his Uzi. Then the tall man actually began to move closer to him. He was moving sideways in a crouch, and he still had his back to Peter. He was moving like a professional army man.
Peter wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. 'ne rainwater made them sting like hell. Now he could see that the man's hair was blond.
There is no way I can miss hitting this man, he reminded himself. Zen marksmanship. It's like standing twenty paces away from one of those big overturned dining tables. Taking your damn good time for a shot. Seeing not whether you hit it, but ,how close you can come to the little hole in the center for the table's umbrella.
How close can I come to the axis of the tall blond man's spine? Kneeling on one knee, arms out stiff, perfectly straight, two hands on the Walther, Peter carefully got the blond man in his sight. He brought an image of the first machete murder into his mind. Then Jane-Jane on the beach at Horseshoe Bay, her shrunken body in the coffin in the cathedral.
He looked straight down the black barrel into the man's back. Then Peter finally spoke to the tall blond man.
'Hey!' he said. 'Do you remember me, mister? Hey, shithead!
Inside the Tryall clubhouse, a nervous police constable lit a stick match.
As he struck match after match, the policeman tried desperately to figure out a row of master switches inside a steel gray cabinet. He considered the switches until his last match burned down, then decided to give number one a try. He flicked the black switch and the lights in the small room he was in came on bright and scary. Then the constable could see two distinct rows in the control box: number one through six, and seven through twelve.
His shaking hand moved quickly down the first row.
As the man on the dining veranda pivoted around to face Peter, every light in this magnificently frightening world seemed to come on all at once. Nightlights blinked on down the first fairway. A tape system on the veranda started to play soft dinner music.
Then loud thunder seemed to originate on the back patio of the Tryall clubhouse. Sparks of gunfire lit up all over the lawns.
Damian Rose was firing his M-21. Harold Hill was shooting an expensive Italian-made rifle. The entire force surrounding the Tryall clubhouse was blasting away at the suddenly bright, white building.
Peter's first shot hit the blond man-a dark hole opened on his forehead; then Peter was hit so hard, he couldn't believe it. He felt as if he'd been blindsided by a three-thousand-pound automobile. Hit deliberately. So fucking sad. So sad....
Windows were breaking everywhere. The wrought-iron furniture was ringing out pings and pangs. Wood thudded hard as it caught errant rifle shots.
A singularly loud crack echoed, and a speck of the dead Englishman's head flew off.
The fallen Englishman was hit again on the side of his face.
A third rifle shot entered the back of his head as he lay facedown on the flagstone patio.
Then it was all blinding light and rain. Clean rain that appeared slightly blue in the white light. It was all soothing, steady rain noise with no gunshots at all.
Men streamed across the flat, muddy lawns.... Gray suits soaked to darker colors. Short pants and pillbox hats. Submachine guns and pistols and dark rifles swinging loose on leather straps.
The rain was shining like expensive jewelry in all the trees. There was an eerie quiet now.
Harold Hill was walking straight ahead, looking ridiculous, as if he were lost in the rain. His TopSiders slapped down on the patio near Peter Macdonald's head, then he turned away.
Peter felt himself getting sick, and he fought the nauseated feeling with everything he had left.
A circle of curious faces began to form over him-like doctors around an operating table, like people staring at a heart attack victim on a New York City street.... Black soldiers and FBI and CIA men. All smiling as if they were his old best friends. Congratulating him as if he'd scored the winning touchdown.
The black police chief was bending over him, trying to show him where he'd been hit. The stomach? The rib cage? Goddamn nice bastard, Peter thought. 'I'm okay. ' He grinned at the black man.
And in the middle of all the confusion-the blinding lights, rain, police sirens, an ambulance driving up on the lawns-a, bearded white man in a suit was dragging a corpse by its hair. Some bearded CIA prick.
A creepy black policeman was snapping flashbulb photos. Spread-eagle shots of the body that was being dragged. Shots of Peter being cradled in Meral Johnson's arms.
An American man was working with a buzzing electric cwnera that took pictures in the dark.
Suddenly they brought the body to Peter, and everybody was trying to talk to him all at one time. Peter sat up and waved them away. He stared down at bloodshot eyes turned up as far as they would go in their sockets. Eyes caught in terrible shock and surprise.
No wonder, though, Peter thought. The right side of the head looked as if it had been bitten into. There was no nose to speak of; what was left of the mouth was frozen in a sniirky death cry.
Peter flashed back to Turtle Bay-the tall, haughty man. Fifteen seconds....
He concentrated on the blown-up face. Wet blond hair slicked down flat by the rain. Long, athletic body. He felt very tired now, mind fighting against big strong waves of ugly shit.... Dr. Johnson was saying something to him, but all he felt like doing was shouting at the dead man.
@ 'He's the one,' he finally whispered to the black police chief. 'He's the one, goddamn him to hell. '
Which was about the time Peter finally heard what Meral Johnson was saying to him.
Running in a low infantry crouch, Damian moved forward, his trooper boots squashing across a slippery
