The spotlight locked on the two boys, Earl reached down and unsnapped the flap over his Colt Trooper. Then he reached back and removed the pair of handcuffs from his belt case and another that he’d stuck into the belt.
He started to walk across.
“Damn!” said Jimmy, slapping suddenly at his neck where he’d just been stung. “Goddamn bugs!”
It happened so slowly yet so fast at the same time; Earl’s eyes followed as Jimmy’s hand seemed to go back to the car but at the same time, in a maneuver that made no sense at all, Jimmy was curling, pivoting, turning and he felt himself say “Jim—” when he saw the gun and he couldn’t figure it out because the gun was on the ground, he’d seen it hit, and he saw the—
FLASH
—before he heard any noise and he felt the—
WHACK
before he heard the noise too, and then he heard the noise and saw the flash again and
WHACK
from so close, so very close, and the next thing he knew he was on his knees and somebody was running at him and he heard the noise again and it was Bub.
Bub ran at him and seemed to stop as a red spider crawled across his T-shirt front and his face was drawn and terribly tense with fear. But still he came crazily at Earl, like some kind of monster, his arms outstretched, his mouth working, his eyes wide like big white eggs, coming on as if to crush the life from Earl.
Earl fired. He couldn’t even remember drawing.
Bub went to his knees.
FLASH.
Earl turned as Jimmy fired again, then again, both misses as he slipped back into the corn. Earl imagined a sly grin on Jimmy’s face and more than anything to wipe that terrible grin away, he squeezed the trigger four more times, four booming blasts, the gun bucked in his hand, the four shots as fast as any that ever came out of his tommy gun, until the gun clicked dry.
What the hell is happening? Earl thought, not in words so much as in bright flashes, spangles, fragments of light and hot metal that danced through his mind.
Then he saw he was still in the light, still on the ground, and around him the cars towered and beyond the cars the corn towered. He slithered backwards, out of the light, waiting to be shot, but no shot came. He heard steps, the rush of corn being shoved roughly aside, the sigh of the breeze, no other sound.
He got behind the cover of his cruiser. Bub lay on his back, covered in blood.
“Mama!” Bub screamed. “Oh, Mama, hep me, please, oh Jesus, Lord, I don’t want to die.”
There was no sign of Jimmy.
Reload, he told himself, putting out the gun before him and reaching over with his off hand to unlatch the cylinder and reach for ammunition.
But he had no off hand. Or at least it didn’t work.
He looked and saw he was covered with blood. An angry black pucker oozed black fluid just below his elbow, the blood coursing down to his fingers where it dripped off. He couldn’t move the fingers. The arm was dead broken. His left side was covered in blood too, his uniform and trousers soaked in it.
Am I going to die? he wondered.
Well, if I am, goddammit, I better reload just the same.
With his good thumb, he managed to pull back the cylinder latch and shake the cylinder out. Turning the gun upward, he shook and shook until one at a time all six shells fell out. He wedged the gun between his knees and, again one by one, picked shells out of his cartridge loops and threaded them into the cylinder. Big .357 soft points. With a snap of the wrist, he flicked the cylinder shut.
The pain started. It howled in his arm. His side was numb and wet. He wanted to sleep or scream. He didn’t want to go after Jimmy in the corn.
Gun loaded in his hand, he slipped the Colt into the holster and crawled into the car and picked the mike up.
He was way out in the country with no relay stations close by but the radio was a powerful low-band AM. Could he get through? He should be able to.
“Any cars, any cars, trooper down, ten-thirty-three, repeat, ten-thirty-three, any cars, please respond.”
Dead air answered him.
Shit.
A sparkle caught his eye; he looked up to a blur of fractured glass in the windshield, where one of Jimmy’s shots had flown and then beyond that his aerial, snapped in two by a bullet.
Goddamn.
Lucky little prick. That would cut the range way down. No backup.
He slid back out of the car, took a look around. Bub was still, though Earl could see he still breathed. Nothing could be done now. Earl certainly wasn’t going out there in the light.
He figured Jimmy was somewhere close by, maybe circling, just getting closer. For one thing was dead clear: Jimmy was trying to kill him. That’s what this goddamn thing was all about.
Jimmy was so hopped up he could hardly hold still. He knew he’d got him. He got him good, Earl was probably dead. He’d seen him fall, seen the blood all over him, and when Earl, normally a dead shot with any kind of gun, had fired at him, he’d missed by plenty.
Jimmy crouched in the corn, still as a sleeping cat, though he was breathing hard. From his low angle he couldn’t see much through the stalks, which even now wavered and clicked in the low breeze. Somewhere far ahead was a blaze of light that told the location of the two cars. He was going to wait to catch his breath and then begin the slow crawl back. He knew he had to make sure. Then he was out, he was gone, he was done, a whole new world lay before him. He had done it!
Rocking round the clock till the broad daylight!
But abruptly the light vanished.
He contemplated the meaning in this. Had the light gone out on its own? Had Earl turned it out? Had people come and turned it out? No, it couldn’t be people. There’d be cars, dogs, airplanes, maybe them helicopters, the whole goddamn shooting match.
It was goddamned Earl. Earl hunting him. Earl turning out the light so there wouldn’t be any backlight to throw up a silhouette.
He knew he should just be quiet another few minutes. Earl had seen him go, so if Earl was coming after him, he’d know which side of the road, and he’d come low and fast, and he’d make noise.
He’ll make noise, he thought.
He didn’t doubt that Earl would try such a thing; the man was a bulldog of guts. But he was old, he was wounded, he probably lost a lot of blood.
Just stay still, Jimmy told himself.
So of course he yelled, “Earl! Earl, you coming for me? Goddamn Earl, I’m sorry. I thought you was fixing to kill me and be a big hero!”
There was no response.
Then he heard a yell.
“Goddammit, Jimmy, you are a fool and you done shot me good. I am a dying man. You come on and surrender now because ain’t no way you’re getting out. Help is on the way.”
“Nobody’s gettin’ way the hell out here in time for this,” Jimmy yelled, laughing, for he knew it was true, just as he knew Earl wasn’t that bad hurt but was lying to set him up. Earl could be a tricky devil.
But that didn’t really scare Jimmy. In fact, nothing scared Jimmy. His mind was ablaze with ideas of glory and fame, with adolescent notions of toughness and reputation, and he wanted to assert himself over the man who had loomed above him half his life like a dark cloud. He loved Earl. He also hated him. He wanted to save him. He wanted to kill him. Most of all he wanted to impress him.
He had just reloaded his clip from the pocketful of bullets and slammed it back into the .38 Super. His trick had worked. He threw a wrench and Earl thought it was a gun. Ha, Earl, fooled you!
He started to crawl toward Earl. He knew the man would be there soon and he’d get the jump and the first shot and he’d say, Hey, Earl, ain’t I the newest thing, ain’t I cool? and kill him.