Page 96 of Return of the Spider

Sampson hustled forward. He secured the ex-con’s wrists and read him his Miranda rights, then came over to me. I’d struggled to a sitting position, breathing hard and hurting, adrenaline pumping, the sweat pouring off my forehead. The saliva at the back of my throat had a burned-aluminum taste that made me want to gag.

“Jesus, he did shoot you,” Sampson said, looking at the stub of the arrow sticking out of the front of my shirt.

“Almost point-blank,” I said, feeling dizzy. “Chest was hammered.”

“I bet,” he said. “You’re lucky it wasn’t a bullet at that distance.”

Diggs, still facedown and restrained, yelled, “I did not mean to do that, man. I would never shoot a cop!”

“But you did, Mr. Diggs,” Sampson snapped. He yelled, “Tommy!”

A second later, from off in the woods a good hundred yards, French yelled back, “I’ve got Beech in custody!”

“Call the sheriff! Call an ambulance! Diggs shot Cross with an arrow.”

“What!”

“His armor stopped it. But he’s shook up bad and I want him looked at.”

“Done!”

By that point, I was trembling head to toe.

“I didn’t have a chance, John,” I said, hearing my voice wavering. “My gun was pointed down and I was looking for a blind on the ground, not up in a tree. I…”

“Doesn’t matter,” Sampson said. “You’re going to be fine. You’re going to go home, see Maria and Damon.”

“Help me up.”

“Not a good idea.”

“I feel like I should get up, John.”

He sighed, helped me to my feet. I stood there, my focus swirling, my balance off.

“I might have a mild concussion,” I said, feeling a little nauseated as the egg throbbed at the back of my head.

Sampson said, “Which is why we’re getting you checked out ASAP.”

I reached over and put my hand against a young oak tree. “Agreed.”

Sampson went back to Diggs. Before John hauled him to his feet, he scraped a square in the leaves around the bow and arrow.

“Let’s go,” John said.

“I want a lawyer,” Diggs said.

“I bet you do.” Sampson told him to walk out the path. “And don’t run because I’d love nothing more than to shoot you in the ass.”

“I told you, I didn’t mean to do it!”

“And yet you did do it,” John said. “Now, march.”

Diggs appeared ready to cry but started down the trail slowly. Sampson offered me his arm, which I took.

I don’t remember much of the walk out, but we were met in the turnaround on the old logging road by French and a small, scrawny man, presumably Beech. He was in cuffs and spitting mad.

“What is this?” Beech demanded. He nodded at the state police detective. “This shithead here won’t tell me nothing. Just dragged me out of my blind.”