soft, low one I used to soothe frightened critters. “No need to get excited. The boy means no harm.”
“There’s a coyote under my henhouse and I aim to shoot it,” the man growled.
“It’s not a coyote,” Kevin said, because the kid never knew when to keep quiet. “She looks like some kind of pittie-golden mix. Definitely a dog.”
The man swung back to him, gun raised, which was what I’d been trying to avoid. “I don’t care if it’s a fucking show dog. It’s killing my chickens and I got a right to shoot it.”
“Kevin,” I said calmly. “Go stand over by Mr.—” I waved at the blond stranger who’d caught up to me, phone in hand.
“Brooklyn,” the guy said softly. “Come on over here, son.”
“No.” Kevin crossed his arms and didn’t budge. “He’ll shoot her.”
Well, dammit. I was definitely going to have words with the boy’s dads. As it was, I hoped the cops would show up soon. Any time now would be good. With my hands raised high, I edged forward toward Kevin.
The gun dude watched me but said nothing as I reached the boy.
“Go on.” I gave Kevin a nudge. “I’m here now. You go out to the road and watch for the cops.”
“Don’t need no cops,” the gun guy said. “This is my property, and a man has a right to defend his property. You’re trespassing. I could shoot you all and the dog. This is my land.”
Kevin turned a pale face up to me, then finally scurried out of range although he stopped behind the Brooklyn guy instead of heading to the street.
I faced the older man, trying to project calm and helpful and friendly. Treat him like a feral cat. I took my eyes off him, though it was hard, but a stare could be thought of as a challenge. Instead, I turned to look at the henhouse. “Did you build this coop? Looks like a solid bit of work.”
“Uh, yeah.”
“I’m Arthur. That’s Kevin and Brooklyn over there.” I’d read it was harder to shoot someone whose name you knew.
“Frank,” he mumbled.
“How many chickens do you have, Frank?”
“Six. Now. Was seven.” The growl in his voice made me regret the question and I scrambled for something else.
