“That’s the Meals On Wheels truck,” Freddy said. “For shut-ins and such. Haven’t you seen that around town?”
“Seen it and helped load it,” Marty said. “I gave up the Catholics for Holy Redeemer last year. How come it’s not inside the barn?” He said
“How do I know and why would I care?” Freddy asked. “They’re in the studio.”
“How do you know?”
“Because that’s where the TV is, and the big show out at the Dome is on all the channels.”
Marty raised his HK. “Let me put a few rounds in that truck just to be sure. It could be booby-trapped. Or they could be inside it.”
Freddy pushed the barrel down. “Jesus-please-us, are you crazy? They don’t know we’re here and you just want to give it away? Did your mother have any kids that lived?”
“Fuck you,” Marty said. He considered. “And fuck your mother, too.”
Freddy looked back over his shoulder. “Come on, you guys. We’ll cut across the field to the studio. Look through the back windows and make sure of their positions.” He grinned. “Smooth sailing.”
Aubrey Towle, a man of few words, said: “We’ll see.”
14
In the truck that had remained on Little Bitch Road, Fern Bowie said, “I don’t hear nothing.”
“You will,” Randolph said. “Just wait.”
It was twelve oh-two.
15
Chef watched as the bitter men broke cover and began moving diagonally across the field toward the rear of the studio. Three were wearing actual police uniforms; the other four had on blue shirts that Chef guessed were
Seven. On this side, at least. On Sanders’s, who knew?
He waited for more, and when no more came, he got to his feet, planted his elbows on the hood of the panel truck, and shouted:
Their heads snapped around, but for a moment they froze, neither trying to raise their weapons nor scatter. They weren’t cops at all, Chef saw; just birds on the ground too dumb to fly.
With this homily and call to judgment, Chef opened fire, raking them from left to right. Two of the uniformed cops and Stubby Norman flew backward like broken dolls, painting the high trashgrass with their blood. The paralysis of the survivors broke. Two turned and fled toward the woods. Conree and the last of the uniformed cops booked for the studio. Chef tracked them and opened fire again. The Kalashnikov burped a brief burst, and then the clip was empty.
Conree clapped her hand to the back of her neck as if stung, went facedown into the grass, kicked twice, and was still. The other one—a bald guy—made it to the rear of the studio. Chef didn’t care too much about the pair who’d run for the woods, but he didn’t want to let Baldy get away. If Baldy got around the corner of the building, he was apt to see Sanders, and might shoot him in the back.
Chef grabbed a fresh clip and rammed it home with the heel of his hand.
16
Frederick Howard Denton, aka Baldy, wasn’t thinking about anything when he reached the back of the WCIK studio. He had seen the Conree girl go down with her throat blown out, and that was the end of rational consideration. All he knew now was that he didn’t want his picture on the Honor Wall. He had to get under cover, and that meant inside. There was a door. Behind it, some gospel group was singing “We’ll Join Hands Around the Throne.”
Freddy grabbed the knob. It refused to turn.
Locked.
He dropped his gun, raised the hand which had been holding it, and screamed:
Three heavy blows boxed him low in the back. He saw a splash of red hit the door and had time to think,
17
Melvin Searles didn’t think either. Mel had seen Marty Arsenault, George Frederick, and Stubby Norman cut down in front of him, he had felt at least one bullet whicker right in front of his motherfucking
Mel just ran.
He blundered back through the trees, oblivious to the branches that whipped against his face, falling once and getting back up, finally bursting into the clearing where the trucks were. Firing one up and driving it away would have been the most reasonable course of action, but Mel and reason had parted company. He probably would have sprinted straight down the access road to Little Bitch if the other survivor of the backdoor raiding-party hadn’t grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him against the trunk of a large pine.
It was Aubrey Towle, the bookstore owner’s brother. He was a big, shambling, pale-eyed man who sometimes helped his brother Ray stocking the shelves but rarely said much. There were people in town who thought Aubrey was simpleminded, but he didn’t look simple now. Nor did he look panicked.
“I’m going back and get that sonofawhore,” he informed Mel.
“Good luck to you, buddy,” Mel said. He pushed away from the tree and turned toward the access road again.
Aubrey Towle shoved him back harder this time. He brushed his hair out of his eyes, then pointed his Heckler & Koch rifle at Mel’s midsection. “You ain’t going anywhere.”
From behind them came another rattle of gunfire. And screams.
“Do you hear that?” Mel asked. “You want to go back into
Aubrey looked at him patiently. “You don’t have to come with me, but you’re going to cover me. Do you understand that? You do that or I’ll shoot you myself.”
