Martin looked at him now, wide-eyed. “Please,” he called. “This man...”
Gare looked up from the cabinet he was ransacking.
“He’s hurt bad.”
“Of course he’s hurt bad. I put a .38 slug through his belly.” He grinned. “So, Marty, tell me... who’re you expecting?”
Martin and Jude looked at each other.
Gare bent from the waist and caressed Martin’s face with the muzzle of his gun. “Who... are you... expecting?”
“Nobody.”
“Somebody named Cara, maybe?”
“How—?” Jude began then stopped herself. Gare held up a birthday present. A card said, Love, Cara.
Martin couldn’t think of anything fast enough. “She’s—”
“She’s our daughter,” Jude said.
“She coming to this party?” Earl asked, jumping playfully over the back of a tartan plaid couch and landing on the cushion.
“No,” Martin blurted. “She isn’t.”
“What’s she look like?” Earl asked.
“Just forget her,” Martin whined. “Look, what do you want? You want money? I can get you money. Whatever you want, I’ll get it for you. I’m well off...”
“Yeah? What do you do, Marty?”
“I have a wholesale business. It makes a lot of money. I can get you—”
“What, write me a check? Let you all take a little drive into town and hit the ATM while Earl and I wait here?”
Edgy,Jude said, “How ’bout if I get you men something to eat?”
“Now, why’d you wanna do a nice Samaritan thing like that?” He was examining the knicknacks on the mantelpiece — a collection of ceramic birds. A spread-wing eagle caught his eye, and he rubbed the detail of the feathers with a finger.
“Because if you’re feeling fat and sassy you might be more inclined to let us go.” She tried to laugh. The sound fell flat.
Gare shrugged. “I could use some food. Earl, go with her.”
Runyer, thinking: The two of them alone in the kitchen. She could talk to Earl, tell him Runyer would testify that the killing was accidental. Tell him to give up Gare before he ended up dead himself or socked away in prison for two lifetimes.
He rolled over so that he was looking into her face. Gare couldn’t see him.
“Jude,” he whispered. “Listen...”
Her eyes flicked down.
“You’ve got to talk to him. To Earl. Tell him that I’ll—”
Gare’s hand clamped down hard on Runyer’s shoulder and jerked him over onto his back. The pain jabbed him like a dentist’s drill.
“What’re you saying, Sheriff?”
Sweat dripping into his eyes, Runyer stared at the smooth, round face inches from his.
“You asking her to bring you back a nice little knife or something?” He turned to Jude and set one of her gold earrings swinging with the muzzle of Runyer’s own service pistol. “What was he asking you?”
Horrified, Martin opened his mouth but whatever he was going to say was choked off by the sight of a pistol against his wife’s head.
“Because,” Gare continued, “that’d be breaking rule number two. And we know what happens then.” He swung the gun toward Runyer’s belly, caressed the bloody front of his uniform.
“I wanted some water is all. Just some water.”
“I’ll decide what you get and when you get it.” Standing up, Gare said to Earclass="underline" “Go on. Just be sure and frisk her when you come back.” His slick face cracked another of its horrid grins. “Take your time, if you want.”
“No!” Martin snapped. “You son of a bitch!”
“What’d you say?” Gare spun around, slipped the gun into his belt. Doing that — putting it away, not pointing it — sickened Runyer. It meant violence, not a threat, was coming. “What?” he whispered.
“Don’t you dare touch her.” At last there was some steel in Martin’s voice.
But all this did was notch up Gare’s anger.
Circling again, slow, he stared Martin down like a scolded dog.
“Just let me make them some food,” she pleaded. “What would you boys like? I’m a good cook. Tell them I’m a good cook, Martin. Tell them.”
Gare jerked Martin to his feet. “Now say it... What don’t you want me to do?”
“Hurt her.”
“Thought you said ‘touch her.’ ”
“I... that’s what I mean.”
“But she might like getting touched.” He looked Jude over, her slim figure under the fuzzy white sweater, the close-fitting slacks. “You’re an old man, Martin. Bet nothing works quite like it used to, right? I’ll bet you’ve been neglecting her. And she’s just coming into her prime. That’s what you hear on the talk shows.”
“No, just... leave her alone.”
“Say please.”
“Please.”
“You say it, but you don’t mean it. Maybe if you were on your knees. Get on your knees. Go ahead. Do it.”
“Gare,” Earl said uneasily.
Martin swallowed and looked from his wife to Runyer. “You go to hell,” he shrieked. And lunged for the robber, grabbing him by the collar.
“Whoa, here,” Gare said, laughing. He slugged Martin hard in the belly and sent him careening into the wall. He reached out to catch himself, but with his hands tied, he could grip only the drapes. They didn’t hold and he fell hard to the floor, knocking the wind out of his lungs. He curled up like a hedgehog as Gare started beating him.
“No!” Jude cried. “His heart... please, don’t!”
But Gare lost interest after a half dozen blows. He stood up, flexed his hand. “Now, go make some food like I asked. I want a burger. Or something hot.”
She started toward her husband.
“Don’t worry about him. I said food.”
When Earl came over to take Jude to the kitchen Runyer caught his eye. The young man returned the look, curious for a moment, then lifted Jude to her feet and led her to the kitchen.
Gare glanced at the sheriff but ignored him. He was just a mote — an expression of Runyer’s father-in-law, meaning somebody floating around in the background, inconsequential. No, it was Martin who fascinated him. He pulled a knife out of his pocket and enjoyed watching the man go wide-eyed. Then he chuckled and cut the rope, retying his hands behind his back. “Just so you don’t do anything stupid again.” Surveying the knots, he said, “So, you’re fifty, huh? How ’bout the witch in there?”
“The same. We’re the same age.”
“That’s about how old my mother is. My dad, too, he’s still alive. I don’t remember his birthday. That’s funny, isn’t it? You’d think I’d remember. You remind me of him sort of. He was kind of a wuss, too. No balls.”
“Look, son, please... I’ve gotta get to the John. I mean really.”
“Grandson’s more like it,” Gare said, grabbing Martin by the hair again, examining the evasive eyes. “Well, grandpa, you really gotta go?”
“I do, yes. See, I’m hyperglycemic borderline diabetic. And—”
“Yadda, yadda, yadda. You wanna piss, just say you wanna piss. Don’t explain so damn much. Geez.”
Gare dragged him to the bathroom and humiliated Martin further by leaving the door open and staring at the poor man while he did his business.
When they returned he pushed Martin down onto the floor beside Runyer. He smelled the air, the cooking beef. “How’s that food coming?” Gare shouted.
“Almost ready,” Jude called. The thought of eating nauseated Runyer.
Gare sat down in front of Martin, cross-legged, studied him again, like a bug in a bottle. Finally he mused, “You think a person can live too long?”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t you think there comes a point you’re not alive anymore? You’re not really living. Just getting by. You might as well just pack it in. Haven’t you ever felt that?”