until the shotgun came free.
Maurice said the nonsense sound again. It might have been the word
Lee pumped the shotgun halfway, checking the gate to see the cartridge in the chamber, and then he finished the pump and thumbed on the safety. He knelt down a few feet in front of Maurice and leaned on the shotgun and continued to get his breath back. Lee watched until Maurice had stopped moving and all the sight had gone from his eyes. The blood still trickled out of him.
Lee got up. His head felt like a cracked bell and his left eye was blurred where Maurice had pressed it. His windpipe was burning. He went through the storeroom and looked out through the open door, across the rise of snow-covered property, to the shed and the van and the campers. Nothing moved.
He went out. There were tracks in the snow. His tracks coming, Maurice’s tracks coming. Lee climbed the rise and turned the shotgun out in front of him. The treeline beyond the shed was a dark sketch between earth and sky.
He came first to the prow of the Airstream where the windows were shuttered. He could see the man-door into the shed, open and dark. He moved up on the stoop of the Airstream and tried the door. It was unlocked. He slipped inside. The galley was warm and smelled like cigarettes.
A passageway ran from the galley to the forequarters of the trailer. Just as he was about to step forward he saw Arlene come out of where he reckoned the bedroom was. She was wearing her robe and was combing her hair out of her eyes. Lee pointed the shotgun at her but she did not notice him. She went into the bathroom midway down the passageway and folded the door closed behind her.
Gilmore’s voice spoke from the bedroom.
— In the fridge, said Gilmore.
— I will, said Arlene.
Lee went down the passageway to the bedroom. There was a double bed with the sheets pulled up from the corners. The duffle bags packed with the take were heaped one on top of the other beside the bed. Gilmore was sitting on the edge of the mattress, paused in the act of either pulling on or removing his jeans, glancing curiously at what was now filling the doorway.
— Lee, said Gilmore.
Lee shot him in the chest and Gilmore dropped down onto the mattress. His arms were outflung and his jeans were still around his knees. Stuffing from one pillow swirled to the bedspread and smoke hung in the air and there was a shrill ringing in Lee’s ears. He pumped the shotgun.
He turned and went back down the passageway. Arlene was screaming in the bathroom. Lee opened the front door and went outside. The man-door into the shed remained unchanged and he kept it in plain sight.
He was on the bottom of the stoop when something slammed into the side of his abdomen and turned him halfway around. He became aware of a popping noise that broke through the ring in his ears. Once Helen had made popcorn on the hot plate and this sound was not dissimilar. He looked up.
There was Speedy at the back of the van, not coming out of the shed at all, and he was holding up the 9mm in both hands.
Lee fired the shotgun from his hip. The pellets punched into the side of the van. He pumped and fired again. Snow and dirt spewed up from the ground. Speedy had already turned and was fleeing. Lee walked towards the van, pumped the shotgun, fired again. Speedy was thirty yards away, running flat-out, head bent forward, not looking back. Lee pumped the shotgun and pulled the trigger and nothing happened. He had to lean against the van when he reached it. What was this thing bound around him? He looked down and saw a hole in his jacket, dark and small and singular, somewhat like a cigarette burn. He thought of the day he’d bought the jacket, the money that had gone out of his wallet. He looked up again and Speedy was out of sight.
Lee’s breath plumed out. He took a step away from the van and he faltered. The man-door into the shed was on the other side of the van. He inclined his ear but could hear nothing through the ringing. No airplane, no woman screaming. Nothing of the boy.
Stan was two miles from the marina when he saw the man by the side of the road, waving his arms above his head. He slowed down and the man jogged forward. He slipped once on a patch of ice but kept his footing. He was a small man, moving quickly, and there was a scar on the side of his face. Stan glanced over his shoulder at the Marlin.410 he’d brought from home. It was laid behind the seat. The man came around the passenger side and Stan leaned across the seat and opened the door.
— What’s the trouble?
— Just listen, said the man.
He was pointing an automatic pistol. Stan could smell the metal of it, the gun oil. The man climbed into the truck. Up close Stan could see fine scratches on the man’s face and hands, as if he’d been running through the bush. His jeans were wet to the knees.
— Listen.
— I just stopped to see if you needed help.
The man wagged the pistol at him. His lips were pulled back over his teeth. He told Stan to shut up while he thought.
Stan looked in the rear-view mirror. The road behind him was vacant.
— Okay, said the man. We’ll go back.
The man turned forward on the seat. There would be no other chance. Stan hit him with a hard right cross into the chin, felt the man’s jaw move sideways against the impact. Speedy dropped his pistol in the footwell and toppled sideways out of the truck.
Stan started to move over on the seat and the truck lurched forward and he realized it was still in gear. He pulled the shift to park and slid across the seat and picked up the 9mm. The safety was engaged at the back of the slide.
He got out of the truck. There was a spot of blood where Speedy had landed on his head on the road. He’d gotten up and was now shuffling away in an aimless, drunken fashion. Stan pointed the pistol at him.
— You son of a bitch. Stop walking.
Speedy stopped, turned around: You want to talk about this, man?
— Shut your goddamn mouth. Are you alone?
But then the unmarked cruiser came into view on the road behind them. It slowed to a stop and Dick Shannon got out. He’d unholstered his revolver.
— Stanley. What are you doing with that gun?
— This son of a bitch waved me down and then stuck this at me.
— Has this got to do with why you called me?
— I don’t know yet, said Stan. There’s a real jam of some kind. Leland King …
Dick came forward. He patted Speedy down. He told him he was arresting him for pointing a firearm, did he understand? Speedy said nothing. Dick handcuffed him and found Speedy’s wallet in his hip pocket. He looked through it.
— Simmons, said Dick. Willis John. What’s your story, Willis John Simmons?
— I have nothing to say to you.
Dick pushed Speedy down into the back of the unmarked car and closed the door behind him. Stan turned the 9mm and removed the magazine and ejected the chambered bullet.
— What’s this about Leland King? said Dick.
Stan bent down and retrieved the ejected bullet. He offered the pistol and bullet to Dick.
— Lee King called me half an hour ago. He said he was in some kind of jam.
— What kind of a jam are we talking about?
— He said they robbed a bank.
— Jesus.
— They found a kid out there. Tailing after them maybe, I don’t know. Lee didn’t have much time to talk. He said he figured if the police came with the sirens going, the kid was going to get killed.
— And why was Leland King calling you to talk about this?
