"Right," I called back, noting my own voice was stretched thin.
I leaned up against a tree trunk that afforded me a view of Brubaker and his car as well as the road. I was so light-headed from nervous tension that it was easy not to think. My mind was totally blank, and I caught myself slipping into a state of complete nervous exhaustion. I cleared my throat repeatedly and started to scratch and pick at myself, almost as if to prove that I was still there.
I heard a rustle of dried leaves in back of me, and whirled around, my hand on the butt of my gun. It was nothing—probably just a scurrying rodent. I heard the rustle again and didn't turn around, and then suddenly I heard the ka-raack! of a shot and the tree trunk splintered above my head. I pitched to the ground and rolled in the direction of a large mound of fallen branches. I pulled my .38 from my waistband and flipped off the safety and held my breath. I dug in behind the branches, burrowing through dried leaves for a place to aim. Finding a small spot of daylight that provided aiming room and protection, I dug deeper and scanned the direction from which the shot had come.
There was nothing: no movement of any kind, no noise but the frantic slamming of my own heart and the sharp wheeze of my breath. I risked sticking my head above the mound of branches and quickly scanned the grove of trees. Still nothing. Was the sniper Brubaker?
"Brubaker," I called. There was no response.
I glanced over to my left. The shotgun was still resting against the tree trunk. I crawled over to where I could see Brubaker's car and the little shack. No Brubaker and no movement. I was starting to calm down a little, and starting to get angry. As I crawled back toward my hiding place I caught a glimpse of trouser legs off to my left near the far edge of my vision. Three shots rang out, and the dirt in front of me blew up in my face. I started rolling toward the shotgun when I saw a man charging me. Dimly I knew it was Doc Harris. I was within inches of my shotgun and still rolling when he fired two shots at me from within ten yards. The first shot narrowly missed; the second grazed the side of my head. I flailed my .38 in front of me, wasting precious seconds. Doc Harris saw what I was doing and aimed dead at me. He pulled the trigger, and got an empty click. Livid, he was on top of me, and he kicked me in the face just as I got my gun free, causing me to fire three quick shots in the wrong direction.
He flung himself on my gun arm and grabbed my wrist with both hands. As a precaution I fired the remaining three rounds into the dirt. This infuriated him and he brought his knee into my groin. I screamed, and vomited onto his shirt front. He reached up reflexively to fend it off, thereby easing some of the pressure on my chest. I squirmed partially free and twisted myself in the direction of the shotgun. Just as I got my hands on the butt, Harris renewed his attack. I feebly swiped at him with the gun butt, grazing him in the chin. He grabbed for the trigger, hoping to force a shot in my direction, but my right hand was securely clamped around the trigger guard. We rolled into a tree trunk, and I tried to squash Harris into it, banging him at chest level with the gun barrel that was between us like a wedge. It was no use; he was too strong. I wrapped my middle finger around the trigger and squeezed. The shotgun exploded and the barrel buckled, hitting Harris in the face. He panicked for just an instant, withdrawing his hand slightly and looking startled.
We both drew ourselves to our feet. Harris had retightened his grip on the gun, then realized it was useless and let go, causing me to fall to the ground. He smiled down at me through clenched teeth and pulled a switchblade knife from his back pocket. He pressed a button on the handle and a gleaming, razor-sharp blade popped out. He advanced toward me. I was trying to get to my feet when I saw Larry Brubaker inching up in back of him, wielding a tire iron. Harris was within three feet of me when Brubaker brought it down with a roundhouse swing onto his shoulders. Harris collapsed to the ground at my feet and was silent.
Brubaker helped me up. I checked Harris's pulse, which was normal, then rounded up the two handguns from their resting place. Harris had a .32 Colt revolver. I put it in my back pocket, and reloaded my own .38 and placed it in my waistband. Brubaker was kneeling over Harris, gently stroking his thick gray hair and staring at him with a look that was equal parts longing and amazement.
I walked up to him. "Get the syringe from the glove compartment, Larry. There's a paper bag on the front seat with a bottle of water, a spoon, some matches and a little vial. Bring it to me."
Brubaker nodded and went to the car.
I dragged Doc Harris over to a large tree and propped his back up against it. I could barely manage the pulling: my arms were numb from tension and exertion, and my head slammed from the shot that had grazed me. Brubaker returned with the paper bag.
"You know where the stuff is buried," I said.
Brubaker said, "Yes, baby," very softly.
"Go get a handful of it. A big handful. Then come back here. I want you to cook Doc up a little cocktail."
Harris came awake a moment after Brubaker departed. When his eyelids started to flutter, I reached for my .38 and trained it on him. "Hello, Doc," I said.
Harris smiled. "Hello, Underhill. Where's Larry?"
"He went to fetch you a little surprise."
"Poor Larry. What will he do now? Who will he follow? He's never had anyone else."
"He'll survive. So will Michael."
"Michael likes you, Underhill."
"I like Michael."
"Like attracts like. You and I are Renaissance men. Michael is attracted to Renaissance men."
"What have you done to him?"
"I've told him stories. I taught him to read at three. He's got an amazing I.Q. and an astounding sense of narrative, so I've been giving him parables since he was old enough to listen. I was going to write my memoirs for him, when he was a few years older and capable of understanding them. Of course, now that will never be. But he has had enough of me to form his character, I think."
"You lost, Harris. Your life, your moral heir, your 'philosophy,' all of it. How does that feel?"
"Sad. But I've been to mountaintops that you and the rest of the world don't know exist. There's a certain solace in that."
"How did you know I'd be here?"
"I didn't, But I knew you knew about me. I've had a feeling since I read about you and poor Eddie in the papers back in '51 that you'd be coming for me someday. When you showed up at my door I wasn't surprised. I figured you might use Larry as a wedge, so I showed up here early without my car as a precaution."
Brubaker returned with both hands overflowing with white powder. I tasted the most minute amount I could put on a finger. It was very, very pure.
"I was going to shoot you up, Doc," I said. "But I haven't got the heart for it."
Still holding my gun, I scooped a handful of morphine from Brubaker's outstretched palms and dug the water bottle out of the paper bag. I uncapped it, and walked up to Harris.
"Eat it," I said, shoving the morphine at his mouth.
Harris opened his mouth and stoically took death's communion. I tilted the water bottle to his lips as one last act of mercy. Doc shuddered and smiled. "I don't want to die like this, Underhill."
"Tough shit. You've got five minutes or so until your heart bursts and you suffocate. Any last words? Any last requests?"
"Just one." Harris pointed to the ground in back of me. "Will you hand me my knife?" he asked.
I nodded and Brubaker got the knife and handed it to him.
Harris smiled at us. "Goodbye, Larry. Be gracious in victory, Underhill. It's not your style, but do it anyway. Be as gracious in victory as I am in defeat."
Harris unbuttoned his shirt and slowly removed it, then took the knife in both hands and slammed it into his abdomen and yanked it upward to his rib cage. He shuddered as blood spurted from his stomach and burst forth from his mouth and nostrils. Then he pitched forward onto the ground, his hands still gripping the knife handle.