Steve's head was turned; he kept looking over his shoulder, almost unable to tear his eyes away from the rapidly disappearing tree trunk under which his partner now lay. Mike had been grinning warmly as he had walked away, and long after it had become too dark and too far away for Steve to see anything, that smile was burned into his mind.
Trying to blink away the tears that continued to blur his vision, breathing heavily through his open mouth, he silently followed Rutter deeper into the bush. The native Kentuckian had increased his pace; they needed to make up for the lost time.
Both men were on full alert, straining to hear anything, beyond their own footfalls, that would warn them of any unwelcome presence. So far they had heard nothing, but they both knew it was only a matter of time.
Steve wasn't sure how long they had been moving across the rain-slickened forest floor when Rutter slowed slightly and the San Francisco cop found himself on the younger man's heels. Rutter glanced back. "How long have you two been partners?" he asked quietly.
Steve caught his breath; it was not a question he'd been expecting from his reluctant confederate. "Um, ah, just over four years," he answered softly.
The pair walked in silence for several long seconds, then Rutter glanced at Steve quickly again. "He'll be okay; you'll get him back," he said firmly and increased his pace, widening the distance between them.
# # # # #
Mike tugged at the lapels of his suit coat, trying to get them closer together. He pulled the tie out of his pocket and, using his left hand and his teeth, managed to tie the ends together then loop it over his head. Grimacing, he used his left hand to lift his right and slide it into the makeshift sling.
Waiting several seconds for the pain to subside, he shifted so he was lying mostly on his left side, trying to keep the wound in his back from making contact with the pile of leaves he was lying against. Finally getting relatively comfortable, he turned the collar of his suit coat up, laid his head against it and put his now sopping wet fedora over his face.
He closed his eyes. His breaths began to get deeper and longer; his chest started to heave. He had no idea where he was, he wasn't really sure how seriously he was hurt, and he knew that some very bad people were trying very hard to find him. He was wet, he was cold, he was in pain, he was alone… and he was afraid – not just for himself, but for his partner. Mostly for his partner.
Warm tears started to slide down his cheeks as he began to pray.
# # # # #
Steve was trying to shake the rainwater out of his hair when Rutter suddenly stopped and froze, cocking his head. Steve slid to a halt. "What –?"
Rutter cut him off with a quick, angry gesture. Then they both heard it, an almost inaudible report: the distant but very recognizable sound of gunfire. The two men looked at each other.
"Which way?" Steve whispered, hoping that Rutter's superior skill in the bush would help him distinguish the direction the sound was coming from.
Rutter, his brow furrowed anxiously, just shook his head, shrugging.
"How far?"
Another shrug, another shake of the head. Steve watched as Rutter seemed to wage an inner war, trying to decide which way they should continue. Their eyes met briefly. "Mike…" Steve whispered, the helplessness so evident in his voice.
Rutter quickly shook his head. "No, I don' think it was from there," he whispered back, and Steve grabbed his arm. They were standing almost nose-to-nose in the dark. Rutter shook his head again. "No, it wasn't from there," he said with a certainty that made Steve nod and relax. He squeezed Rutter's arm before letting it go.
The younger man turned away, hesitated for a split second, then pointed straight ahead. "We gotta keep goin'," he said urgently, heading off again. With a deep breath, Steve followed. In the distance they heard two more shots.
# # # # #
They had walked for another couple of hours, and their pace had slowed considerably. The rain had finally stopped; a damp mist began to form in the swales as the clouds dissipated. The murky sky was beginning to change colour as the first indications of the approaching dawn appeared in the east.
They were sitting under trees, dirty, exhausted, dehydrated and covered with scrapes and cuts from the unforgiving bushes and branches they'd had to fight through for so many long and difficult hours. Steve had just leaned his head back against the rough bark of a pignut hickory when they heard it – the unmistakable baying of bloodhounds. Both men shot to their feet; the eerie howling made their blood run cold and they looked at each other with sudden unsuppressed terror.
"Run!" Rutter hissed loudly as he took off into the bush once more in the opposite direction of the almost paralyzing sound. Steve shot after him. They no longer cared about keeping as quiet as possible; that option was one they no longer needed to consider. Now it was a race for their lives.
The pre-dawn light was just enough to allow them to run at a pace that had would have been suicidal before. The more sure-footed Rutter started to open up a wider lead ahead of the city detective. Steve knew he would soon be outrun and Rutter would no longer be, figuratively speaking at least, his prisoner. A phrase he had heard mere hours earlier returned and, despite the seriousness of his present situation, he couldn't resist a slight smile. "That's the least of my worries."
The pounding of the heavy metal object in his jacket pocket brought him quickly back to reality. "Donny Lee," he whispered loudly, and he saw the younger man slow slightly, turning his head to let the cop know he had been heard. "Slow down, man, I want to give you something."
Rutter pulled up, panting, and turned quickly. Steve slid to a stop before him and reached into his pocket. He pulled out Mike's .38. "You might need this."
Rutter froze, his eyes on the revolver, but he didn't move. Steve saw him swallow heavily and blink rapidly, as if not believing what he was seeing. He looked up and met Steve's eyes, his expression wary.
Steve nodded quickly and pushed the .38 into the younger man's chest, forcing him to grab it. "Take it, you're gonna need it, especially if we get split up."
The quick intake of breath was the only sign Steve needed to know that Rutter understood exactly what he had said. Wordlessly, the young Kentuckian, who had run from the SFPD and was now literally on the run for his life in his own 'backyard', wrapped both hands around the revolver, turned and broke into a run once more.
Steve struggled valiantly to keep up, but it was getting harder and harder. He already had blood running down the right side of his face from a viciously sharp branch that had missed his eye but managed to dig a chunk out of his eyebrow.
The baying of the bloodhounds seemed to be getting closer, and a sense of inevitable foreboding began to sink in. He didn't know how much further he could run, how much more of the relentless pounding his body could withstand.
They were cresting a slight hill when he was thrown off his feet, spun viciously and slammed into a small tree, left shoulder first. He lay unmoving for several long seconds, trying to figure out what had happened, too stunned to move.
Rutter, who had heard the cop's cry of pain, turned in time to see Steve hit the tree. He knew immediately what was going on. Crouching, he scrambled back and grabbed Steve's right arm as he began to stand. "You've been hit," Rutter hissed, "look." He held Steve's arm tightly until his words sank in and he saw the cop turn his head slowly to look at his own upper arm. "It went right through but you're gonna bleed like a stuck pig." He pulled Steve to his feet. "We can't stay here, we're sittin' ducks. We gotta at least give 'em a movin' target."
Pushing Steve ahead of him, crouching and, with a quick backward glance, Rutter shepherded his now wounded ally through the suddenly sparse woods. The scattered new growth trees offered far less protection and concealment than the denser woodland they had spent most of the night traversing.
They both felt the air compress as another high velocity round sailed harmlessly past, but they both also realized that their luck was rapidly running out. It was only a matter of time, maybe just seconds, until they would be cut down.
They ran as fast as their exhausted legs could carry them, Rutter passing the nearly spent cop and retaking the lead. They could hear the dogs closing in behind them and another round slammed into a tree beside Rutter as he careened past it. He ducked instinctively, almost losing his balance but managing somehow to stay on his feet.
And then his luck ran out. As Steve watched, Rutter suddenly pitched forward, his back seeming to explode as he slammed face first onto the undergrowth, arms outspread, his sweat and rain soaked tee-shirt turning a frightening deep red.
"No!" Steve cried out as he stumbled forward, trying to get to the fallen man, ignoring the searing pain in his arm. He was reaching for Rutter when his left calf muscle was blown apart, a round tearing through his leg and into the ground.
Screaming, he fell onto his back, unable to move, staring up at the sparse canopy, at a sky turning pink with the promise of a beautiful day. He couldn't move, his chest heaving wildly as he struggled to breathe, overwhelmed by the crippling pain that dangled dark spots before his eyes. He could hear the cries of the dogs, their strident frustration at not being allowed in for the kill. He heard heavy footsteps getting closer, and a low sadistic cackle.
Opening his eyes a slit, he willed himself not to react when a tall, thickset, black bearded man in dirty denim overalls and jacket, and carrying a military style rifle with a scope, stepped into his field of vision. 'I wonder which Scobie this is?' he thought idly, almost laughing at the incongruousness of the question.
The unknown Scobie glanced to his left, and Steve could only assume he was looking at Rutter, or what was left of him. He closed his eyes, allowing himself a moment of unexpected grief, then let them slide slightly open again.
"I knows youse still alive, ya little piss-ant, thinkin' ya kin get ya asses outa here 'fore we dun dealt wit' that l'il bag a shit." He moved the barrel of the rifle vaguely in Rutter's direction. "Ya took out one a our own too, ya bastard. What, ya think we don' live by 'eye fer an eye' here? When yew city boys gonna learn?" He turned his head slightly. "Whata ya wan' me to do wit' him, Pa?!" he called over his shoulder.
"Kill 'im," a cold distant voice yelled back, and the dogs started to howl again. 'Pa' must be the one controlling the hounds, Steve thought sluggishly, his pain-addled brain having trouble focusing.
"Yee haw!" the younger Scobie roared with delight, and his almost toothless face broke into a lop-sided grin as he brought the rifle up to his shoulder and pointed the barrel at the helpless cop.
"Mike…" Steve breathed wistfully as he closed his eyes and the loud report echoed throughout the quiet forest.