Arlis started to call out a warning but then caught himself because he saw Tomlinson and Will Chaser step out of the shadows and into the firelight, and their intentions were plain. They had done a good job of sneaking up, but now instead of just shooting that son of a bitch King when they had the chance they were going to confront him.
As the two moved closer to the fire, Arlis understood why.
He was thinking, God Aw’mighty, we’re in trouble now.
It was Tomlinson who had the Winchester.
As the hippie leveled the rifle at King, Arlis Futch hurried to catch up before Tomlinson did something stupid or before the hippie’s nerve failed them all.
THIRTY-ONE
WHEN TOMLINSON STEPPED CLOSE ENOUGH TO THE fire for both of us to see him, I hoped that King didn’t recognize the uncertainty in my friend’s voice when he said, “I don’t want to kill you. But I will.”
It was a shock to see Tomlinson after so many hours—and I was relieved, of course—but he wasn’t the man I would have chosen to come walking out of the shadows with a gun. Tomlinson was Tomlinson. He was the lifelong advocate of passive resistance, the prophet of peace, love, harmony and goodwill toward men. There was no doubt that Tomlinson didn’t want to kill King. But did he even have the nerve to pull the trigger? And if he did, what were the chances that he also had the resolve to fire a second time if he missed? As far as I knew, Tomlinson had never fired a weapon in his life, yet he stood there somberly with the Winchester pressed against his left cheek as if he meant to do it.
I took a step back from King, who was still pointing the pistol at me, and I said, “Let’s all calm down now. This doesn’t have to happen. King? Toss the pistol away. Your partner’s dead, but that doesn’t mean you have to die, too.”
I had observed panic in King’s face when Tomlinson first appeared, but now I saw the convict’s brain working as he studied him. Tomlinson’s long hair was sticky with mud, a sleeve from his wet suit was missing. He looked pale and shaky in the firelight, about as unimposing as a scarecrow with a toy rifle. King’s reaction was no surprise, nor was the finesse he attempted next.
Looking from me to Tomlinson, King said, “I think we’ve got ourselves a misunderstanding. I got no intentions of shooting Dr. Ford. You’re wrong about that. This business isn’t as serious as you think—it doesn’t have to be, anyway.”
I was thinking, Pull the trigger . . . Pull the damn trigger, hoping for once that it was true that Tomlinson could read my thoughts. If he engaged King in conversation, I knew what King would probably do. He would use it as an opening to put his last round into Tomlinson and then race me for the rifle.
Tomlinson didn’t pick up on my message, though, because he answered King, saying, “I’m glad to hear that. Lose that gun, brother, and we’ll talk. Talking’s always better. This killing-each-other bullshit is wrong, man, really wrong.” There was a pleading quality in his tone that boosted King’s confidence.
Now I was thinking, Don’t let him do it!, as King swung the pistol toward Tomlinson and then showed him a crooked smile with his broken jaw, which added a painful articulateness to his speech. “No . . . you put the rifle down first. You seem like a reasonable sort of dude. Personally, man, I hate violence. In fact, toss that rifle into the bushes, just to be safe. I’ll do the same—I promise. Then you can work it out with the King.”
Tomlinson sounded confused, asking, “The King?”
“Me,” King told him. “I bet you’re an Elvis fan, too. Aren’t you, now? Admit it.”
Tomlinson lost his concentration and lifted his cheek away from the rifle stock long enough to say, “Sure, man—‘the King,’ I get it. We’ve got that in common. So why are you still pointing that gun at me?”
King said it again, “You toss the rifle away first—and hurry up before my finger slips.” He motioned with the pistol toward the shadows, telling Tomlinson that’s where he should toss the Winchester.
I was aware of movement behind Tomlinson. It was Will Chaser, I realized, who was circling into position behind the convict. King noticed him, too, and appeared startled, saying, “Hey, you—kid! Stop right where you are.”
His voice flat, Will answered, “I don’t think so,” and he continued walking until King was unable to see him without taking his eyes off Tomlinson—a risk he couldn’t take.
King snapped, “Get back here where I can see you or I’ll put a bullet through your sugar daddy’s head.”
Tomlinson said, “Hey, now,” sounding offended, as Will surprised us all by stepping close enough to the fire to flash a knife in the yellow light and saying, “Mister, if you pull that trigger, I’ll cut your goddamn throat.”
Will’s voice was spooky calm. It was a chilling voice to hear, which caused King to glance at the boy again in reassessment, his eyes widening with concern, then a growing panic. He tried to scoot away to reposition himself so he could see Tomlinson and Will both, but the pile of blazing driftwood was behind him and he couldn’t get the angle right because Will continued to circle.
“I’m not going to warn you again,” King told him, focusing only on Tomlinson now.
From the shadows, Will replied, “Then go ahead and do it, mister. I’ve never been too fond of hippies, anyway,” and he began walking toward King.
Now King had a trapped expression on his face. It was the look of an animal that’s been cornered. And as he steadied the gun, getting ready to fire, I took one long step and then dived for the man because I knew there was no more talking. For an instant, King hesitated, trying to decide whether to shoot me or the guy with the rifle, then he leaned toward Tomlinson and fired.
WHAP! WHAP!
My hands found King’s throat as my body slammed into his, deafened by two simultaneous gunshots. King was writhing beneath me. But he wasn’t fighting back, I realized, and I became aware there was blood on me—blood on my hands and on my chest. As I pinned the man’s gun hand to the ground, I understood the source of the blood: A chunk of King’s left hand was missing. I saw a bleeding black hole, like a spike had been driven through it.
I slapped the pistol away, not sure it was empty, not sure of anything, in all the noise and confusion, until I turned and saw Tomlinson. My friend’s face was pale, but he appeared unhurt, standing there with the rifle at waist level, and he said to me, sounding dazed, “Are you okay, Doc? Did I kill him?”
Will Chaser was hovering over me, a dive knife gripped in his right hand, ready to pile on if I needed help, but I pushed him away to give myself room, saying, “It’s okay. Get back,” and then I stood, my ears numb to King’s cursing. He was rolling on the ground, clutching his disfigured hand and yelling, “You shot me! You shot the King, you worthless ass-wipe!”
Tomlinson took a step toward the man, as if wanting to help, and asked me again, “Where did I hit him? Is he going to die?”
Speaking over the noise, I said, “No. He’ll be okay. You hit him in the hand. Did you mean to?,” and then I knelt and picked up the pistol. I popped the clip—the chamber was empty—so I tossed the gun to Will as I skirted the fire and put my hand on Tomlinson’s shoulder. His eyes were fixated on King, and I gave him a little shake. “You did good,” I told him. “Relax. You won’t have to shoot him again. I promise. Give me the rifle.”
Tomlinson appeared to be in shock. His fingers were frozen on the weapon, and, as I began to unwrap the Winchester from his hands, he asked me. “Are you sure? Because I would do it. I’d pull the trigger again if I had to.”