He reached for her throat with both hands before he realized what he was doing, and the pain in his right hand was so great that he dropped to his knees again. He cradled his bad hand across his chest and rocked back and forth, moaning. In the distance, but closer than before, he heard the voices calling to each other. Cooper lurched to his feet and marched in the direction the shadows showed him.
The shadows had grown very long when Cooper slumped down at the base of a tree. He was exhausted from fighting against the muck all day and very hungry.
He tried to remember the last time he had eaten and he couldn't. The swelling from his hand had increased and the skin looked so tight he was afraid it would just pop open all by itself. Any motion of his arm burned like fire now and he had to walk with his left hand clamping his right arm against his body as if he were holding himself together. As a result, his balance was bad and he fell often. He was covered with mud and his body itched from head to toe.
He was miserable now, but he hadn't been happy since he left prison. He missed his punk, who took care of him whenever he hurt himself or didn't feel well. The punk was as good as a nurse, fluttering around and feeling Cooper's forehead for a fever and giving him rubdowns and making sure he was warm enough, and then telling him stories and talking to him for hours, which was something no nurse would ever do. He never had to worry about his meals in prison, either. He knew when they were and they were always there when they were supposed to be. The servers always made sure that Old Coop got an extra-large helping, too. Everybody took care of him in prison, in one way or another, and everybody knew him.
He hated it on the outside, Cooper realized. It wasn't home, it wasn't anything like home. The only good thing he could remember since he got out was the time in the car with the girl but then she even went and spoiled that the second time by acting like she didn't know what to do.
The punk always knew what he was supposed to do, and he always did it right or else Cooper kicked his ass.
People on the outside never seemed to do anything right, whether he kicked their ass or not.
He thought again of the punk. Swann, that was his name. The punk would be pleased that Cooper remembered. If they sent him back to Springville, he would want to have the punk in his cell again. Those things could be arranged. Cooper knew how to do it. If someone else was living with Swann, Cooper would kick his ass until he gave the punk back to Cooper.
The punk belonged with Cooper. He would be happy to see Cooper again, there was no doubt about that, and they would have a lot to tell each other after Cooper's visit to the outside.
He couldn't walk any faster than he was going, but no matter how fast he went, the voices seemed to get closer.
He thought he could see higher ground in the distance.
Maybe that meant he would get out of this swamp and onto dry ground again. Then he could steal a car and get away from them that way. He didn't understand how they could all walk so much faster than he could, but he didn't think they could drive any faster.
As he got closer he could see that it really was a hill and it looked as dry as he could ever hope for. Cooper drove himself even faster until each breath rasped and tore at his lungs. Just at the base of the hill he tripped, his feet unaccustomed to solid ground. Instinctively he threw his arms put to stop his fall and the impact on his bad hand was so painful he could not keep from screaming. He felt bone grate against bone in his knuckle and heard it, too.
It was the sound of it that made him pass out.
When he came to, he heard voices closing in on him, then heard one of them, a woman's voice, calling to the others. Her voice was very close, so close he could reach out and touch her. Cooper kept his eyes squeezed shut, thinking maybe he wouldn't be seen if he just lay where he was.
'Don't move, you sack of shit,' the woman's voice said. She sounded really pissed off and scared, too. 'I'll blow you fucking away if you move, Cooper.'
He was so surprised to hear his name that he opened his eyes. A young woman with funny red hair was standing over him, pointing a gun at him with both hands. She wore a jacket that said FBI in big letters. A radio on her belt crackled and an anxious voice said, 'Just hold him there, Haddad. Don't try anything else, just keep him in place.'
'I want Swann,' Cooper said. He started to shift his weight so he could sit up and he realized that the woman had put handcuffs around his ankles.
The woman kicked his bad hand with her toe and he screamed again and slumped backwards.
'Don't fuck with me,' said Pegeen. 'Where's the girl?'
Cooper didn't know what she meant so he said nothing.
She nudged his hand again and he yelped like a dog.
'I asked you where's the girl. Unless you want me to do a dance on that paw of yours, tell me where she is.'
She didn't look mean, Cooper thought. She looked like she was trying to pretend she was bigger than she was, but sure acted mean.
'I'm going to count to five,' Pegeen said, 'then I'm going to stand on your hand. You understand me, Cooper?':'Yes,' said Cooper.
'Where's the girl?'
'What girl?'
' Sybil Benish. The kid you took into the swamp with you, asshole.'
'She left me,' Cooper said.
'What did you do to her? Did you hurt her?… Answer me! Did you hurt her?'
Cooper stared at Pegeen, uncomprehending. Had he hurt the girl? He didn't think so; he didn't remember hurting her. He was the one who was hurt.
'One.' 'If I tell you, can I live with Swann?'
'Two.'
She lifted one foot and held it over his bad hand. Cooper tried to move it away, but it was like a deadweight at the end of his limb and the entire arm seemed to have stopped working. He put his good hand in the air over the injured one to shield it.
'Where is she?'
'She fell off, I left her back there where I was,' Cooper said.
'Three,' she said.
I told you,' Cooper pleaded, but she stamped her'foot onto his hand anyway.
When Cooper came to again there was a swarm of men in FBI jackets running over the hill towards him. The girl still hovered over him, looking enraged and ready to hurt him some more.
As the men converged around him, Cooper was crying, 'Get her away from me,' and trying to climb up the slope on his ass.
Hatcher met Quincy Beggs at the Congressman's home, where the politician was hosting an informal dinner — for twelve would-be campaign contributors. Ten florid-faced men and two highly lacquered women greeted Hatcher courteously, all professing delight at meeting such a highly placed FBI agent, and with few exceptions feigning an interest they did not have. Hatcher's arrival was unannounced-indeed his invitation to such an event would have been inappropriate both socially and ethically-and after the social amenities had been observed, Beggs wasted no time in escorting Hatcher to his study.
'I would have waited until business hours,' Hatcher said, 'but I felt you would appreciate hearing right away.'
He could in fact have simply told Beggs his news on the telephone, but Hatcher knew the importance of the personal appearance at the right time. Good news delivered over the telephone seems to come from out of the blue. Good news delivered in person comes from the messenger.
Hatcher would be there to share in the triumph, Hatcher would be there to modestly deny the credit, Hatcher would be recognized as the source of the blessing, not the telephone, not the impersonal machinery of the Bureau.
'I'm sure you did the right thing,' said Beggs. 'Just a few of my constituents. Do them good to see that I actually work for a living.'
