Free Death in the Pines by Thom Hartmann

erupted from his stomach and came out his mouth.
    â€œDon’t kill him,” the third man in the tableau said, his voice frightened, whiny. “I ain’t here for any killing.”
    I began to edge to the left, where the land fell away, hunting for a spot where I could get into the clearing without causing a small avalanche of stone and snow. The man with the stun gun said in a bored voice, “I’m not going to kill him.”
    Maybe not. The kid had been hit with probably seventy-five thousand volts at a low amperage, so low that the shock doesn’t kill or even scar. But the jolt hits you with blinding pain, far worse than being bludgeoned with a brick. There are places in the world, and too many of them here in the United States,where the police or the army get a lot of enjoyment applying these devices to the genitals of men, women, and teenagers.
    I pulled back, losing sight of the clearing for half a minute, and worked my way around so I was on level ground. I stepped into the light to the left of the Taser-armed man. He was just about to apply it to the kid’s fluttering stomach again. I said, “Step back slowly, drop the Taser, and turn around, or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”
    â€œJesus,” the man said in a tired, irritated voice, like a plumber who had just discovered he had forgotten a wrench. “Who the hell are you?” He backed away, further into the shadow.
    â€œI ask the questions,” I said, suddenly and coldly aware that the man with the whiny voice was no longer in sight.
    â€œYou got him in your sights?” the heavy man asked.
    â€œGot him.”
    Damn. Off in the trees somewhere. They must have heard me coming. I heard the distinctive ratchet of a pump-action rifle.
    â€œSo who the hell are you?” the older man asked me again, his voice sounding like there was a little smile on his lips.
    â€œThe guy who’s betting he can get off one shot even if he’s hit,” I said. “And believe me, I’m good with this gun. But since your friend has a rifle, maybe I should just shoot you right now and even up the odds a little.” I had dropped a flashlight into my side pocket; from the same pocket I produced my cell phone, flipped it open, and punched in 911. I stood with my thumb on the send button.
    â€œWho are you calling?” the man asked. I couldn’t quite place the accent. It was closest to the affected Boston accent that kids from other parts of the country pick up if they attend Harvard.
    â€œGuess,” I said. “They can figure out where cell calls are made from. If your friend doesn’t make a good shot, the police will know exactly where I was when I called. How long do you think it’ll take them to get here? How long do you think it’ll take you and your buddy to replace the two front tires that I flattened?”
    He didn’t like that. His face tightened. “I don’t much like guns,” he said conversationally. “They make a mess. Nevertheless, hunting accidents are common. My friend is holding a standard-issue thirty-aught-six on you. Some years ago, the head of the FBI died in a hunting accident—”
    â€œBill Sullivan,” I said. “Died in 1977. But nobody’s going to buy that. Deer season is over.”
    His face became grave. “There are complications,” he said with a sigh. “We seem to be at a standoff. What do you suggest?”
    â€œTell squeaky to come into the light, where I can see him. And you step forward, too.”
    I had been moving slowly back. Now I stood mostly in darkness. The man said, “We’re just having a little business meeting here.” It seemed an odd turn of phrase.
    â€œTell your boss that you hit some hard luck,” I suggested. “This time, let’s call it a draw.”
    â€œThis time?”
    â€œIt might be different next time,” I told him.
    The guy off to the side