Dunlap, who a while ago had dreamed about that antlered figure, turning, staring past its shoulder at him. He had never dreamed it with such vividness, as if each visitation were more real, more clear until he'd wake up one last time and see it there before him. But it wasn't in his cell when he awakened. Just the memory of what had happened, and beyond the bars the two guards who leaned, chairs against the wall, and held their rifles. He was sweating from the dream and from the absence of the alcohol that gave him strength. His hands shook as they had all day and yesterday, and he was thinking that if he could only have a drink his troubles wouldn't be so fierce and he'd be able to handle this. But in a way he was delighted. In his agony he at last had gotten his story, and if Parsons thought that his imprisonment would keep him from the truth about this, Parsons didn't know how good this loser once had been, although he was not a loser any longer. He would find the truth and neutralize the nightmare and save himself. He clutched at every instant, wondering what…
Slaughter, who was thinking of five years ago and old Doc Markle and the secret they had shared. Slaughter was a coward. If the others had their secrets, that was Slaughter's own grand secret. He had walked too many darkened- alleys in Detroit. He'd faced too many unlocked doors and silent buildings. He'd chased too many unseen figures.
The grocery store. A February snowstorm. At midnight, Slaughter had finally completed his shift. It had been exhausting, the fierce weather making people feel on edge, causing him to be sent on more assignments than usual, mostly to settle violent domestic disputes and drunken arguments in bars. While doing his best to drive home without having an accident on the slippery streets, Slaughter had suddenly remembered that his wife had left a phone message at the precinct for him to pick up some milk, bread, breakfast cereal, and orange juice. The schools were closed, and his wife hadn't been able to leave the apartment to do her weekly shopping because she was busy taking care of their nine-year-old twins.
He'd skidded around a drift and glimpsed the snow-obscured glow of an all-night convenience store. Braking, fishtailing to a stop, he'd quickly left the car and entered the store, where he'd been surprised to find two boys in their early teens standing behind the counter, one of them munching potato chips while the other pocketed money from the cash register. The next thing he'd noticed were the legs of a man, presumably the clerk, projecting from the side of the counter, a pool of blood spreading around them on the floor.
His chest cramping, Slaughter had fumbled to unbutton his overcoat and grab his revolver, but the kid eating potato chips calmly dropped the bag and raised a shotgun, his eyes expressionless when he pulled the trigger. Slaughter had groaned from the blast's impact against his stomach. The stunning force had lifted him off his feet, thrown him past a rack of magazines, and hurtled him backward through the store's front window. Hearing glass shatter, he'd walloped onto the snow-covered sidewalk, in agony, unbearably cold, but worse than that, paralyzed from shock. No matter how hard he had strained to reach for his revolver, his arms refused to move. Snow lanced at his face, and he kept struggling, but he was powerless. Jesus! His hands felt like slabs of wood. Steaming blood gushed from the wound in his stomach, snow landing on it and turning red.
Christ! Oh, Christ! But his pain, as excruciating as it was, couldn't compare to the intensity of his fright.
The two kids ambled out of the store, paused before him, and looked bored as the one with the shotgun raised it, aiming at Slaughter's face. No! Slaughter had mentally begged, unable to speak, fighting for breath. He'd narrowed his vision toward the shotgun's barrel and inwardly winced, panicked, dreading the blast that would blow his head apart.
Then, absurdly, the kid who'd been eating potato chips had asked the other if he thought Detroit would beat Toronto in the hockey game tomorrow night. Still aiming the shotgun, the second kid had answered matter-of-factly that Detroit would. But the first kid responded that he thought Toronto had a better chance, and that had started an argument about being loyal to the local team. Through gusting snow, Slaughter had blinked in terror at the shotgun aimed at him.
Abruptly the shotgun wasn't there anymore. The kids had become so involved in their argument that they walked away, contemptuous of him, indifferent to whether he lived or died. As they disappeared into the storm, the kid with the shotgun rested it against his shoulder, the barrel projecting upward. And for a moment, just before they vanished, Slaughter-in his delirium-saw the shotgun turn into a hockey stick.
A passing patrol car happened to find him. Slaughter spent a week in intensive care, then four more weeks in the hospital while he recovered from two excruciating operations. His physicians told him that he'd nearly died from shock and loss of blood. The only reason he'd survived, they believed, was that his overcoat had provided a buffer against the full force of the blast. Otherwise, they concluded, he'd have been disemboweled.
After Slaughter was released from the hospital, the police department had given him a month's leave and then a temporary desk job to ease him into his regular, hazardous duties. All the while, a department psychiatrist had counseled him. But the counseling didn't help. Although Slaughter tried to hide his nervousness, the truth was that he'd had a breakdown. A nightmare kept haunting him, making him afraid to go to sleep because of the horrifying, snow-obscured image of the two kids aiming the shotgun at him-except that the kids would suddenly be wearing skates and goalie masks and the shotgun would be a hockey stick. With equal suddenness, the hockey stick would blow his head apart. Several times every night, Slaughter woke up screaming. When the department finally decided to see how he would perform if they sent him out on patrol, Slaughter flinched each time he heard the voice from the two-way radio sending him and his partner to a crime scene. As Slaughter's breakdown worsened, he finally had to take another leave of absence, and his nerves weren't all that had broken down.
So had his marriage. He was to blame, unwillingly, unable to control his temperament. At last, his wife couldn't bear the strain of his outbursts and had asked him for a divorce. Bitter, but not at her, instead toward himself, Slaughter had agreed. Why not? he'd gloomily decided. I'm no good to her. I'm scaring the children. I can't be any good to my family if I'm not any good to myself. Soon afterward, confused and desperate, he'd made the decision to put his past behind him, to go to Wyoming and the arbitrarily chosen town of Potter's Field. His horses were a therapy for him, but he was terrible at raising them. The only thing he knew was being a policeman, and the day that old Doc Markle told him to apply for this position, Slaughter had been shocked by something in the old man's eyes. The old man understood that Slaughter was a coward. Slaughter would have bet on that. "Go on. Try again," the old man's eyes had told him, and the old man had convinced him. Slaughter, with no option, had applied and gotten the job, and he had worked so hard at it because he meant to prove himself.
The bad part was that he had then ignored the man who saved him. Slaughter always told himself that he was just too busy to go see the old man, but the motive, he suspected now, was that he didn't want to face the man who knew he was a coward. Oh, he was a coward, all right. Seeing Clifford, walking through that moonlit field, trapping that dead boy, and running from the figures near his house, he'd felt the old fear rising in him. Hell, he'd panicked in the field and at his house. He'd lost complete control. He didn't understand now how he'd come this far. His bluff of manliness to all these friends, his arguments with Parsons. They were overcompensations, last attempts to keep his self-respect, because the one thing that he wanted was to get the hell away from here, to free himself from any need for strength and courage. Five years he had coasted. Parsons had been right. In fact the mayor had done him quite a favor. By imprisoning him, Parsons had relieved him of this burden. Slaughter silently was grateful. He had argued with the guards to let him free, but he had known there wasn't any chance, so arguing was easy. But the dream of old Doc Markle had enlivened ancient guilt, and he was caught between conflicting notions. Stay here. It's the safe place for you. Or find a way to get out. Prove that you're still worth a shit. He told himself he didn't have a choice. Regardless of his shame, he was imprisoned. Sublimate the shame. Get rid of it.