Now the pain. The pain so bad it went up and down his arm looking for new places to hurt. The hand was numb. He was still bleeding. He’d seen somebody literally shredded by a shell blast on one of the islands—couldn’t remember which one now—literally turned into a confetti of flesh and blood, and that’s what his worthless arm looked like now.
Next, fatigue. So utterly tired. Why was he so tired? He wanted to sleep. Was he bleeding to death? Possibly. There just came an urge to lie down and sleep it off.
And finally, melancholy. Why oh why was this happening? What had gone wrong? Who made such a thing happen? Goddamn Jimmy Pye or what?
Sadness too for Bub, whom he now realized was not trying to kill him but was running to him in panic for protection. Bub stopped the bullet that might have killed Earl, and for his trouble, Earl shot him in the chest with a .357 Magnum soft point, blowing a hole in his heart. Bub was dead, sure enough, for no man can lie the way Bub had unless he was dead.
He felt the Trooper in his hand, his finger taut against the trigger. He yearned to fire but at what? He simply moved ahead, not crawling because crawling was too slow and hard with the broken arm, but walking sideways, crabwalking, down the side of the road, deeper and deeper into the corn toward the direction of Jimmy’s last yell. It would come down to one shot, he felt. Jimmy might get him, but he knew if he didn’t do something fast, he’d just bleed out and that would be that. Jimmy would be even more famous than he was now.
He had no hat. He’d taken off his badge. He was just a wounded man with a gun hunting an unwounded man with one. He was old, he was slow, he was very scared. He thought he might never see his son or his wife again. Above him the stars were distant, unblinking, completely neutral. All around him the corn shivered and clicked and far off the insects and the frogs wailed away. Why was he doing this? For what? For some goddamned civilians who’d never know his name and would call him too big for his britches behind his back?
He’d never wondered such a blasphemy before, not on any of the islands or in any of the scrapes or near scrapes as a law officer. Why? Does it matter? No, not really.
He went to his knee, the big pistol heavy in his hand. He felt now that Jimmy was close. Then he knew it. Jimmy wouldn’t be ahead of him, Jimmy would be behind him. Jimmy would let him pass then come from behind. That’s how Jimmy’s mind would work because Jimmy was an athlete, who had been schooled in the arts of feint and attack.
“Jimmy!” he called. “Jimmy, come on now, boy, this don’t have to happen.”
No answer.
Earl stood by the side of the road and made as if to look forward, peering into the corn.
Jimmy watched him come. Earl wasn’t in the corn so much as half in the corn, clinging to the edge of the road. He moved not fast but not slow either, with grim determination. Even in the dark Jimmy could see Earl’s face tight and clenched. It was a father’s face, the face of a man who knew what to do next or maybe the face of a man who told you what was wrong with what you were doing.
Jimmy raised the gun; Earl would pass within a few yards of him. But then he paused. There were a thousand stalks of corn between him and Earl; who knew if the bullets would deflect or what and who knew if he could shoot that accurately in the dark? He could fire all his shots and miss. No. Better to let Earl pass him by, then snake over and come out on the road behind him. Get close. That was it. Get real close and just shoot and shoot and shoot. Show him who’s best.
Earl listened. Nothing. He edged forward farther.
“Jimmy, come on! I don’t want to have to hurt you.”
Nothing. Then he heard the click of a pistol safety snicking off.
“I got you beat, Earl.”
Earl straightened and turned, the gun at his side.
Jimmy was twenty feet behind him, the Colt automatic out and pointed straight at him.
“I win, Earl.”
“Jimmy, for God’s sake. Put it down. It’s all over.”
“It is all over.”
“Jimmy, it ain’t worth it.”
“Earl, put the gun down and I’ll let you live.”
“I cain’t do that, Jimmy. You know that. This is the end of the line. Another second or two and I can’t cut you no more slack.”
“Earl, I don’t hate you. But it ain’t my fault.”
He pulled the trigger.
The gun flashed and bucked and smoke swirled about.
Earl stood straight as a goddamn rail.
“You missed, Jimmy. It’s too far, you ain’t a good enough shot. Son, you’re overmatched. Put it dow—”
Jimmy fired, sure he’d hit, but astonished at how fast the older man was as he dropped to one knee, the gun rising in a blur. He wasn’t just fast, he was some other kind of fast, his arm a whip, a smear, a flash, and the two shots were almost one, so swiftly did they come.
The next thing he saw was Earl over him in a fog.
“Earl?” he said.
“Yes, Jimmy.”
“Earl, I cain’t see nothing. It hurts.” Something with his head. It was like in a vise or among broken boxes or pieces of glass or something. Fog everywhere. Never seen nothing like it.
“It’s all right, Jimmy. It’s all going to be all right.”
Jimmy breathed the last time and went still. There was no death rattle, final gurgle or twitch, as there sometimes was. It was as if his soul simply departed, leaving only a cask behind.
Earl could see that one shot had torn through his left eye and exited the side of his beautiful head, destroying it. The second had hit him just above the heart. He lay as calm as a young king, soaking in his own blood, utterly motionless, one eye beautiful and blue with its perfect curl of blond lash, the other eye shattered pulp, leaking black jagged streaks into the earth.
Earl looked away and found the strength to rise. He stood on groggy legs, dizzy and unsure. With an act of will, he took a step and then another, and walked back to the car, feeling as old as the mountains. God, he felt so awful. No man should have to kill a boy he’d known for twenty years.
Why hadn’t Jimmy told him what was going on?
What was going on? What got into Jimmy?
I will by God find out.
His arm was still bleeding. It only hurt like the goddamned devil himself was beating away on it. His left side was completely numb and he was sopped with his own blood. He realized he would die if help didn’t get there soon enough.
It all came down to the radio with the broken aerial.
He bent over, retrieved the mike and pushed the send button.
“Any cars, any cars, goddammit, trooper down, ten-thirty-three, please respond, please respond.”
Silence.
He looked up into the sky. Stars, piles of them, against the dark. He felt so goddamned alone. He tried again.
“Any cars, any cars, this is Car One Four, is anybody out there, trooper down, ten-thirty-three, ten-thirty-three, Jesus Christ, I am losing blood.”
So. On a road in a cornfield, bleeding out. After so many chances in the islands. Bleeding out in a cornfield.
“Any police cars, any tow trucks, any band jumpers, please help, trooper down, ten-thirty-three, please acknowledge.”
Nothing.
It ends. It’s over. It’s finished. I didn’t make it. He closed his eyes. His son’s face floated before him, and he felt himself reaching out, but it vanished.
“Ah, Trooper One Four, this is a commercial aviation flight, Delta One Niner Zero up here at twenty-seven five and vectored southbound into New Orleans. I’m hopping the frequencies and I happened to pick up your signal, son, where the hell are you?”