It was like being slapped out of a trance. I took two big steps away from the Buick's trunk, wavering like a drunk, hardly able to believe what I'd been on the verge of. Then Shirley screamed again and I heard Eddie yell: ' What's wrong with him, George? What's happening to him?'
I turned and ran out the shed door.
Yeah, saved by the scream. That's me.
THEN:
Eddie
It was better outside, so much better I almost felt, as I hurried along after George, that the whole thing in Shed B had been a dream. Surely there were no monsters with pink strings growing out of their heads and trunks with eyes in them and talons with hair growing out of them. Reality was our subject in the back seat of Unit 6, that debonair, girlfriend-punching puke, let's give him a great big hand, ladies and gentlemen, Brian Lippy. I was still afraid of the Buick - afraid as I'd never been before or have been since - and I was sure there was a perfectly good reason to feel that way, but I could no longer remember what it was. Which was a relief.
I trotted to catch up with George. 'Hey, man, I might have gotten a little carried away in there. If I did - '
'Shit,' he said in a flat, disgusted voice, stopping so quick I almost ran into his back. He was standing at the edge of the parking lot with his hands curled into fists that were planted on his hips. 'Look at that.' Then he called, 'Shirley! You all right?'
'Fine,' she called back. 'But Mister D . . . aw sugar, there goes the radio. I have to get that.'
'Doesn't this bite,' George said in a low voice.
I stepped up beside him and saw why he was upset. 6's right rear window had been broken clean out to the doorframe, undoubtedly by a pair of cowboy boots with stacked heels. Two or three kicks wouldn't have done that, maybe not even a dozen, but we'd given my old school chum Brian plenty of time to go to town. Rowdy-dow and a hot-cha-cha, as my old mother used to say. The sun was reflecting fire off a thousand crumbles of glass lying heaped on the hottop. Of Monsieur Brian Lippy himself, there was no sign. 'FUCK! I shouted, and actually shook my fists at Unit 6.
We had a burning chemical tanker over in Pogus County, we had a dead monster rotting in our back shed, and now we also had one escaped neo-Nazi asshole. Plus a broken cruiser window. You might think that's not much compared to the rest, kid, but that's because you've never had to fill out the forms, beginning with 24-A-24, Damaged Property, PSP and ending with Complete Incident Report, Fill Out All Appropriate Fields. One thing I'd like to know is why you never have a series of good days in which one thing goes wrong. Because it's not that way, at least not in my experience. In my experience the bad shit gets saved up until you have a day when everything comes due at once. That was one of those days. The granddaddy of them all, maybe.
George started walking toward 6. I walked beside him. He hunkered down, took the valkie out of its holster on his hip, and stirred through the strew of broken Saf-T-Glas with the rubber antenna. Then he picked something up. It was our pal's cruicifix earring. He must have lost it when he climbed through the broken window.
'Fuck,' I said again, but in a lower voice. 'Where do you think he went?'
'Well, he's not in with Shirley, she sounds too chirpy. Which is good. Otherwise? Down the road, up the road, across the road, across the back field and into the woods. One of those. Take your pick.' He got up and looked into the empty back seat. 'This could be bad, Eddie. This could be a real fuckarow. You know that, don't you?'
Losing a prisoner was never good, but Brian Lippy wasn't exactly John Dillinger, and I said so.
George shook his head as if I didn't get it. 'We don't know what he saw. Do we?'
'Huh?'
'Maybe nothing,' he went on, and dragged a shoe through the broken glass. The little pieces clicked and scritched. There were droplets of blood on some of them. 'Maybe he hightailed it away from the shed. But of course going that way'd take him to the road, and even if he was as high as an elephant's eye he might not've wanted to go that way, in case some cop 20-base should see him -
a guy covered with blood, busted glass in his hair - and arrest him all over again.'
I was slow that day and I admit it. Or maybe I was still in shock. 'I don't see what you're -
'
George was standing with his head down and his arms folded across his chest. He was still dragging his foot back and forth, stirring that broken glass like stew. 'Me, I'd head for the back field. I'd want to cut around to the highway through the woods, maybe wash up in one of the streams back there, then try to hitch a ride. Only what if I get distracted while I'm making my escape? What if I hear a lot of screaming and thrashing coming from inside that shed?'
'Oh,' I said. 'Oh my God. You don't think he'd really stop what he was doing to check on what we. were doing, do you?'
'Probably not. But is it possible? Hell, yes. Curiosity's a powerful thing.'
That made me think of what Curt liked to say about the curious cat. 'Yeah, but who on God's earth would ever believe him.?'
'If it ever got into the American,' George said heavily, 'Ennis's sister might. And that would be a start. Wouldn't it?'
'Shit,' I said. I thought it over. 'We better have Shirley put out an all-points on Brian Lippy.'
'First let's let folks get the mess in Poteenville picked up a little. Then, when he gets here, we'll tell the Sarge everything - including what Lippy might have seen - and show him what's left in Shed B. If Huddie gets some half- decent pictures . . .' He glanced back over his shoulder.
'Say, where is Huddie? He should've been out of there by now. Christ, I hope - '
He got that far and then Shirley started screaming. 'Help! Please! Help me! Please, please help me!'
Before either of us could take a step toward the barracks, Mister Dillon came out through the hole he'd already
