Lemons Never Lie

blur of confused motion – Brock yelped, a weird high-pitched sound, and hopped backward on one leg. Blood was spurting from high on his other leg, very near the groin, streaming out through a new ragged slit in his trousers.

'You cut me! You cut me!'

'You son of a bitch, I'll do better than that.' Myers got to his feet, a little shaky, waving the knife in his right hand. Where it had blood on it, it was dull, but where raindrops had landed on it it glistened.

Brock hobbled away in a frantic circle, hopping backwards, clutching the top of his thigh with one hand, trying to hold his blood in. 'What were you trying to do?' he cried. His voice was still high and strange.

'Stand still, Harry,' Myers said, stalking him, 'I'll show you what I'm trying to do.' And he lunged forward, aiming the knife at Brock's stomach.

Brock flailed at the knife with his hands, in panic and fear, and was very lucky. Both hands were cut, but the knife suddenly flipped away from Myers' grip, and the tide had turned again.

Myers leaped for the fallen knife. Brock, standing on his good leg, swung the hurt one as though trying for a fifty-yard field goal. His shoe caught Myers high on the chest and sent him sailing in a complete somersault through the air. Myers landed on his back, and rolled, and Brock came up with the knife.

Myers ran into the barn. Grofield, trying to see, stuck his head as far out the hayloft opening as he could, but Myers was completely within the barn. And now Brock was going in after him, limping badly, holding his wounded leg with one hand and holding the knife out in front of him with the other.

The next part, Grofield didn't see. He stayed crouched in the hayloft, the Terrier in his hand, watching the ladder he'd come up and listening to the sounds from down below.

There was no sound at all at first, except the slight dragging rustle of Brock's wounded leg as he moved across the barn floor. Then, in a wheedling soft voice, Brock saying, 'Where are you, Andy? Come on out, Andy, come get your knife back.'

Then there was silence, total silence, for almost a minute. Grofield strained his ears and his eyes. There was nothing from down there. He looked over his shoulder at the opening in the front wall, half-expecting to find them both behind him, but he was still alone up there. He kept on having the feeling, though, that they were up there with him, both of them, just out of his sight.

The scream was preceded by a sudden rush of footsteps, and followed by a confused banging and scuffling. Something clattered, and then Myers sounded off with a jagged frightened half-crazy laugh, crying, 'You don't like the pitchfork, huh? You don't like it, huh?'

Silence for a few seconds. Another rush of scuffling and footsteps and panting, but no scream this time. And then silence. And then Myers, terrified, screaming, 'No!' Metal clanged against metal, there was running, something metal falling, and then vibration in Grofield's feet, and Grofield started, staring at the ladder. Somebody was coming up.

Myers. He was bleeding from two long cuts on the face, his clothing was torn, he looked as though he had other cuts on his body, and he scrambled practically all the way up to the hayloft before he saw Grofield squatting there, pointing the Terrier at him. Then he yelled, not like a man who's been hurt but like a man who's seen a ghost, and he shoved himself backwards out into the air away from the ladder, and plummeted out of sight.

Did that growl come from Harry Brock? A growl of satisfaction and victory. Grofield hunched himself smaller, and didn't move.

Below, Myers was babbling at the top of his voice. 'It's Grofield, Harry! It's Grofield up there! We need each other… We've got to help each other… We've got to get Grofield! Harry! Harrreeeeeee!'

The next sounds were chunky, and the silence after them seemed moist. In that silence, Harry Brock said, 'Grofield? You really up there, Grofield?'

Come and look, Grofield thought, pointing the Terrier at the ladder.

'Well, let's make sure,' Brock said, down below. 'Let's be on the safe side.'

Grofield waited. The floor beneath him seemed paper thin. His lips were dry. All he could hear was raindrops hitting leaves of grass.

A crash shook the barn. Another one. The top of the ladder, which had been nailed in place, fell away.

'There,' Brock said, down below. 'You up there, Grofield? You don't have to say anything. You're up there, you can stay there.'

Grofield didn't move.

'Now, you son of a bitch,' Brock said, 'where's the money?' So he was searching what was left of Myers. Grofield thought of creeping forward to the inside edge of the loft and looking down into the barn, but was afraid to move. This floor was noisy. Neither Myers nor Brock had used a gun, but Brock might have one. A sound from up here, and Brock would know exactly where Grofield was. A bullet coming up through the floor between Grofield's legs was not a pleasing thought.

What was happening down below? Small sounds, undecipherable. Grofield waited, and didn't realize what Brock had in mind until he heard the Buick door slam out front. The passenger side door, facing the barn opening, left open by Myers when he'd jumped out of the car.

Now Grofield did move, and fast. He straightened, turned, ran one long pace, and jumped feet first out through the hayloft opening.

It was about six feet to the top of the Buick. Grofield landed, the top buckled under him, his shoes slid on the wet metal, and he fell heavily on his hands and knees, facing the rear of the car.

He couldn't get a purchase. He slid backwards despite himself, and knew his legs were dangling down in front of the windshield. The only thing to do was push hard, and slide his whole body down across the windshield