The Last of the Dogteam Read online

me Terry. Love me like I love you."

  The act did not last long. He was moving, she was moaning and whimpering, and neither of them wanted it to end. She whined, shuddered, and he watched her eyelids flutter. She said something, but Terry couldn't understand the words. He slammed into her for the final time, his juices boiling over, exploding. The two teenagers lay panting in each other's arms, the flames from the fire highlighting the sheen of sweat on their bodies.

  And Nat King Cole sang: Unforgettable.

  Cold morning, Terry lay snuggled under the covers in his room, the patch quilt pulled up to his eyes. Did last night really happen? he questioned silently. Did yesterday really happen? Vera and Clarissa. I did it to both of them. Incredible.

  He knew the house was empty, he had heard everyone leave an hour before. He would have to make late Mass or really be in trouble with his father: trouble was, church bored him. But he had to go. Reluctantly, he got out of bed and stood shivering in the cold room at the very top of the old house, so far away from the coal-burning furnace in the basement very little heat ever reached it. He looked out the window and was glad to see it had stopped snowing. It was unusual to snow this much before Christmas; everyone said so, especially all the old-timers.

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  In the bathroom, he showered and stood for a moment before deciding he could get by without shaving. He needed a new blade for his safety razor, and he had never mastered the art of shaving with a straight razor, as did his father.

  One thing Terry knew for certain: if he ever got away from home, he would not set foot in a church unless he felt he wanted to talk to Cod. What was the word for those people who went to church when they really didn't want to? Hypocrites. Well, he'd be damned if he'd play the part of one of them.

  As he stood looking at his steamy reflection in the mirror, he laughed. "Yeah," he spoke to his likeness, "y°u'U probably be damned, all right." Somehow, he felt his words were true, and that knowledge frightened him.

  In his room, dressing, he clicked on the radio. The song playing seemed to hold a prophecy, and a cold sensation swept over him, a chill he knew had nothing to do with the weather. It was a country song: 111 Sail My Ship Alone.

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  TWO

  February, 1954

  It had been a hard, cold winter in North Georgia, and the old-timers said this snow would probably be the last big one of the year. Terry hoped so; he was tired of eating fried rabbit, baked rabbit, rabbit stew, with a squirrel thrown in every now and then. About one more month and Poppa would go back to work at the mill; things would ease up some.

  Poppa had not worked in more than a month, and Momma said money was tight as Dick's Hat Band. Trudging through the snow, Terry wondered where that expression got started. He was just this day sixteen years old, and trying to keep three women happy.

  Mavis had moved on him last month, telling him she knew all about Terry and Vera, and if Terry didn't do it to her, too, she'll tell. She'd

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  tell Terry's father and mother, his brothers, and the Priest.

  Terry wondered how any one sixteen year old could get himself in so much trouble.

  Not that Mavis wasn't something when she did it. She was a scratcher and a biter; wild in bed. But Terry wished his brothers would come home and take care of their own business. Everytime he turned around, somebody, it seemed, was expecting him to get it up and go to bed.

  "Hell, I'm just a kid," he said.

  He had passed Sergeant Tate earlier that morning: the new Sergeant at the National Guard Armory. Tate seemed like a nice guy; he'd have to get down there and talk with him some time.

  "One more rabbit," Terry said to the white-covered earth and the cold wind that whistled around his face, "then 111 go home." He shifted his rifle from left hand to right, looked up from the ground, and found himself face to face with Ed Far ago.

  Crazy Ed Far ago. That's what people called him. But still others said he wasn't so crazy— just mean as hell. Ed bootlegged and stole and gambled and did everything else that was dirty and mean, been to prison twice. It was said Ed had lolled two men but had never been convicted for it: the bodies were never found. Whispers said he'd raped more than once.

  "Hello, boy," Ed grinned, exposing a mouthful of stubbed teeth, stained with tobac-

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  co. "I bet you got lots of big rabbits in that there bag. Right?"

  I should be afraid, Terry thought But I'm not. Odd. He backed up three steps, not out of fear, but to give himself some running room, or fighting room, if it came to that. Or shooting room, the thought jumped into his brain. The thought of having to shoot Ed did not really bother Terry, and that scared him. His thumb automatically slid to the safety on the .22 rifle and he thumbed it to the Fire position. Ed did not notice.

  "Yeah, Ed. I got some pretty good-sized rabbits in here." And I plan on keeping them in there, he thought.

  "I sure would like to have me some big fat rabbits for supper," Ed grinned. "They go good with fried potatoes. Why don't you jist gimmie them rabbits, boy?"

  Terry was calm, cold in his thinking; he spoke his words carefully. "Hunt your own rabbits, Ed."

  "Don't you sass me, boy!" Ed's eyes flattened, turning mean. "I'll slap you clear outta the county." His grin changed into a nasty smile. "You the one goin* with that Chambers gal, ain't you?" He smacked his thick lips. "That there is a prime little piece of ass. I'd like to have me a taste of that, myself. That there's eatin* pussy. You gittin' in her drawers, boy?"

  "I don't think that's any of your business, Ed." Terry felt the coldness within him

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  become tinted with fire and he did not understand what was happening in him. "Now, why don't you just go on and leave me alone?"

  "Naw, not yet. You got any money, boy? Some change, maybe. I'm busted and it's Saturday night soon—like to go out jukin' come dark, buy some 'shine, maybe. Gimmie them rabbits and empty yore pockets. Do it right now, boyl"

  "No way, Ed," Terry stood his ground. He knew, with a horrifying clarity what was coming, and just exactly what he was going to do. The image was clear in his young mind.

  Ed looked around. There had been a hunter in these woods about an hour ago. That smart-ass Paratrooper Sergeant from the Armory. The woods were silent. Ed turned back to Terry.

  "You goddamn little snot-nosed punk! Ill whup yore ass like hit's never been whupped. Then 111 shove that pea-shooter up hit."

  "Come on, Ed," Terry said.

  Ed took a step toward the young man, faking him out by suddenly shifting to the right, then lunged at him, backhand ing him, knocking him to the snow.

  Terry was faster than the bigger, older man, rolling to his feet and away before Ed could lack him, the boot just missing his head. Terry held onto his rifle, holding it at the ready.

  Ed stumbled in the snow, off balance from his kick, and fell heavily to his knees. He rose slowly to his feet, reaching into his jacket

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  pocket, producing a pistol. "I'm gonna hammer on you, punk. Then I'm gonna kill you jist to watch you bleed and holler."

  Before the sound of Ed's words had left his tongue, Terry was moving, running through the snow, darting and zig-zagging, heading for cover.

  Ed raised the pistol and cracked off a shot, the slug going wide by several yards, kicking up snow to Terry's left. The boy spun, dropped to one knee, and leveled the rifle just as Ed turned. The .22 slug hit the man in the upper arm, penetrating jacket and muscle, bringing a howl of pain and anger.

  The boy and the man were less than seventy-five yards apart, Terry behind a stump, Ed behind a small tree.

  "You shot me, you little son-of-a-bitch!" Ed yelled across the snow. "Now you're in trouble for sure."

  Terry was inwardly shaking from fear and excitement, but his voice was calm. "Come and get me, Ed."

  Ed began blasting away at Terry, with the young man returning the fire, neither of them picking their shots, and no one was hurt during the exchange. Ed wa
s firing a short-barreled .32; at seventy-five yards, he would have been lucky to hit anything.

  There was a period of silence, almost audible after the gunfire.

  "Your time has come, Punk I" Ed shouted across the distance, the words dull as they

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  spanned the whiteness. "I'm gonna get you."

  "So, come and get me," Terry returned the shout.

  They both had cartridges left, but Ed was confident he could handle the boy. "You'd better run, boy," Ed stood up, brazenly, his hands empty.

  "That'll be the day," Terry stood up. Like Ed, his hands were empty.

  Cold sunlight twinkled on polished steel: Ed held a long-bladed hunting knife in his right hand. The light twinkled again, and Terry's knife was in his hand. There was fear in the young man, but mixed with anger and something else he could not define. The two moved toward each other, eyes locked, taking short, shuffling steps in the snow.

  "One more for old Ed," the man said, walking toward the boy. Ed was smiling in anticipation of the loll, knife held sharp side up for a gut-cut. Ed liked to kill, liked the look of fear on men's faces as they went down.

  They were two steps apart when Ed made his move. But he was too anxious; it was the wrong move. He lunged at Terry. Terry sidestepped him, then buried the blade of his knife in Ed's chest. He jerked it out and stabbed him again, in the belly. Ed was still standing, his knife in the snow where he'd dropped it, when Terry pulled his knife out of the man's stomach. Ed slowly sank to his knees, blood staining his shirt and jacket. Pink froth formed in bubbles on his lips.

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  Ed screamed just once, spraying the snow with pink and red. "Goddman you, KovakI You little . . ." Then he collapsed on the snow, face down, to cough his way into his last adventure. Terry's first cut had nicked the heart of Ed Far ago.

  Terry walked up to the man, calmly wiping his knife clean as he went. He started to walk away, then remembered Sergeant Tate. Tate had seen him. More than that, almost every boy in this part of Georgia had a rifle, but almost no boy had a pistol. He stood for a moment, then reluctantly made up his mind. He rolled Ed over on his back. The man's eyes were open and he was still alive, but just barely.

  Terry went through his pockets, finding three more cartridges for the .32. He loaded the pistol, took careful aim, and shot Ed in the arm, in the exact spot his .22 bullet had hit. He then shot him in the spots where he had cut Ed. He put the pistol in his pocket and walked away. He knew where there was a deep, so far bottomless hole in the ground, on the way back to the road. He would put the pistol there. Terry had once dropped a large stone down that hole. He had never heard it strike the bottom.

  He returned to the stump, retrieved his game bag, and began the long trek home. He did not feel sick—although that would come in a matter of minutes—and he did not feel numb or guilty. Ed had tried to rob him, tried

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  to beat him, tried to stab him. Terry had defended himself. That was that.

  Sixteen years old that day.

  "Quite a birthday you bought yourself, Terry-boy," he said aloud, walking through the Georgia snow. One sole of his hunting boots had come loose, and his foot was wet and cold. The sole flapped as he walked. He dropped the pistol down the deep hole and kept on walking. Just before he came to the gravel road that would lead him to town, the young man knelt by a bush and vomited, trembling and shaking all over.

  He did not want to go home and clean the rabbits. He wanted to throw them away, but knew his family needed the food and he would have to pretend that nothing unusual had happened this day.

  He had just killed a man. How did he feel? Terry wasn't sure. It wasn't like in the movies. When Johnny Mack Brown lolled someone it was a clean, quiet death. Nothing like what happened today. Or did Johnny ever loll anyone in his movies? Terry couldn't remember. Did Gene or Roy or Hopalong? He wasn't sure.

  Neither was he sure just exactly how he felt about what had happened that day.

  Sergeant Tate watched Terry until he was sure he would not return to the site of the killing. He was impressed by what he had seen that afternoon and knew he must, after covering Terry's clumsy attempt at disguising his act

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  of violence, contact his Colonel. Not the Col-onel in charge of recruiting, but Tate's real boss: Colonel Ferret, head of the Army's ultra-secret killing arm. The Dog Teams. Tate thought he had a fine candidate for those teams.

  Kovak. That's what he'd heard the dead man call the lad. Kovak.

  The sky began to spit snow, slowly at first, then abruptly disgorging huge, wet flakes. The snow would hide any tracks Tate made—if he moved quickly. He walked to Farago's body and pulled an Army issue .45 automatic from under his field jacket. He shot Ed three times in the chest with the pistol, then shot him in the arm, destroying what might have been left of Terry's .22 slug—he hoped. He shot Ed in the face with the .45, then twice in the chest with his own rifle.

  Stab wounds, pistol wounds, rifle wounds. If the sheriff had any sense at all, he would figure three people attacked Ed. Tate stepped back to review his work. It would have to do; he could not afford to linger in this area.

  Yeah, he smiled, the Dog Teams. He believed Kovak would fit right in.

  Tate walked, in a very roundabout way, back to his Jeep. He was smiling. The nexj couple of days should be very interesting in Flagler County, Georgia.

  "You're not eating, Terry," his mother

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  scolded him at the supper table. She softened her voice, adding, "What's the matter, son, you coming down with something?"

  Terry wanted to scream out: Goddam nit, I just killed a man! What's worse, I don't really feel anything. I don't think I'm normal.

  Instead, he smiled and shook his head. "No, Momma, just not hungry, that's all."

  "Going out tonight, Terry?" his father asked around a mouthful of fried rabbit. His father never seemed to tire of the game Terry brought home.

  Terry looked at his father, chewing, gulping, and smacking his lips, as if he were eating prime steak. "No, I'm staying in tonight. Clarissa's gone to Atlanta with her dad." Beside him, Vera rubbed his leg with her stockened foot, under the table.

  Mavis shot hot looks at both of them.

  Terry had told Vera about Mavis. She had laughed.

  'Kid you are something else. Screwing both your brother's wives, plus your teenage girlfriend. God!'

  1 really don't think it's all that funny, Vera. I don't feel right about this. What am I gonna do?'

  She laughed. 'Just keep right on humping us all, Terry-boy. Enjoy it while you can.'

  "Well, that's good," his mother said. "You need some rest, Terry. You're looking peaked. You and Vera can listen to the radio tonight while your poppa and me go visiting the Ben-

  son's. They invited us to play Monopoly. I know Mavis got to go to work at the church. I don't know what Father Meranus would do without you, Mavis. You're such a help to him."

  Vera kicked him under the table, but Terry refused to meet the gaze he knew was on him. Vera thought Mavis was in love with the Priest. Terry thought that was stupid.

  "He's a Priest, Vera!"

  "He wouldn't be the first one to stick it to a good-looking woman."

  "Vera, you're going to go to Hell talking like that."

  She laughed at him, fondling him.

  "Be good to have some money in my hand," Karl Kovak said, looking up from his rabbit, "even if it is only play money." He touched Terry's hand. "You're a good son, Terry. A fine hunter. You've done us all proud this winter. We couldn't have made it without you."

  Maybe I can join the Mafia, Terry mused. Iceman Kovak. Gun for hire.

  Terry started to thank his father for the compliment. Before he could get the words out of his mouth, the outside air was ripped apart by the sounds of half a dozen sirens from fast-moving police cars. The highway was right behind the Kovak home. Terry's butt and the seat of his chair parted company by a good six inches. His father spilled his
coffee, and the

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  two babies, seated in high-chairs, began crying.

  They found the pistol) Terry thought. Oh, shit!

  "Good Lord in Heaven 1** Mother Kovak said. "You don't suppose the war's started again, do you?"

  "I hope so," Terry said, regaining some of his lost composure, "I'd like to go to Korea." And if that isn't possible, he thought, I'll settle for the Moon.

  The family gathered outside, on the porch, while Shirley stayed with the babies, trying to calm them. Up and down the street, families were gathering on porches and sidewalks.

  "Hey, there, Pearsonl" Mr. Kovak yelled across the street to his neighbor. "What's all the fuss about?" Six o'clock, full dark, spitting snow.

  "It's Ed Farago," the neighbor called. "He's been murdered out in the Piney Woods area. Shot a dozen times and then stabbed. It's just terrible,"

  A dozen timesl Terry silently mulled that around in his head. What the hell . . . P

  Pearson walked across the street to join the Kovak men. The women stayed on the porch. "It's bad," the man said. "A maniac is on the loose. Mrs. Webb's son, Don, he's a cop, you know, said Ed was shot in the face. Almost blew his head off. His left arm was almost shot off and he had been shot with a high-powered rifle, too. All those stab wounds." The man

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  shuddered. "Hie sheriff thinks a gang of big city hoodlums is on a rampage in the county."

  This was just about more than Terry could take. He got himself under control, knowing he had to be calm. But he didn't understand what had happened. He had shot Ed once, in the arm, stabbed him twice, then left him. Who would come along and shoot a dead man? And, why? He left his father talking with Pearson and walked back to the porch to join his mother and Vera. Mavis had not come out of the house. Terry told them what had happened.

  "Awful," Mother Kovak said, shaking her head. "Just terrible. But Ed ran with rough people. He was a hoodlum, a no-good. Everyone knew that."

  "Yeah," Vera injected, "maybe he double-crossed some of his pals and they did him in." She looked at Terry. "Don't you usually hunt up in the Piney Woods?"

  Terry forced himself to meet her gaze, his mind working hard and fast. Tate had seen him: he couldn't lie about being up there. "Yeah, I do—did. But I couldn't scare up any rabbits, so I went east, along the ridges."