near the far edge of my vision. Three shots rang out, and the dirt in front of me blew up in my face. I started rolling toward the shotgun when I saw a man charging me. Dimly I knew it was Doc Harris. I was within inches of my shotgun and still rolling when he fired two shots at me from within ten yards. The first shot narrowly missed; the second grazed the side of my head. I flailed my .38 in front of me, wasting precious seconds. Doc Harris saw what I was doing and aimed dead at me. He pulled the trigger, and got an empty click. Livid, he was on top of me, and he kicked me in the face just as I got my gun free, causing me to fire three quick shots in the wrong direction.
He flung himself on my gun arm and grabbed my wrist with both hands. As a precaution I fired the remaining three rounds into the dirt. This infuriated him and he brought his knee into my groin. I screamed, and vomited onto his shirt front. He reached up reflexively to fend it off, thereby easing some of the pressure on my chest. I squirmed partially free and twisted myself in the direction of the shotgun. Just as I got my hands on the butt, Harris renewed his attack. I feebly swiped at him with the gun butt, grazing him in the chin. He grabbed for the trigger, hoping to force a shot in my direction, but my right hand was securely clamped around the trigger guard. We rolled into a tree trunk, and I tried to squash Harris into it, banging him at chest level with the gun barrel that was between us like a wedge. It was no use; he was too strong. I wrapped my middle finger around the trigger and squeezed. The shotgun exploded and the barrel buckled, hitting Harris in the face. He panicked for just an instant, withdrawing his hand slightly and looking startled.
We both drew ourselves to our feet. Harris had retightened his grip on the gun, then realized it was useless and let go, causing me to fall to the ground. He smiled down at me through clenched teeth and pulled a switchblade knife from his back pocket. He pressed a button on the handle and a gleaming, razor-sharp blade popped out. He advanced toward me. I was trying to get to my feet when I saw Larry Brubaker inching up in back of him, wielding a tire iron. Harris was within three feet of me when Brubaker brought it down with a roundhouse swing onto his shoulders. Harris collapsed to the ground at my feet and was silent.
Brubaker helped me up. I checked Harris's pulse, which was normal, then rounded up the two handguns from their resting place. Harris had a .32 Colt revolver. I put it in my back pocket, and reloaded my own .38 and placed it in my waistband. Brubaker was kneeling over Harris, gently stroking his thick gray hair and staring at him with a look that was equal parts longing and amazement.
I walked up to him. 'Get the syringe from the glove compartment, Larry. There's a paper bag on the front seat with a bottle of water, a spoon, some matches and a little vial. Bring it to me.'
Brubaker nodded and went to the car.
I dragged Doc Harris over to a large tree and propped his back up against it. I could barely manage the pulling: my arms were numb from tension and exertion, and my head slammed from the shot that had grazed me. Brubaker returned with the paper bag.
'You know where the stuff is buried,' I said.
Brubaker said, 'Yes, baby,' very softly.
'Go get a handful of it. A big handful. Then come back here. I want you to cook Doc up a little cocktail.'
Harris came awake a moment after Brubaker departed. When his eyelids started to flutter, I reached for my .38 and trained it on him. 'Hello, Doc,' I said.
Harris smiled. 'Hello, Underhill. Where's Larry?'
'He went to fetch you a little surprise.'
'Poor Larry. What will he do now? Who will he follow? He's never had anyone else.'
'He'll survive. So will Michael.'
'Michael likes you, Underhill.'
'I like Michael.'
'Like attracts like. You and I are Renaissance men. Michael is attracted to Renaissance men.'
'What have you done to him?'
'I've told him stories. I taught him to read at three. He's got an amazing I.Q. and an astounding sense of narrative, so I've been giving him parables since he was old enough to listen. I was going to write my memoirs for him, when he was a few years older and capable of understanding them. Of course, now that will never be. But he has had enough of me to form his character, I think.'
'You lost, Harris. Your life, your moral heir, your 'philosophy,' all of it. How does that feel?'
'Sad. But I've been to mountaintops that you and the rest of the world don't know exist. There's a certain solace in that.'
'How did you know I'd be here?'
'I didn't, But I knew you knew about me. I've had a feeling since I read about you and poor Eddie in the papers back in '51 that you'd be coming for me someday. When you showed up at my door I wasn't surprised. I figured you might use Larry as a wedge, so I showed up here early without my car as a precaution.'
Brubaker returned with both hands overflowing with white powder. I tasted the most minute amount I could put on a finger. It was very, very pure.
'I was going to shoot you up, Doc,' I said. 'But I haven't got the heart for it.'
Still holding my gun, I scooped a handful of morphine from Brubaker's outstretched palms and dug the water bottle out of the paper bag. I uncapped it, and walked up to Harris.
'Eat it,' I said, shoving the morphine at his mouth.
Harris opened his mouth and stoically took death's communion. I tilted the water bottle to his lips as one last act of mercy. Doc shuddered and smiled. 'I don't want to die like this, Underhill.'
'Tough shit. You've got five minutes or so until your heart bursts and you suffocate. Any last words? Any last requests?'
'Just one.' Harris pointed to the ground in back of me. 'Will you hand me my knife?' he asked.
I nodded and Brubaker got the knife and handed it to him.
Harris smiled at us. 'Goodbye, Larry. Be gracious in victory, Underhill. It's not your style, but do it anyway. Be as gracious in victory as I am in defeat.'
Harris unbuttoned his shirt and slowly removed it, then took the knife in both hands and slammed it into his abdomen and yanked it upward to his rib cage. He shuddered as blood spurted from his stomach and burst forth from his mouth and nostrils. Then he pitched forward onto the ground, his hands still gripping the knife handle.
We buried him in the spot where he had stored his morphine, jamming him into the deep narrow space he had originally created to hold a huge steamer trunk full of death. We covered him over with rock-strewn dirt and covered the dirt with a spray of dried leaves.
I hauled the trunk over to Brubaker's car, siphoned gas from his tank, and drove the car off to a safe distance. Then I lit a match and set the trunk on fire. Brubaker, who had remained silent since the moment of Doc's death, stared at the flames musingly.
'Have you got a valedictory, Larry?' I asked.
'Yeah,' he said, and quoted Cole Porter: ''Goodbye now and amen, here's hoping we meet now and then, it was great fun, but it was just one of those things!' You like that, baby?'
'No, you're too hep for me, Larry,' I said, throwing dirt on the charred remains of the trunk. 'Let's get out of here. I'll drive.'
I took Pacific Coast Highway back. Brubaker was silent, and it troubled me.
'You saved my life,' I said. 'Thanks.'
'He was going to kill me, baby. I knew it. He swooped down on me and took me aside and told me you were dead meat, and then things would be copacetic. But I knew he was going to kill me.' Brubaker turned in his seat to face me. 'I would have let you die otherwise,' he said.
'I know. You were in love with him, weren't you?'
'From the moment I met him, baby. From that very moment.' Brubaker started to sob quietly, sticking his head out the window to avoid my watching him. Finally he turned to face me. 'But I cared, too, baby. When you and that big Irish cop rousted me years ago I knew you were an okay guy. You just didn't have too good an idea about what was going on. You dig?'
'I guess so. If it's any consolation, I used to have a friend, a drunk who was sort of way ahead of his time, who used to say there was a city of the dead, existing right here where we are, but invisible to us. He said that when people go there they carry on exactly the way they did on earth. That's not much consolation to me, but I think it may be true.'
