Tyrell looked at the banded green without moving.
“Short,” he said. “Bring him out.”
“No,” said Murphy. “Want Monroe where I can see him. Send Rogers back there.”
Tyrell smiled. “Damn, Murphy, you really steppin’ up and takin’ charge. And all along I thought you were the strong and silent type.”
“Send Rogers.”
“All right, Alan. Go ahead.”
Rogers brushed by Monroe. Monroe gave him a hard look as he passed.
“Hurry up, boy,” said Murphy.
Rogers picked up his pace.
Monroe watched Rogers go into the hall, open the bedroom door, shut it behind him.
Tyrell’s eyes went to Tutt’s ostrich-skin boots. “Lookin’ clean tonight, Officer Tutt. Got those shitkickers on your feet, I see.”
Don’t do that. Don’t insult Tutt.
Tutt stepped up and stood beside Murphy. He didn’t look ashen anymore. Murphy felt Tutt’s energy change.
“Say it again, Ty-rell,” said Tutt. “Couldn’t hear you with that jungle-jump you got playin’ so loud.”
Monroe shifted his toothpick to the other side of his mouth.
“Curious,” said Tyrell, looking at Murphy’s guns. “Why you go so formal on us tonight, Officer Murphy, with that utility belt, your badge, and shit? Bet you even got a set of cuffs hangin’ on the back.”
Murphy moved a foot to his right and spread his feet. His vision line between Ray and Tyrell was clear now; he could see the kitchen window, and the black woods beyond, from where he stood.
Tyrell said, “Got yourself customized tonight, too, with that extra revolver.”
Let’s go, Alan. Step it up.
Ray said, “Man be walkin’ in here, six-gunnin’ it like the Josey Wales.”
Ray and Monroe laughed.
“Cut the bullshit,” said Tutt to Tyrell. “Where the fuck’s Rogers?”
Relax, Tutt. Breathe deep.
A scraping sound came from the bedroom.
The window. Get him out that window now. Drop him; it ain’t that far. Pick him up if you have to and carry him through those woods. Run—
“Check on Rogers, Short,” said Tyrell.
Monroe turned.
“No,” said Murphy.
Monroe stopped, shifted his shoulders.
Murphy said, “I told you I didn’t want Monroe out of my sight.”
“You told me?” said Tyrell. “You told me? Boy, you ain’t tellin’ me a mothafuckin’ thing.” Tyrell blinked hard, chin-nodded toward the pillowcase. “I want to see the rest of that money, Murphy. Give it here.”
“Gotta do it, partner,” said Tutt, speaking low. “We gotta do it now.”
“What’d he say?” said Tyrell.
Run, Alan. Run.
A faint crying sound rode above the music pounding in the room.
Tyrell cocked his head. “I asked you what he said.”
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want...
Tutt high-cackled, took a couple of steps toward Monroe. “I axed you what he said.”
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters...
“The money, Murphy,” said Tyrell.
Murphy kicked the pillowcase to Tyrell’s feet. Tyrell bent down and looked inside.
He restoreth my souclass="underline" he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake...
Tyrell stood up, his jaws tight, spent lottery tickets bunched in his fist.
The crying sound grew louder.
“Sounds like sirens, cuz,” said Ray, locking back the hammer on the .38.
“Fuck is this?” said Tyrell, ignoring Ray, shaking his fist and then throwing the tickets into the fire.
“Yeah,” said Tutt, smiling strangely at Murphy. “What is it, partner?”
“What the fuck is goin’ on!” shouted Tyrell. “Short, check on Rogers, man!”
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death...
Monroe went back to the hallway, kicked open the bedroom door. Murphy heard him curse, then watched as Monroe came back into the room, emerging from the darkness and stalking back into the jumping orange light.
I will fear no evil...
“Golden’s gone, Ty,” said Monroe, his eyes shifting nervously between Tutt and Tyrell. He tightened his grip on the Glock. “That bitch Rogers took him out the window and bucked.”
Murphy saw headlights flash in the kitchen window.
For thou art with me...
Murphy drew his Combat Magnums.
Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Murphy said, “You’re all under arrest for the murder of Wesley Meadows and James Willets—”
“Aw, fuck all that, Kev,” said Tutt. He raised his Colt with one hand and waved good-bye to Monroe with the other.
Monroe shot from the hip.
The bullet blew four fingers off of Tutt’s waving hand, entered his neck, and pierced the carotid artery. Blood sprayed out into the strobing light.
Tutt stumbled forward and squeezed off two point-blank rounds from the .45; the hollow points imploded Monroe’s rotten-fruit face. Monroe’s heels rattled at the hardwood floor.
Tyrell snatched the Mossberg off the table while Ray fumbled for the .38 lodged in his slacks.
Murphy shot Ray in the chest, the dumdum bullet flattening on impact and punching out fist sized through his back. Ray staggered, yanked at the trigger guard of the gun, yanked the trigger instead. He screamed as the round entered his groin and blew his balls to chowder, the muzzle flame igniting his pubes. Foam spilled from Ray’s mouth as he pirouetted to the floor.
A shotgun blast roared in Murphy’s ears.
Murphy dove sideways, hot shot peppering his right shoulder.
Tyrell kicked the table up on its edge and fell behind it.
Murphy stood, raised the .357 in his right hand. His shoulder nerves spasmed, jerking his hand straight up. Murphy’s gunshot ventilated the bungalow’s roof. The Magnum slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor.
“Murph.”
He turned his head. Tutt was on his back, his eyes rolled up into his head. He was pushing the stump that had been his hand against the neck wound, now hosing blood.
Murphy heard the snick snick of a shotgun pump.
He raised his left hand, squeezed the trigger three times, spacing for the Magnum’s recoil. The shots splintered the wood table in a clean, close pattern.
Tyrell came up screaming, blood pumping from his stomach and spiraling from a steaming black gash in his cheek.
Murphy pulled off two more rounds as fire erupted from the shotgun. Murphy felt a part of himself stripped away.
Tyrell fell and rolled onto the hearth, one arm coming to rest in the fire. Flames crawled up his sleeve, melting the rayon shirt to his heaving torso. Tyrell gurgled as the fire claimed him.
Murphy felt unbalanced. He felt nothing on his left side. He looked for the damage to his arm.
“Lord!” he screamed, spinning in a circle through the cordite, the action sending a wash of blood bucketing onto the bay window.
Murphy dropped into Tyrell’s chair. He looked down. His left arm was lobster meat, shredded and red and slick, gone below the bicep. Blood flowed freely into his lap.
He managed the phone with his trembling right hand. He punched in 911.
Think of sensations. You feel things and you are alive: revolving blue and red lights striping the room, the smell of gunsmoke and burning flesh, the cat wail of sirens against the bell toll...