man was sleeping now.
The steps creaked slightly but he froze for a long time and didn’t hear anything. He opened the back door very slowly and made his way inside, through a kitchen, there was junk and boxes piled everywhere, construction debris, a long hallway to the front room. As he made his way down the hallway, someone said, “That you, Jesus?”
He took a few quick steps and he was into the living room holding on to the gun in his coat pocket, there were two old couches and candles stuck in beer bottles.
There was a man in his forties sitting on the sofa. There were circles under his eyes and he hadn’t shaved in a long time.
“Murray,” said Harris.
“You look familiar,” said Murray. He peered at Harris’s face under the watch cap. “Chief Harris?”
Harris took the revolver from his pocket and pointed it at Murray. Murray put his hands up.
“Whoa,” he said. “You got the wrong guy, Chief.”
“You need to leave this valley,” Harris heard himself say. He had a distant awareness that his finger had come to rest on the trigger.
“Sure,” said Murray. “Anything you say.”
“If anyone tells me they even saw you in this state they’re gonna find you in the river. I find out you’ve been talking to that DA in Uniontown anymore, same thing.”
“I’m gone,” said Murray, but then he made a strange gesture and Harris felt someone behind him and he knew it was either turn around or pull the trigger. He pulled the trigger. The gun went off and Murray knuckled over on the couch. Someone tackled Harris from behind, sending them both crashing into the wall. He tried to roll the man off but he was pinned on his stomach with the man on top of him, there was a peculiar feeling, he was being punched in the ribs but it hurt more; the man was stabbing him but having a hard time getting through his vest. Then he dropped his knife and went for Harris’s gun. Both of his hands were pinning the revolver to the floor and working it out of Harris’s right hand. Harris’s other gun was in his rear waistband and he was arching his back trying to get at it left- handed, the grip was facing the wrong way, the man broke something in Harris’s hand, Harris heard the noise but barely noticed, he was focusing on getting each finger of his left hand closed around the grip of his automatic, the man got control of the revolver just as Harris got the .45 free and cleared the safety with his index finger and crammed the muzzle into the tangle of hair behind the man’s ear. He was faintly aware of the gun going off, saw the shell casing bounce off the wall next to him. Murray stumbled past and Harris shot him through the pelvis; Murray made it through the door and was gone.
The room was dark with only the flickering light from the candle; he rolled out from under the dead man and ran out onto the porch after Murray half deaf; the .45 had gone off right next to his head. He couldn’t hear his own footsteps, it felt like his ears were clogged.
The street was pitch black and his heart sank—there was nothing. He raised the gun in his left hand and scanned closely fumbling in his pocket for the flashlight, looking for anything moving, there—something there in the brush at twenty or twenty- five yards, he got his light out and worked it with his mostly broken hand and saw Murray, crouched over and limping through the undergrowth; when the light hit him he froze. Harris made a small adjustment to his sights and shot him between the shoulderblades. Then he fired a second careful shot.
When Harris caught up to him Murray was on his hands and knees, as if praying to someone Harris couldn’t see. He seemed to have no idea he wasn’t alone and after a few seconds he sank slowly into the tall grass, not moving again. Harris’s hands were shaking; he tried to reholster his gun, but couldn’t.
He stayed in the shadows on the way back to his truck, a two- block walk. He couldn’t get his head clear, all he could think was Keep Moving.
Before getting into his truck he shucked off his hat, coat, and gloves because of the blood and powder residue, threw them in the bed of the pickup, and pulled out as quietly as he could, driving without headlights until he reached the main road. As he drove he tried to inspect himself but his hands were shaking badly, under his vest he could feel blood trickling down his side but he didn’t want to stop to see how bad it was. He was still breathing easily so it couldn’t be all that bad, the Kevlar had done its job. Two miles away and counting. He watched the odometer. Three miles.
Shortly after that he killed the lights and stopped at a turnaround next to the river to throw the .45 far out into the water. He pulled out and was driving down the road again when he realized he’d forgotten to get rid of the coat and hat in the back of the truck. Everything else, too, he thought. He stopped at the next pullout and changed into his spare clothes and running shoes and threw everything he’d been wearing, including the Kevlar, into the river.
He got to the office as the sun was coming up. He wondered who would take care of his dog.
5. Poe
The rushing came back to his head, so loud he couldn’t stand it but he couldn’t make it stop and there was a feeling of motion, I am in the river, he thought, I am going over the falls. Ninety over sixty, he heard. The feeling didn’t so much stop as slowly fade and he could see again and it was bright. I fell. I am in the dirt by the house under the tree. The light was very bright. They were trying to cram something in his mouth, they were choking him, he was going to throw up. He’s back, someone said. Get the tube out. Mr. Poe stay with us. There were ceiling tiles and bright lights. The rushing was back in his ears and he was seeing things, he was moving again, the falling feeling in his stomach, he was going over, he wanted to get away from the sounds. Stay with us Mr. Poe. They are touching me, he thought. He reached a hand down to cover his nakedness, they had taken his clothes. Squeeze my hand William. William can you hear me?
He tried to sit up, there wasn’t enough air.
“No no no,” they all said. There were strong hands holding him.
“Mr. Poe do you know where you are?”
He did remember but it seemed like if he didn’t answer them he might make it untrue. There were other things he worried he might say, about Isaac. I won’t say anything, he thought, they are trying to make me talk.
“You may have hurt your neck. You can’t move until we get the pictures back.”
Crippled, he thought. He felt tears coming into his eyes. He was having trouble breathing, he couldn’t get enough air in.
“Do you know where you are,” they said. “William. William can you hear me?”
“You’ve got holes in your lungs. We’re going to get the fluid out so you can breathe. It’s going to hurt a little bit.”
He tried to speak but nothing came out. He wanted to go back to sleep.
“Hold him,” they said.
They stabbed him in the side with something and then it went deeper and then they were putting something so deep in him that the pain was coming right from the center of him, he was rushing again, moving, and then he was awake, he could hear himself screaming.
“Hold him,” he heard someone shouting and he knew they were talking about him, don’t he told them don’t don’t don’t don’t and then he felt himself go down and under.
He came up in a different room. Very bright lights. Someone was right over him. They were doing something to his head. Stop, he said, but no sound came out. Stop, he said, but his lips wouldn’t move and there was something over his face. He tried to move it but he couldn’t. His arm wouldn’t move. They were doing something to him. He could smell something, it was burning hair, they were doing something to him. He’s awake, said someone. I see it, someone else said, and then he felt the tingling rush up his arm. I have felt this before, he thought, and then he was under the water again.
