Firebreak

"Oh, sure, Matt, good idea."

Paul came trotting down the stairs, and when Matt opened his eyes he saw that Paul's face was happy now, behind the worry and fear. He'd always used Paul's love, always taken advantage of it, but he'd always hated it, too, recoiled from it the way he now recoiled from his own body. But he still needed Paul. He needed him all the time, for everything in his life, but never more than right now.

He spun away from that open face, not wanting to have to see it, and wheeled into the dining area again, and then forward. He could look out the front windows, that would be all right. Fewer pedestrians now, less traffic.

Paul followed him, but not all the way. He stood back by the dining table, watching him. Matt sensed him back there and blinked out the window, then turned the wheelchair to face Paul. Being very calm, he said, "I figure, he'll come in late, three or four in the morning, probably tonight."

Paul put both hands next to each other on top of a dining table chair, kneaded the wood as though it were dough. "You don't think we can keep him out?"

"He'll get in," Matt insisted. "I think we have to take turns staying awake, one of us on guard. And I think we have to stay together, not separated."

"I suppose you're right." Paul looked around. "I could bring a mattress down," he decided, 'just for ... just for now. Put it right here on the floor."

"When I'm on guard, and you're asleep," Matt said, still being calm, still being reasonable, "you'll have to give me the gun."

Paul blinked at him, but instead of arguing he said, "Matt, I don't have a gun."

"Oh, don't do that, Paul!" Matt punched the chair arm. "You can trust me, you don't have to be so goddamn afraid of me all the time!"

Paul shook his head. "I do have to be afraid of you," he said. "You're too angry. I never know what you might do."

"Do!" Matt spread his arms, to display himself. "What the fuck can I do?"

"You can take it out on me," Paul said, and something crashed downstairs.

They both stared. It had been a booming noise, echoing in the stairwell. Something hard had hit the front door.

"It's him!" Paul whispered, turning to stare at the hall, and the something hard smashed into the door again.

Matt knew what that was. It was a ram, the kind of ram the police use to break down a door, a yard-long hollow metal cylinder, closed at both ends, with two handles on top and a conical iron weight inside. Swing it back, pause, and the weight slides to the back of the cylinder. Swing it forward into the door, and the weight comes faster, pounding the end of the cylinder ^against the door.

This door was nailed, but only at the bottom. The ram would hit it at waist height. The closed vestibule down there would contain most of the noise, and Parker would only swing the ram when no one was outside, walking by. The door wouldn't last long.

A third boom echoed, and Matt wheeled fast at Paul, grabbing his arm with his left hand, clenching him tight before Paul could duck out of the way. "Give me the gun!"

"No! I don't have a—"

"Give it to me!" Matt shook him like a dust rag, and Paul's head flopped back and forth, his mouth gabbling, the words all jumbled together. "Give me the gun!"

The crash from downstairs now was a different sound, the sound of the door frame splintering. Matt's right hand flashed down to his left hip, came out with the knife, held it high. "Give me the gun, you useless faggot, let me take care of the bastard!"

"Hurting— You're hurting—"

The final crash from downstairs, and the volume of the air changed. He's coming up. Matt howled without words, slashing with the knife, over and over, until Paul was a limp thing dangling from the grip of his left hand.

Christ, why didn't you give me the gun? Shit, he's coming up, where is it, where is it?

Matt yanked Paul's body across his lap, frisked it desperately, one-handed, knife in the other as he patted all the pockets, searching, searching ...

There was no gun. There was no weapon of any kind. How could Paul not have a gun?

Matt looked up, and Parker stood in the doorway. He had a gun, a small snub pistol in his right hand. Matt lifted the slippery red knife, but there was no threat in it. He knew he was no threat. He stared at Parker, and Parker stepped forward to look at the scene. Matt let go of Paul's arm, and the body slid off his lap onto the floor. Parker looked at it, at the knife, around at the room, and at last into Matt's eyes. He shook his head. 'You aren't worth much," he said, and turned around, and walked away.

9

Ralph Wiss had two sons, but neither of them had followed in his footsteps. Partly that was because they had no idea where his footsteps had taken him, just exactly how he'd made his living all these years, and partly it was because he'd rather they didn't follow the path he'd picked. It had worked out well for him, but not for everybody; a lot of people had found danger and disaster down that road, jail terms or death.

So his own preference was that the boys take up some other profession, if they could find one that pleased them and that they were suited for, and it seemed to be working out. Bobby was in the navy, maybe planning to make a career out of it, and Jason was assistant manager of a supermarket and thinking he might stay with that company over the long haul, all of which was fine.

Still, it did make Wiss feel a little alone now and then, that he wasn't able to pass on his expertise and experience to a son. Which, in a weird way, was where Larry Lloyd came in. He reminded Wiss a little of himself, the same love of arcane learning, the same ability to concentrate on the smallest details. He was a little too old to be Wiss's son, unless Wiss had started a lot younger than he had, but there was something of that relationship growing there. Not to make a big deal about it, but Larry was in some ways the extra son that Wiss had never had, the son that would continue the family business.

And now Larry was changed, but Wiss thought maybe in a good way. All of a sudden he was there, in Chinook, unexpectedly, loose and grinning, saying, "I don't have to do it long-distance any more."

Wiss and Elkins had taken adjoining motel rooms in Chinook, twenty miles from Havre, and Larry was there waiting for them outside their rooms when they came back from lunch. "I got the next room over," he said.

They went inside, away from a clear cold wind, into Wiss's room, flanked by the rooms of the other two, and Wiss said, "Larry? What about your parole?"

"I decided I'd rather be on the lam," Larry said. "Got tired of playing their game." He was very relaxed, very pleased with himself. Wiss knew it was a stupid comparison, but to him Larry looked like a guy who'd just paid off a heavy mortgage.

Elkins had sensed it, too, but was made worried by it. He said, "Larry, are you hot?"

"Well, sure," Larry said. "I told you, I'm on the lam."

"I mean hotter than that," Elkins said.

Now Larry looked a little uncomfortable, but still pleased with himself, like a kid with a guilty secret. "Frank," he said, "we don't ask each other things like that."

"We do," Elkins told him, "if it can come bite us on the ass. Is the motel manager down there looking at your picture on the TV news right now?"

"Oh, I doubt it," Larry said. "Not way out here."

Now Wiss was sharing Elkins' worry. He said, "Larry, are you on television anywhere?"

"Probably," Larry said, shrugging it off, not worried at all. "Around Boston, I suppose."

'Just tell us, Larry," Wiss said. "What did you do?"

Larry ducked his head and spread his hands. "Okay, okay," he said, "you'll hear about it somewhere anyway, doesn't make any difference. You know that ex-partner of mine that I tried to kill."