Black Light

couldn’t see much through the stalks, which even now wavered and clicked in the low breeze. Somewhere far ahead was a blaze of light that told the location of the two cars. He was going to wait to catch his breath and then begin the slow crawl back. He knew he had to make sure. Then he was out, he was gone, he was done, a whole new world lay before him. He had done it!

Rocking round the clock till the broad daylight!

But abruptly the light vanished.

He contemplated the meaning in this. Had the light gone out on its own? Had Earl turned it out? Had people come and turned it out? No, it couldn’t be people. There’d be cars, dogs, airplanes, maybe them helicopters, the whole goddamn shooting match.

It was goddamned Earl. Earl hunting him. Earl turning out the light so there wouldn’t be any backlight to throw up a silhouette.

He knew he should just be quiet another few minutes. Earl had seen him go, so if Earl was coming after him, he’d know which side of the road, and he’d come low and fast, and he’d make noise.

He’ll make noise, he thought.

He didn’t doubt that Earl would try such a thing; the man was a bulldog of guts. But he was old, he was wounded, he probably lost a lot of blood.

Just stay still, Jimmy told himself.

So of course he yelled, “Earl! Earl, you coming for me? Goddamn Earl, I’m sorry. I thought you was fixing to kill me and be a big hero!”

There was no response.

Then he heard a yell.

“Goddammit, Jimmy, you are a fool and you done shot me good. I am a dying man. You come on and surrender now because ain’t no way you’re getting out. Help is on the way.”

“Nobody’s gettin’ way the hell out here in time for this,” Jimmy yelled, laughing, for he knew it was true, just as he knew Earl wasn’t that bad hurt but was lying to set him up. Earl could be a tricky devil.

But that didn’t really scare Jimmy. In fact, nothing scared Jimmy. His mind was ablaze with ideas of glory and fame, with adolescent notions of toughness and reputation, and he wanted to assert himself over the man who had loomed above him half his life like a dark cloud. He loved Earl. He also hated him. He wanted to save him. He wanted to kill him. Most of all he wanted to impress him.

He had just reloaded his clip from the pocketful of bullets and slammed it back into the .38 Super. His trick had worked. He threw a wrench and Earl thought it was a gun. Ha, Earl, fooled you!

He started to crawl toward Earl. He knew the man would be there soon and he’d get the jump and the first shot and he’d say, Hey, Earl, ain’t I the newest thing, ain’t I cool? and kill him.

Now the pain. The pain so bad it went up and down his arm looking for new places to hurt. The hand was numb. He was still bleeding. He’d seen somebody literally shredded by a shell blast on one of the islands—couldn’t remember which one now—literally turned into a confetti of flesh and blood, and that’s what his worthless arm looked like now.

Next, fatigue. So utterly tired. Why was he so tired? He wanted to sleep. Was he bleeding to death? Possibly. There just came an urge to lie down and sleep it off.

And finally, melancholy. Why oh why was this happening? What had gone wrong? Who made such a thing happen? Goddamn Jimmy Pye or what?

Sadness too for Bub, whom he now realized was not trying to kill him but was running to him in panic for protection. Bub stopped the bullet that might have killed Earl, and for his trouble, Earl shot him in the chest with a .357 Magnum soft point, blowing a hole in his heart. Bub was dead, sure enough, for no man can lie the way Bub had unless he was dead.

He felt the Trooper in his hand, his finger taut against the trigger. He yearned to fire but at what? He simply moved ahead, not crawling because crawling was too slow and hard with the broken arm, but walking sideways, crabwalking, down the side of the road, deeper and deeper into the corn toward the direction of Jimmy’s last yell. It would come down to one shot, he felt. Jimmy might get him, but he knew if he didn’t do something fast, he’d just bleed out and that would be that. Jimmy would be even more famous than he was now.

He had no hat. He’d taken off his badge. He was just a wounded man with a gun hunting an unwounded man with one. He was old, he was slow, he was very scared. He thought he might never see his son or his wife again. Above him the stars were distant, unblinking, completely neutral. All around him the corn shivered and clicked and far off the insects and the frogs wailed away. Why was he doing this? For what? For some goddamned civilians who’d never know his name and would call him too big for his britches behind his back?

He’d never wondered such a blasphemy before, not on any of the islands or in any of the scrapes or near scrapes as a law officer. Why? Does it matter? No, not really.

He went to his knee, the big pistol heavy in his hand. He felt now that Jimmy was close. Then he knew it. Jimmy wouldn’t be ahead of him, Jimmy would be behind him. Jimmy would let him pass then come from behind. That’s how Jimmy’s mind would work because Jimmy was an athlete, who had been schooled in the arts of feint and attack.

“Jimmy!” he called. “Jimmy, come on now, boy, this don’t have to happen.”

No answer.

Earl stood by the side of the road and made as if to look forward, peering into the corn.

Jimmy watched him come. Earl wasn’t in the corn so much as half in the corn, clinging to the edge of the road. He moved not fast but not slow either, with grim determination. Even in the dark Jimmy could see Earl’s face tight and clenched. It was a father’s face, the face of a man who knew what to do next or maybe the face of a man who told you what was wrong with what you were doing.

Jimmy raised the gun; Earl would pass within a few yards of him. But then he paused. There were a thousand stalks of corn between him and Earl; who knew if the bullets would deflect or what and who knew if he could shoot that accurately in the dark? He could fire all his shots and miss. No. Better to let Earl pass him by, then snake over and come out on the road behind him. Get close. That was it. Get real close and just shoot and shoot and shoot. Show him who’s best.

Earl listened. Nothing. He edged forward farther.

“Jimmy, come on! I don’t want to have to hurt you.”

Nothing. Then he heard the click of a pistol safety snicking off.

“I got you beat, Earl.”

Earl straightened and turned, the gun at his side.

Jimmy was twenty feet behind him, the Colt automatic out and pointed straight at him.

“I win, Earl.”

“Jimmy, for God’s sake. Put it down. It’s all over.”

“It is all over.”

“Jimmy, it ain’t worth it.”

“Earl, put the gun down and I’ll let you live.”

“I cain’t do that, Jimmy. You know that. This is the end of the line. Another second or two and I can’t cut you no more slack.”

“Earl, I don’t hate you. But it ain’t my fault.”

He pulled the trigger.

The gun flashed and bucked and smoke swirled about.

Earl stood straight as a goddamn rail.

“You missed, Jimmy. It’s too far, you ain’t a good enough shot. Son, you’re overmatched. Put it dow—”

Jimmy fired, sure he’d hit, but astonished at how fast the older man was as he dropped to one knee, the gun rising in a blur. He wasn’t just fast, he was some other kind of fast, his arm a whip, a smear, a flash, and the two shots were almost one, so swiftly did they come.

The next thing he saw was Earl over him in a fog.