And then nothing.
I'm lying there in the snow and gravel and frozen mud under the back of the truck and I'm thinking, "Well, I'm cold and scared and my ear hurts like a hmm-hmm, so I guess I'm still alive." But I'm not too anxious to get up and take advantage of that, figuring that's just gonna invite Soup to start popping off again. And while I'm down there on my belly just trying to be quiet and think quiet thoughts, I hear Soup and Gunless in the truck above me.
"Didja get 'im?" Gunless says.
Pause.
"I don't know."
"Y'know… if you did get 'im… who's gonna let us outta this here truck?"
Pause.
"I don't know."
"You're outta bullets, too, aintcha?"
Pause.
"Yes."
"Where are the extras?"
Pause.
"In my pick-up."
Pause.
Pause.
Pause.
"I'm scared, Buck."
"Shut up, Kev."
Now you might think all my troubles are over at this point. But I've got me a dilemma on my hands. The responsible, law-abiding thing to do is head to the nearest state police outpost and drop Buck and Kev off and let the great state of Pennsylvania decide their fate.
But. I can't just pull up and unload my new cargo like it's a bunch of frozen fish sticks. There are going to be questions. There is going to be paperwork. There is the great likelihood that someone's going to figure out how much driving I'd planned on doing in the span of twenty four hours-an amount of time behind the wheel which is not exactly legal, you understand. And, most importantly, there is the one hundred percent absolute guaranteed certainty that I am not going to make it back to River City by ten a.m. Christmas morning or eleven a.m. Christmas morning or even five p.m. Christmas night.
Which means all of this will have been for nothing.
So I did what I think any self-respecting trucker would've done. I crawled out from under the trailer, hopped back in my cab, fired up the engine and headed for the interstate.
It took me seven hours to get to River City. And I didn't need any Dew to keep me awake. I had so much adrenaline pumping through my veins I could've won the Kentucky Derby without benefit of a horse. Plus, my ear was throbbing away the whole time, and it's hard to get sleepy when it feels like a badger's nibbling on the side of your head.
I pulled into the parking lot out front of Monkeyberry Toys at ten fifteen a.m. And I am telling you, the place was packed. Cars cars cars-most of 'em empty. There was this big mob jammed around the doors to the store, and when everybody sees me pull up, they let out this shrieking scream-shout, and all of a sudden I've got three hundred doll-crazy women chasing after me. I barely made it around the side of the store ahead of 'em.
Around the corner there's the loading dock and about a dozen Monkeyberry employees waiting for me. I also see five familiar faces: Basil and Ivor Boraborinski and my truckin' buddies Dave Reeves, Milford Corn and Ernie Hutchings. I'd C.B.ed ahead for the cavalry, you see, and there they were.
While the Monkeyberry folks go try to head off the stampeding moms, I get my rig pulled around and back up to the dock. Then I climb out and go around back of the trailer, where the boys are waiting for me with the Monkeyberry manager.
"Good gosh, Bass, you look like heck," Ernie says.
"You should see the other fellas," I say. "In fact, you can. Do me a favor and try to look tough for a minute, would ya? They ain't gonna be too jolly."
And I open up the trailer doors, and there's my two Robin Hood wannabes squinting at the light-which they hadn't seen in quite some time except maybe what came in through the bullet holes. They looked like they'd just spent a day tumbling around in a clothes dryer. (I admit I didn't go out of my way to avoid every pothole I saw on my way back to River City.)
"I suggest you two get a move on before somebody calls the police," I say.
Soup stands up slowly and stumbles towards us. He's still got his mask on, but I can read his eyes. He doesn't look angry, just confused.
"Where are we?"
"The North Pole," I say. "Now scoot."
Soup looks us all up and down for a second, then comes to the only logical conclusion: He's getting off easy.
"Let's go, Kev," he says. And the two of them come on out of the truck, hop off the loading dock and walk off into a beautiful, crisp, clear Indiana winter morning. From there I don't know where they went-and I don't much care.
"Don't explain," the Monkeyberry manager says. He's already rushed into the truck to check out the dolls. He comes back to me with a delivery voucher and a pen. "Just sign this."
"With pleasure." And I haven't even gotten half-way through my name when the manager-man yanks the paperwork back and starts shouting "Go go go!" at more Monkeyberry employees who almost run right us over, they're so frantic to get those darned dolls on the shelves.
"Come on, Bass-tell us what happened," Milford says after we've jumped out of the way.
"Well, I tell ya'," I say. And my knees start to buckle at the idea of running through the whole thing. "Fellas, I'm exhausted. Thank you for your help, but I'm gonna have to give you a rain check on the story."
The boys are all gearjammers like me. They know what it's like to come off a long haul. So they all slap me on the back and tell me to go on home.
"I'll have your check for you tomorrow," Ivor says as I'm going.
"You better," I say.
I don't know how I got home. The job was done, the adrenaline was wearing off and I couldn't tell if my eyes were open or not. When I came in the door, Bootsie catches sight of my bloody ear and just about screams.
"Shhhhh," I say. "You'll wake the boys."
This was back when noon was early-rising for them.
"What happened to your ear, Billy?" Bootsie says. She's the only one ever called me "Billy."
I sit down in my La-Z-Boy and look at the Christmas tree and the presents underneath it and the cards and the porcelain Santas and the lights all over the place.
"I can't tell you how sweet it is to be home for Christmas," I say, and then I fall asleep in the time it takes to tell it.
When I woke up, it was December 26th.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Steve Hockensmith is the New York Times best-selling author of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies: Dawn of the Dreadfuls. His first novel, Holmes on the Range, was a finalist for the Edgar, Shamus, Anthony and Dilys awards, and its heroes went on to star in four sequels (On the Wrong Track, The Black Dove, The Crack in the Lens and World's Greatest Sleuth!). Before turning his hand to novels, he was a prolific writer of short fiction, and more collections of his stories are forthcoming… assuming anyone gives a crap about this one. His website is www.stevehockensmith.com, but you probably could have guessed that, smart cookie that you undoubtedly are. He thanks you for reading all the way to the end of the book, which is coming up rrrrrrrrrrrrrright…
Now.
Steve Hockensmith
Steve Hockensmith was born in Derby City on August 17, 1968 and first gained fame covering the entertainment industry for The Hollywood Reporter, Total Movie, Newsday and others. In 1999 he left the industry to focus on writing mysteries and quickly won the Short Mystery Fiction Society's Derringer Award for his story "Erie's Last Day," published in the May 2000 issue of Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine (AHMM). Two subsequent Larry Erie stories, "Tricks" (AHMM, August 2004) and "The Big Road" (AHMM, May 2005), were both finalists for the Shamus Award for Best Short Story from the Private Eye Writers of America (PWA).
Big Red and Old Red Amlingmeyer made their debut in the February 2003 issue of Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine (EQMM) and quickly become very popular with readers. Three more stories appeared in the magazine (always in the February Sherlock Holmes themed issue) before the brothers made the leap to novel length with Holmes on the Range in 2006, which was a finalist for the Edgar Award for Best First Novel in 2007. On the Wrong Track was published in 2007, and the latest book in the series, The Black Dove, was released on February 19, 2008.