The Survivalist (Frontier Justice)

Chapter 4

For three relaxing weeks, Mason enjoyed the isolation of the Blue Ridge Mountains from the comfort of his family's cabin. He completed a host of fix-it projects, caught more fish than he could eat, and practiced with a 1911 semi-automatic pistol. The handgun, a Wilson Combat Tactical Supergrade in .45 caliber, was arguably one of the finest pistols currently in production. Unfortunately, it also was also one of the most expensive. Marshal Leroy Tucker, a friend and avid gun buff, had loaned it to him to try out over his vacation. With more than five hundred rounds passing through the match grade barrel while in his brief care, that was exactly what Mason had done.

Mason was normally required to carry the Marshal Service's standard issue Glock .40 because of its ease in handling and high reliability. He was surprised at how walking around with the Supergrade on his hip felt so natural. It was certainly a more beautiful weapon, albeit a bit more complicated to operate in a gunfight. The thrill of carrying such a fine firearm would be short-lived, however, as he had to return it to Marshal Tucker the following Monday.

It took him nearly a full hour to secure the cabin, locking the windows and doors, hanging the shutters, latching the cabinets to prevent unwanted four-legged visitors, covering the generator and wood pile, and tying down everything outside that he didn't want blown halfway across the county. He loaded his bags into the back of the truck, including a few days of extra food and drinks that he hadn't consumed. When everything was loaded and secured, he took one last trip around the cabin to make sure that nothing had been overlooked. Once he deemed the property ready to weather another six months without attention, Mason climbed in his truck and started the seven-hour drive back to his apartment in northern Brunswick.

The drive from the cabin to his first coffee stop in Boone started on a narrow scenic road that saw very little traffic in the off-season. Cracks and potholes ensured that no one got in too big of a hurry. Giant trees stretched their limbs out over the road, their protective canopies letting in only the occasional slivers of fresh sunlight. Mason gave the drive his full attention because deer, possums, and the occasional flock of wild turkeys were frequent early morning jaywalkers.

He was surprised to come across an old blue Chevrolet pickup sitting halfway off the small road, its wheels resting in deep ruts left by logging trucks. His first thought was that hikers had braved the early morning chill to see Silver Stretch Falls, a scenic waterfall that spilled into the Watauga Reservoir. He slowed and pulled around the truck, instinctively glancing into the cab as he passed. While he caught only a glimpse, what he saw was something more suited to a drug-infested ghetto than a quiet country road.

He hit the brakes hard, stopping about ten feet in front of the Chevrolet. Leaving the engine running, he stepped out of his truck and took a look around. Nothing moved, and the only sound was the wind whistling through the trees as if a mountain giant was working out a tune on his favorite harmonica.

Parting his sport coat so that his badge was visible on his belt, he placed his hand on the grip of the Supergrade and slowly approached the truck. He was careful to maintain a clear view of the windshield and both doors because, despite the finality of what he had seen, it didn't mean there wasn't still some danger lurking within. He personally knew several peace officers who had been killed or injured as the result of letting their guard down when approaching a crime scene.

As he stepped up to the driver's side window, the carnage inside came into full view. Three bodies lay sprawled across the cloth bucket seats. The driver, a man in his mid-fifties, had a gunshot wound to his right temple. His head lay forward against the steering wheel, a large spray of blood and brains peppering the windshield. To his right sat two women, one about his age and another perhaps thirty years younger. Both were shot through the heart. Three shots: three dead.