I pulled the gun from my waistband, for all the good it would do. In the time it would take me to stop, turn, and aim the gun, he’d mow me down. My only hope was to reach his truck, which I could see ahead and to my left. My breathing was ragged and my chest was on fire, my thigh muscles burning while the weight of my jogging shoes seemed to suck me deeper into the earth with every step. I headed left, stumbling toward the road at an angle while the ‘dozer behind me clanked and banged, metal treads leveling the very ground that cost me everything to traverse. The size of the yellow excavator was diminished by distance, but I knew when I reached it, I’d be on the road. I felt like I was wading, my own weariness slowing me as I slogged on, trying to gain sufficient ground to make a stand. The yard-high lengths of pipe on the far side of the road grew marginally larger and the yellow excavator began to assume its proper dimensions. I was just about out of steam when I felt a change in the terrain. I was on the hard-packed berm. I reached the asphalt and ran. Once I gained the protection of the pickup, I turned and rested my arms on the side of the truck bed to steady my aim. I could see Padgett work to raise the bucket. In that split second, I squeezed the grip safety and then I fired off four rounds. I had to be dead-on or die, because there wasn’t going to be time to check for accuracy and then correct my aim.

The ‘dozer rumbled on, continuing at full throttle. Its path was unwavering, its bulk aimed directly at the excavator. I backed up rapidly and moved to my left until I had Padgett in my sights again. He’d slumped sideways and I could see the blood pouring out of the hole that I’d nicked in his neck. The ‘dozer slammed into the excavator and Padgett tumbled forward. I stood and waited, holding the gun until my arms trembled from the weight. Did I consider approaching him with an eye to rendering first aid? Never crossed my mind. I lowered the gun, went around the truck, and got in on the driver’s side. I put the gun on the seat and reached for the keys he’d left in the ignition. The truck started without complaint. I dropped it into first and headed toward the lights along the 166.

Epilogue

It was almost a year before I saw Daisy again. Technically, there wasn’t any reason to be in touch. I’d been paid in advance, and when my final written report was met with silence, I didn’t think much of it. As the weeks went by, however, I found myself feeling ever so faintly miffed. It’s not that I expected effusive gratitude or praise, but I would have appreciated some response. I had, after all, put my life at risk and killed a man in the process. In the wake of his death, I was subjected to the scrutiny of the Santa Teresa County Sheriff’s Department, which (as it turns out) looks unkindly on fatal shootings, whether justified or not.

I suppose I could have initiated contact with Daisy, but I really thought the move should be hers. This was one of those rare instances where our professional relationship had veered closer to friendship… or so I’d thought. On the few occasions when I stopped in at Sneaky Pete’s, Tannie didn’t know anything more than I did, which generated a certain sulkiness on both our parts.

I went about my business, taken up with other matters in the intervening months. Then, late morning on the last day in August, I returned to the office to find her sitting in her car, which was parked out front. I unlocked the door, letting it stand open while I picked up the mail. Moments later, Daisy followed me in.

I tossed the stack of envelopes on the desk and said, “Hey, how are you?” in that breezy offhand manner that conceals emotional injury. I sat down in my swivel chair.

She took the seat on the other side of the desk. She seemed uncomfortable, but I wasn’t going to make it any easier on her. Finally, she said, “Look, I know I should have called you, and I’m sorry. I stopped by Sneaky Pete’s, and Tannie’s so mad she’s hardly speaking to me. I owe you both an apology.”

“You did leave us hanging.”

“I’m aware of that,” she said. Her gaze traveled over the surface of my desk. She was probably desperate for a cigarette, but the absence of an ashtray must have made her think better of it. “I know this sounds feeble, but I didn’t know what to say. It’s taken me this long to figure it out. I knew I was depressed, and it didn’t seem right to inflict myself on anyone until I felt better about life.”

“I can understand the depression,” I said.

“I’m glad you can. It surprised the hell out of me. I don’t know what I expected. I guess I thought if I ever found out what happened to my mother, everything would be different, so I was sitting around waiting for the big magical change. One day I realized my life was the same old shit heap it’s always been. I was still drinking too much and taking up with all the wrong men. I was also bored out of my mind.”