Taggart
Taggart watched the sheriff grow smaller in the woods until he finally disappeared into a curtain of pine and maple trees. He sat down on a frozen chunk of wood, the cold seeping through his pants.
All he could taste was the vodka on his tongue. Vision blurred, the snow glowing white in front of him.
I just can’t get out of this shit.
He reached into his jacket and took out both flasks—his constant companions. He shook one, and it was done for. He tossed it to the ground and checked the other—still felt about half full. A weary sigh slipped out from deep inside him, and he uncapped the flask and held it out in front of him as if in a toast.
Just one day. One goddamned sober day. That’s all I’m asking.
But he knew better than that. He couldn’t make it one day, could barely make it through an eight-hour shift. He’d never get sober. This thing’s hooks had him by the throat, sunk in too deep to shake loose.
He thought about his girls. His wife. If he couldn’t get sober for himself, why couldn’t he do it for them? They were the real victims in all this.
He stared at the flask, its contents too strong for him to resist. He wouldn’t stop until the liquid was all gone, until every drop went down his throat. As he’d done a hundred times before, he brought the old flask next to his lips, ready to layer on a stronger drunk. He started to tilt the flask back when a sound in the woods snapped him loose from his sole focus, his singular intent of taking another sip.
He stared out into the trees. Hundreds of them.
“Hello?”
Nobody answered back. The wind blew, knocking down clumps of snow from the limbs up above, landing with wet thumps on the frozen ground.
Maybe the sheriff had changed his mind. Maybe he was coming back. Maybe the sheriff needed his help after all. Taggart stood up on two unsteady feet and squinted at the woods that surrounded him on all sides. “Sheriff?”
A rustling commotion stirred up the quiet. Twigs breaking. Something moving against the brush. The sound of some kind of footsteps.
With the flask gripped tight in his left hand, the right one went down to the stock of his service pistol. The wooden handle felt smooth and cold to the touch, and he took a cautious step forward, craned his neck in the direction of the disturbance. The liquor had his ears buzzing, but something was out there. Something or someone.
He took another step, and his left foot went out from under him. He went down hard, landing right on the tailbone. The impact made him bite his tongue, drawing some blood, and the flask tumbled from his grip and dipped into a drift of snow. Taggart let out a sound—half growl, half moan—and dragged himself across the frozen surface on his belly, hands reaching out for his precious flask. Snow slipped down the front of his shirt, into the cuffs, packed below his belt, but he kept crawling toward his faithful companion.
The sounds of footsteps got louder, even closer, but Taggart couldn’t hear any of that. His eyes stayed on the prize—the flask, sticking in the snow at a crooked angle. He finally dragged himself close enough and seized the flask—a few drops of clear liquid leaked out from the tip, the snow around the flask wet and soft and melting away.
Taggart shook the flask, confirming what he already feared—it was empty, his fix soaking into the earth. He shook it again, then rolled over onto his back, clutching the empty flask to his chest like a child’s stuffed animal. He stared up at the umbrella of trees over him, white snow and blue sky, maybe a thing of beauty to some.
Footsteps scurried closer, distinct under the call of birds and the swishing of tree limbs. Then the crunching of snow stopped and he could feel something nearby. Something watching him. He sat up, still clinging to the flask and refusing to let go.
Vision blurred or not, he saw the coyote staring over at him, head crouched down low, its ears pressed back, black nose twitching at his scent. The animal’s grayish brown winter coat stood thick on its wiry frame, a buff of white on its throat and chest. The coyote stared right at Taggart with dull yellow eyes. It stood three feet in height off the ground, and had to weigh over sixty pounds. Its stance shifted and widened, either ready to pounce or take off running—Taggart wasn’t sure which one.
He sat still as a rock, waiting to see what the animal would do. Deep in his belly, he felt the fear creep up and twist at his insides. Over the years of being in the field, he had faced many dangerous men, staring down at the tip of a pistol directed right at his gut. But seeing those yellow eyes probe every inch of him, watching the hair stand up straight on the animal’s haunches, Taggart had never felt fear like this. And as the bubbling terror grew and adrenaline kicked in, a semblance of forced sobriety returned in its place.
The coyote took another step forward, measured and methodical, maybe twenty yards from him now. Taggart began to tremble, slow at first, but soon every part of him twitched and jerked. He wondered how long it would take for an animal like that to bring him down. What it would feel like to have viselike jaws and razor-sharp fangs rip into his throat, tear open his throat. Even with the visions in his head of dying in such a manner, the irony of going out like that didn’t escape him—a cop being mauled and pulled to pieces by a damn coyote.
He felt both his hands around the flask, the metal growing colder. He glanced down at his lifeline for a moment, knowing that there was nothing it could do for him now, even if it were filled up to the top.
Then his eyes settled down at his right hip—on his .357 Magnum Ruger, with its four-inch stainless-steel barrel. He had fired only one shot today—plenty of ammo left in the cylinder. Taggart looked back toward the coyote, still poised and ready to attack. He eased the flask down to the snow with his left hand while the right hand slid down onto the stock of the pistol. He kept his eyes on the animal as he unsnapped the strap with a slight flick of his finger—the coyote flinched at the sound of the click.
Easy, now.
The gun slipped out of its leather casing, and Taggart held the Ruger low at his side. The coyote barely blinked those yellow eyes, watching him the whole time. He brought the pistol to the middle of his chest and gripped it with both trembling hands. His finger curled around the trigger, he took a breath, and then the coyote made its move. It sprang forward, paws digging into the snow, then cut to the right. A blur of dirty brown fur leaped up over a fallen tree, then disappeared behind a blanket of snow. In a matter of two or three seconds, the coyote was gone, almost like it had never been there.
Taggart kept the Ruger right where it was while he watched the trees to see if the animal would circle back. His heart worked overtime, pumping blood throughout his quivering mass. He stayed sitting in the snow for a minute, maybe it was five, then finally lowered the pistol and struggled back to his feet. He stared into all those trees, knowing that he’d faced death and death had just run off into the forest.
He holstered the gun and tried to slow his ragged breath. He couldn’t feel the cold that snapped at his face—couldn’t feel much, in fact. He took one more good look around the woods, then removed his state-issued hat, then the jacket, and tossed them both into the snow next to the empty flask. He stared down at the three things that had been a part of him for so long, then started to walk.
