He lay there gasping, still clutching himself. The light came on. He had a second to see the lower half of the man's legs, the black shoes, the green slacks. A second to think wildly, The bald guy…? Then the guy swooped down and grabbed the front of his windbreaker. Shannon was a big man, but his attacker hauled him easily off the floor. Shannon saw his face. It was not the bald guy. This guy was much worse, much bigger, meaner. He punched Shannon in the head with his concrete fist. Shannon went down again, in a rattled, painful daze, the light suddenly glaring, lancing into his eyes.
The man towered above him. No, it was not the bald guy. It was another guy, big, really big. A linebacker gone to seed. Acne-scarred face and a crewcut that made it look like his hair was standing on end with pure, electric malevolence. And the look on his face-oh Jesus-Shannon was already hurting, but that look weakened him even more with panic and despair because he could telclass="underline" the guy dug this shit. He was going to enjoy it.
So in the same second he saw him, Shannon was desperately looking for a way out. His panic and the vibrating pain in his head made the room nauseatingly bright and clear to him. With aching, pulsing clarity, he saw the wood floors and the gray walls and-oh Jesus-the shades on the windows pulled down so no one could see what was about to happen and the rumpled white side of the mattress above him and the dark shadows beneath the bed and the pale, colorless braid rug the big thug was standing on and the red tool bag lying against the mirror on the closet door.
And, at the same time his panicking mind searched for a means of escape, it searched also for an explanation, trying to understand what was happening, racing wildly through the possibilities… The cops… Benny Torrance… the bald guy… who the hell sent this thug…?
Then the big man, smirking, opened a knife, and Shannon's thoughts were cut off like a door had shut on them.
The knife was a no-shit killing tool, a short tanto blade unfolding from a butt-pommeled black hilt built to grip. As the big man opened it with his two hands, his white linen jacket brushed open and Shannon saw there was a 9mm Glock in his belt holster, too. With that and the look on the guy's face Shannon got the whole picture like prophecy: he was about to enter a long tunnel of pain and come out the other end dead.
Crazy-scared, Shannon managed to grunt, "What do you want?" Clutching his gut, his head throbbing.
"We're gonna talk," the man said. "But first, you gotta find out I'm serious."
"You got the wrong guy, man."
"You're not the wrong guy."
And Shannon had no answer because who was he? And who was the thug after? Shannon? Henry Conor? Some other guy he wasn't even supposed to be?
But that was the end of the conversation, anyway. The guy knelt down over him, his eyes shining with mean. Holding the knife in his right hand, he grabbed Shannon's ear with his left and hauled his head off the floor, ready to cut the ear off.
Shannon punched him in the balls as hard as he could, but the guy was so tough that only made him grunt, so Shannon hit him again in the throat this time and that got him. The guy gagged and let Shannon go. He clutched his throat, kneeling there, his eyes rolling. But he still had the knife in his hand.
Shannon quickly rolled away from him toward the middle of the room. He was climbing to his feet, his gut screaming with pain, when he saw the guy go for his gun.
The guy still had the knife in his right hand, so he went for the nine with his left. All the same, he drew it smoothly and fast. But by then, Shannon was standing. He lashed a kick at the guy's hand-got him-and the gun went flying-under the bed, damn it, out of sight, out of reach. So Shannon made a move to go after the guy while he was still kneeling, but the guy slashed at him with the knife, driving him back, and then came off his knee and stood.
People joke about how dumb it is to bring a knife to a gun fight but guess what: close quarters, a knife is deadlier if the guy knows how to use it, and this guy did. He was on Shannon fast, in a split second, keeping the knife point toward his eyes so it was hard to see. Shannon only saved himself by grabbing the desk chair. Lifting it. Jabbing the legs at the guy to keep him at bay. The two men shifted so that Shannon's back was to the closet. There was no sound in the room but their breathing. Then the guy managed to get hold of the chair leg with his free hand. He was strong and started to rip the chair out of Shannon's grip.
Shannon held the chair to build up resistance, then let it go suddenly, giving it an extra shove. The guy grunted and staggered back, stumbled, fell on his ass-but never let go of that knife and was already scrambling to his feet.
Shannon turned and leapt to the tool bag on the floor by the closet: the red Milwaukee bag with the hammers and wrenches in the outside pouches. He bent down and grabbed a framing hammer-a real thunder-club with a thick wooden handle and twenty-eight ounces of steel on the end.
Even as he grabbed it, even as he straightened, he saw the guy's reflection in the closet mirror, the guy rushing at him with murder in his eyes and the knife held low.
Shannon spun, whipping the hammer around as he did. He had the guy in the mirror so he could gauge where he was, and the guy hadn't thought of that and was charging top speed to get at Shannon before he had a chance to turn and spot him.
The hammerhead went full force into the guy's temple with a soft and liquid and awful sound. All at the same time, the guy's charge stopped and his eyes went white and his mouth fell open and he dropped to the floor twitching and shuddering and shitting himself, and then was dead.
Shannon had never killed a man before, but it didn't bother him much, not in the circumstances. What did get to him was the craziness of the situation. The dead guy on the floor and his own phony identity and no conceivable reason for any of it, the whole what-the-fuck of it all.
Panting, he staggered over to the bed and sat down on it hard. He held his head in his hands, staring at the body on the floor, which had stopped twitching now and just lay there stinking of shit and still. The malevolence and sadism were gone from the dead man's face. He just looked slack and stupid, staring at the ceiling with his mouth open like an idiot. Shannon wondered if anyone had heard their struggle… but there was so much to think about, he couldn't think about any of it at first. What the hell just happened? What the hell should he do now?
He covered his face with his hands and blew into them, thinking, Okay, okay. Trying to gather himself and figure it out. When he looked again, the dead guy was still there, still staring up at the ceiling, and Shannon thought, Okay again and decided he had to search the guy, find some ID, find out who he was.
He got off the bed and went to the body. Knelt down by it-cautiously-not that he thought the guy was alive or anything-there was no chance of that-but he had this horror-movie image in his head of the guy leaping up at him anyway, dead or no. Flinching at the stench of shit, he held the guy's jacket open and went into the pocket. He found what he thought was the guy's wallet-but no such luck.
He drew the thing out and when he saw it, he groaned aloud in misery. It was not a wallet. It was a leather ID holder. There was a police badge pinned to it, a detective's badge. Inside was the guy's police ID card: Detective Glenn Gutterson.
Shannon had killed a cop. IT WAS A LONG time before the full extent of the catastrophe occurred to him. Oh, he knew it was a disaster right away, but it was a long time before he could take it all in. With the adrenaline still pumping through him and the cop just lying there dead on the floor, he couldn't think clearly. But he had to think. He had to figure out what to do.