Earl had been telling himself for several weeks that sooner or later he was going to snap out of it. Sooner or later this dream state wherein his emotions and his thoughts were held captive, roiling about in utter confusion, would play itself out, and he would rightfully take command of his life again. In his own unreasoning way, he was able to see that his imagination was out of control, and he was, at best, only partially conscious. On one hand was the sweet idea of killing July—the lucky coward—on the other he was confronted with an unexplainable fear. Unlike Ollie, Earl had never murdered, and the idea of it caused him to run wild with terror and horror. The act seemed like only the tip of the iceberg—the rest remained underwater where he couldn’t see it. Was it really going to happen? And when he stepped into the house, Earl’d asked himself again, Does this mean it will really happen? Surely, when the time comes, I’ll snap out of this.
He had shot twice at the dog, with no more than a dreamer’s confidence that his gun would have any effect—half expecting the bullets to roll down the barrel and onto the ground like soft peas. The noise and jolt of the report surprised him and gave him more confidence. Then, when he was just starting to make some sense out of what had happened, to understand exactly what it meant, he’d looked up into July’s face. Instantly he realized, Now! Now’s the time. Now I must snap out of it. But hecouldn’t. His reactions were slow. They refused to agree with his willful thoughts, and by the time he’d raised his gun and fired, July had dashed out of view and one of the bedroom doors had slammed. Earl went up the stairs over the dog, past Ollie, who pleaded once more to be stood up on his feet, and toward the closed door. From inside he heard noises. He hesitated, hearing Ollie descending the stairs, letting himself down with one arm and shoulder to the living room. He waited almost a minute, then turned the knob and swung open the door.
The light was no longer on and the room was as dark as a well. He stood in the doorway for several seconds, then moved to the wall, waiting for July to make some noise to give himself away. Finding a light switch, he flipped it on, but nothing happened. The bulb had been taken. Slowly his eyes began to adapt. The wallpaper of great magnolia flowers frightened him. They appeared to be faces, or no, if they couldn’t be faces, what then? Pale, round, faceless heads.
Cautiously, he began to work his way around the room. But there seemed to be so many places a person could hide. He continued to think he heard noises. Clothes strewn all over the floor and furniture seemed to jump at him.
Then the door slammed, sealing him in total darkness. He wheeled around and just before he fired aimlessly and the red-and-blue flame spat out of his hand, he heard a key turn in the lock. Feeling himself becoming more confused, he opened the curtains, letting a thin wash of gray light in from the morning, crossed to the door and found himself imprisoned.
He must have Ollie’s gun, he thought, and immediately saw his own imminent death rise up in front of him.
He could hear no noise from the hall. His only thought now was of escape. But wasn’t July waiting just outside? With Ollie’s gun trained on the door from the stairwell? What chance was that?
The window! He ran to it and looked out. Yes, this was the way July’d gotten out of the room, by hanging from the sill and dropping eight feet to the ground. But just as likely he was outsidenow, waiting; and crawling from the window would make a target no one could miss. The other possibility was to jump straight out and fall, and he pictured himself receiving the deadly shots while groveling on the ground, both legs broken.
He sat on the bed and tried to think. He weighed his fears. To stay in the room and not move meant capture. Or did it? Might it not mean death? Death was imminent. July meant only to kill him, and would wait him out, however long it took. No food or water. This was the country, after all. Or he might have called his friends, and any second six pickups would pull into the drive, loaded with men who hoped to catch him alive.
No, July’ll call the police. Of course he will. But why should he?
Mustering all his courage, he got off the bed and crossed to the door, stood back several feet and fired a clip of bullets into the lock. With his back to the wall, he tried to force the door open from the side, reloaded, fired twice more and pulled it open. Now all he needed was to pick a moment and fly out into the hall, firing as he came. It was a chance.
“July,” he called. “July. Hey, let’s make a deal. July!” But there was no answer.
He’s going to kill me, he thought, then heard the sound of someone hammering somewhere.
Now! he decided, and jumped into the hallway, his automatic ready to fire. But the hall and stairs were empty. The hammering continued, from the bottom of the stairs. He heard three nails driven deep into wood. Slowly he crept down past the dead dog. The hammering stopped and he heard footsteps going farther off into the house.
The door at the bottom was nailed shut. It was too stout to break.
The only escape would be from an upstairs window to the ground. But now he had more windows to
