“I surrender,” he said.
There was no answer.
It was the worst possible thing. Now he had to pursue an armed and very violent man across unknown terrain in the dark. He couldn't shoot because he'd hit Holly. At any time, Lamar could double back to ambush him.
You fool, he told himself.
You stupid fool. You don't have the sense of a buck worm More out of anger than anything, he plunged ahead, trying to control his breathing, trying to regain his night vision after it was blown to hell by the gun flashes.
But then he thought: Lamar is blind, too. Lamar won't be able to see shit for a good five minutes.
Bud raced ahead, low. He tossed the carbine; it was useless in the close-quarter stuff that was coming up. This was straight cop work: an in-close gunfight with an innocent body in the way. He knew the statistics from Police Marksman magazine: The average gunfight now took place between twenty and twenty-three feet, with an exchange of between 2.3 and 5.5 shots. So he took out his .45 Commander, the bullet being a harder hitter and the gun being easier to shoot straight and well. It would be a close thing, if it happened at all: one, two shots, not like in the tattoo shop, with them all blazing away as if in a war movie.
The gun's familiar grip somewhat comforted him; its known contours, its safety exactly where the safety should be, its short trigger taut and sharp against his finger, the way it settled into his palm and the way his fingers clenched about it—all these things had their pleasures in the tension of the moment. He hunched, looking for signs in the field, thinking of course that Lamar would head for the nearest clump of trees so as not to be caught in the open. The prairie was empty and barren; but ahead, on the right, he saw a clump of trees in a fold, the only feature in the emptiness. There was no other place to go, no other route of escape, and he knew Lamar would move fast because he'd have figured there'd be fleets of cops there in no time.
Or maybe he said fuck it, strangled the girl, and now had just flattened himself into the earth and waited for his blood enemy to approach.
No. Lamar's not like that. He's a professional, whatever else he is, and would put first priority on escaping to steal and kill another day, on another chance to get Bud and get away. He wasn't one for sacrificing himself.
Bud crouched lower and hurried onward.
The girl was slowing him down. He wanted to smash her to the earth.
But the girl was the only card he had, so he had to hold her.
He assumed Pewtie was following him. What choice did the lawman have?
But when he looked back across the fields, he could see nothing, or nothing real; spangles of light, blue and orange like pinwheels from a Fourth of July when he was a boy, still danced before his eyes from the nearness of the shotgun's fireworks. That's the trouble with a goddamned sawed-off.
Once, the girl went to her knees, but he pulled her savagely up.
“You stay with me, girly, or I will finish you here, quiet like and then do your husband and go on my happy way.”
He saw terror, and felt her squirm. She made a sound, low and raw, behind the gag. But she could not meet his power, and looked away, her eyes bugging, the veins in her throat standing out like ropes. She was bleeding, too, from the fall out the window; she'd hit her head hard.
Tough shit.
It was going to be a hard night on everybody.
He pulled her along. He could see the dark line of the trees ahead only a hundred or so yards, and happily accepted the fact that cop cars and choppers and whatever hadn't yet arrived. Maybe Pewtie hadn't called them, had tried to do the whole thing on his own, some John Wayne kind of deal. But no: Pewtie would call for backup and then come in alone. Lamar knew the plan: Kill him and walk out with the girl, knowing the others would fade.
Now Lamar was but fifty yards from the tree line. A sudden spurt of energy came to him, and he roared ahead, pulling the girl. She seemed wasted, without much fight, but in some mix-up of limbs, she went down and he got tangled in her and he went down, too, with a thud, tasting dirt as he fell. There was a slight moment of concussion, and suddenly she squirmed savagely and ripped away from him. With more power than he ever thought she had, she raced away.
“Goddamn you!” he hissed and brought the gun up and began to press the trigger, but stomped on the impulse, knowing the flash would give him away. Instead he rose and leaped after her, slipping once in the mud, but in three short bounds had her. He tackled her, feeling his weight and strength bring her down, but she kicked and bucked under him, and he tried to push her face in the mud, but somehow his hand slid off her face, just enough to dislodge the gag.
“BUD! BUD, OVER HERE!” she screamed as he finally pushed her face into the mud, but before he could do anything more, he saw Pewtie on the crest line He drew up the pistol and fired. He couldn't stop shooting, the mesmerizing pleasure of it drawing him onward as the gun leaped in his hand and the gun flashes blossomed like a tulip of light.
Pewtie disappeared.
He didn't think he'd hit him.
“Come ON,” he yelled, pulling her up, but again she pulled away and this time instead of running after, he simply watched her run and then himself turned and headed to the trees.
Bud saw movement and brought the gun up to fire.
He took the slack out of the trigger as the phantasm wobbled desperately to him but saw in the next second it was Holly.
“Holly. Here.”
She slipped as she turned, and he ran to her.
“I got away. He didn't shoot me. Oh, Bud, I knew you'd come.”
He got out his knife. He cut her arms free. She threw them about him.
“Oh, Jesus. Bud, you have saved my life sure.”
He said nothing.
“You do love me. You came for me. God bless you, mister, you are a man.”
“Yes, well,” he said.
“Bud, you must love me, what you risked for me.”
“Holly—”
“Take me out of here.”
“You have to do that yourself. I want you to go into the field and just lie down flat no matter what happens. We got everybody coming in on this thing in a minute or two.
You're safe. You made it. I got you out.”
“You're done. Bud. Oh please don't do what I think you're going to.”
“I have to finish it up now. I've got to go get Lamar.”
“Bud! He'll kill you!”
“I have to—”
“Bud!”
“I have to go.”
But she pulled him toward her, as if to draw him in forever, to make him hers now that it was so close, so easy and-He hit her with his open hand, hard, left side of the head, driving her down.
No one had ever hit her before.
His nostrils flared, his eyes were wide and strange and fierce. She saw nothing in them at all that she could recognize.
“Don't you get it yet?” he almost screamed.
“It's over!
Goddamn it, I am quit of you and you are quit of me! Now get out of here. I got man's work to do.” And without looking back he set off down the crest for the trees, knowing that he had another few minutes until Lamar's eyes regained their night vision. He saw the dark band of vegetation up ahead, dense and beckoning and otherwise silent.
Wait for backup, the rules all said.
