would it take him to get out here? And once he’d arrived, how much help would he be? Hadn’t the Wickenses intimidated him more than once before? Could you expect your life to be saved by a guy who couldn’t even hang on to his hat? Or his gun? If Timmy Wickens told him to take a walk again, wasn’t there a good chance he would?
And what could Betty or Hank Wrigley do, or Bob Spooner, who was-
Wait a minute.
Hadn’t Bob mentioned having a gun in his tackle box? Hadn’t be made a comment about a Smith & Wesson? Could I make it down to his boat before Wendell caught up with me? If I could get my hands on the gun, would I have a chance of being able to use it against him? And would it even be there? Wasn’t it likely Bob took his tackle box into the cabin at night? Well then, couldn’t I burst in there and get it from him?
And would I be able to get back to the barn before the rest of the Wickenses did any more damage to Lawrence Jones?
I kept running, branches armed with pine needles coming out of nowhere, slapping my face, disorienting me. I thought I could hear footsteps coming behind me. I reached into my pocket for the bear spray, and without even looking back, started shooting it over my shoulder, hoping that if Wendell was back there, some of the pepper would waft into his face somehow.
I came upon an opening and there, in front of me, was the open pit of fish guts, which Lawrence had refused to cover with the cottage shutter. I leapt over it at the last second, nearly falling in, started stumbling headlong, then regained my footing and kept going.
I was cutting left, then right, looking for the lights from the cabins, still spraying wildly over my shoulder, and somewhere behind me I heard, “Shit!”
It sounded a ways off, so I slowed, listened some more. “Fuck! What the fuck is this?”
Wendell, evidently, had not navigated the pit of guts as well as I had. I gave myself the luxury of a half-second smile, then kept on for the cabins, thinking of nothing else but getting my hand on Bob’s Smith & Wesson and-
“Hold it.”
My heart felt like it had been struck with a sledgehammer. There, in the darkness, was Dougie. Standing directly ahead of me, the shotgun raised and pointed straight at my forehead.
I stopped.
“Wendell!” he shouted. “I got him! Over here!”
The can of bear spray was still tucked into my hand. I slipped my index finger over the button at the top, kept it there.
Dougie stepped forward. He had a dopey grin on his face, and his dirty teeth glowed in the moonlight.
“You put your hands up,” he said.
I did as I was told. As my arm went up, I aimed the spray at Dougie’s face and hit the button.
The can went
“What’s that?” Dougie asked.
I let the empty can drop to the ground. “My last hope,” I said.
33
“I FOUND HIM!” Dougie told his mother and Timmy after he and Wendell had marched me back to the barn.
“I sent him right to you,” Wendell said. “I flushed the fucker out.”
“Yeah, well, I’m the one that actually got him, that’s all I’m saying. I’m not saying you didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“Boys,” Charlene Wickens, who’d returned to the barn when she heard the commotion, said, “you’ve both done a very good job, and both deserve a lot of credit.”
The brothers smiled.
“Does anyone want ice cream?” she asked.
“Oh yeah, I’d love some ice cream,” Wendell said.
“Do we have chocolate sauce?” Dougie asked.
“I’m pretty sure we do,” Charlene said. “How about you, Timmy?”
Timmy, who had just closed the gate on a stall that contained me and Lawrence, said, “Maybe just a little. But no sauce. Just plain.”
Everyone was in a mood for celebrating. They had me, and they had Lawrence. And they had his gun, our cell phones for whatever they were worth out here, and our keys. After a minor setback, they were able to continue with their plans.
I was thinking of asking whether I could have a bowl of ice cream, but the fact was, I was just too scared shitless to crack wise.
Lawrence was sitting in the corner, his butt on the floor, his legs stretched out in front of him, his back against the wall. “So,” he said to me, “I presume you’re here to rescue me.” Evidently Lawrence was not having the same problem.
“How badly did they hurt you?” I asked.
Lawrence shrugged. “I couldn’t ride a horse right now, but I’m okay. I’ve had worse. Pride’s a bit bent out of shape.”
“What were you thinking? Going it alone?”
He closed his eyes, shook his head sadly. “There’s a huge fucking bomb in that van, Zack. I didn’t feel we could afford to wait to bring in the troops. If it hadn’t been for Bonnie Parker there-”
“I was thinking more along the lines of Ma Barker.”
“Yeah, even better. If it hadn’t been for her unexpected arrival, things might be a bit different now. How about you? You okay?”
I nodded.
“Man, you stink,” I heard Dougie say to Wendell.
“I fell in something fucking awful,” Wendell said.
Charlene said, “I’ll get the ice cream ready.” She left the barn.
Timmy stood on the other side of the gate that closed off our stall, which at some time must have been home to a horse or cow or two. It wasn’t like we were in a prison cell-the stall wasn’t locked and the gate would have taken a second to climb over. But it wasn’t the sort of thing you could do without being noticed.
“So,” Timmy said. “You boys put a bit of a wrinkle into things there for a while.”
I took a couple of steps his way, but once I was within three feet of him he waved the shotgun over the top of the gate. “You just stay there.”
I stayed there.
But from where I stood I could see into the back of the van. There were no seats in it but the two front ones, and a large blue plastic drum sat in the middle, on the floor. Atop it was a black plastic device, about the size of a shoebox, and some wires. Beside the van, on the barn floor, were several emptied fertilizer bags and three red plastic gas cans.
Timmy smiled. “I see you admiring my handiwork.”
I swallowed. “I don’t know a lot about explosives, but that looks big.”
“Well, not as huge as some. We’re not trying to bring down the Alfred P. Murrah, but it’ll do.”
Lawrence slowly got to his feet, came up alongside me. “Looks like you did a pretty good job of it,” he said. “Clean, simple.”
Timmy nodded. “Thanks.”
“How many people you figure you’ll end up killing?”
Timmy’s lips puckered while he thought about it. “Don’t really know. But that’s not important. What’s important is the message.”
“And what,” Lawrence asked, “would that message be?”
