Saves me the trouble of tearing the place apart, eh, Wyatt?
Ten
If it had been a gun, Wyatt might have moved against it. No-one would risk a gunshot with eighty witnesses around. But it was a blade and a kind of fear paralysed him. Hed been cut when he was barely a teenager, trapped by the Comets, neighbourhood kids in a gang driven to rage and hate by his lone-wolf air. He had weaved too late and a knife blade had scored his stomachshallow, barely raising a blood ribbon, but the pain had been like a hot wire and his mind had done the rest, spilling his guts into his hands. In Vietnam it was bamboo, one misstep on patrol and a panjee stake had punctured his calf. So Wyatt stood stock-still in the pump house and thought about the razor edge slicing through his chest if he moved against it, slipping between the bones of his ribcage.
Cat got your tongue?
What do you want?
What do I want? What do you think I want? Same thing you came back for.
Wyatt said nothing. It had happened before, some punk convinced that he had a fortune stashed away somewhere.
Youre wasting your time. Theres nothing here.
Yeah, right, you just came back out of sentiment.
I mean, Wyatt said, theres hardly any money, not worth your while.
Dont hand me that caper. Every bastards after you. You wouldnt chance it if it wasnt worth it. Turn around.
Wyatt turned cautiously, thinking the man wanted him face to face, but the black runners edged around with him, the knife tip maintaining its pressure.
Where are we going?
To hide till everyones gone home. Then you can show me where the stuff is.
The clearing sale was over. The main auction had started and there were eighty backs turned to them as Wyatt and the man with the knife stepped out of the pump house. Wyatt didnt try to run. He knew that before hed taken a step his body would betray him and hed feel the knife. He didnt want to call attention to himself. He didnt try to swing round with the walking stick. He did as he was told, walking ahead of the man with the knife, down the hill and into the pine plantation at the bottom.
At the edge of the trees he stopped. The knife nicked him again. Further in.
Wyatt walked on. His skin felt damp: blood was gathering at his waist. It wasnt a deep cut, barely painful, but the intention was there, and memories.
Thisll do. Chuck the stick away.
The cane flew end over end toward some saplings. They were in a small clearing. The air was resinous, blanketed and still, but snatches of the auctioneers shouts reached them. The pine trees were old and densely packed. The earth between them was bare, all nourishment given up to the trees. The pine needles were springy under Wyatts op-shop shoes. On your stomach, the man said, and Wyatt stretched out on the ground. A beetle skittered over the ground, paused at Wyatts thumb. Above him a Nike running shoe pressed against the base of his spine.
Three months earlier, Wyatt had shot a man dead among these trees, in a clearing like this one. He said, Whats your name?
He got a harsh laugh. How does Finn grab you?
Three months earlier Wyatt had also robbed a lawyer named David Finn, the job set up by Anna Reid, the job that had precipitated all the trouble he found himself in now. I know the name.
David Finn was my brother, so you might say theres also a personal element in all this, its not just the money.
They were silent. The auctioneers shouts ceased. Later they heard cars start up in the yard above them and on the road at the front of the farm. Still Wyatt and Finn stayed there. Theyll be signing the papers now, Finn said. Well wait.
Thirty minutes later he kicked Wyatt. Lets go.
They climbed the hill again, skirting the boundary unseen. The grounds around the house and sheds revealed the recent presence of eighty peoplepaper scraps, scuffed dirt, torn plantsbut all the cars were gone and they were alone. Satisfied, Finn prodded Wyatt into the dairy.
This is the first place you checked. Youve got stuff stashed here, right?
All along there had been a vicious edge to Finns voice. Wyatt knew it would be dangerous to play for time with Finn. The man would work the knife on him until he talked, and enjoy doing it. There, he said, pointing.
Get it.
Wyatt reached up, withdrew the money, turned around cautiously. He got his first good look at Finn: compactly put together, with a short neck, small hands, skinny forearms, an indistinct, forgettable face.
Wordlessly Wyatt handed over the money.
Finn took it and stepped back. He still held the knife, cutting the air between them rhythmically like a charmer distracting a cobra. Wyatt saw him risk a look at the money inside the sandwich bag. It was in hundreds, held together by a paper clip, but there were only twenty of them, scarcely any thickness at all. Finn looked up in disbelief. And the rest.
I told you. Thats all there is.
Finn snarled, advancing on Wyatt. Bullshit. I bet its all like this, a bit here and a bit there all over the place, am I right? He jerked his head. Come on, smartarse, the pump shed.
Finn had made two mistakes. Hed allowed Wyatt to turn and face him and hed lost his temper. All his anger was concentrated in the arm that held the money. He shook it in Wyatts face, the knife arm temporarily forgotten, and Wyatt lashed out with his right foot, driving the heavy leather toecap into Finns ankle. Finn screamed, dropped to the ground. He huddled on the flagstones, rocking himself for comfort, clutching his foot.
He wouldnt stay like that. He had youth and the knife on his side. Wyatt headed for the door, leaping as Finn slashed at him with the knife, and ran toward the pump house. He had about thirty seconds to remove the plate and retrieve the Colt from its hiding place under the pump. If the nuts were seized by age and rust, his thirty seconds could count for nothing at all.
Wyatt!
It was a roar of hate behind him. Wyatt plunged into the gloom of the pump house, fell to his knees, scrabbled at the base of the pump. Something was wrong. Where there should have been a plate there was only a gap, and where there should have been his Colt automatic, his fingers encountered grit and dust.
This what youre looking for?
Wyatt stood and turned to the voice. He saw his pistol first, the steady hand that held it, then the owner of the voice. He was tall, his face fleshless and unknowable, like a mask snipped out of tin.
The man grinned. The name is Stolle. Rule number one, Wyatt. Never go back.
Eleven
A moment later, stumbling feet sounded outside the pump house. The man called Stolle backed into the space behind the door again. Finn appeared, hugging the doorframe. Hate and pain contorted his face and strangled in his throat. He lunged at Wyatt with the knife, hacking the air to get at him.
Hey, Stolle said. Over here.
Finn halted. He turned to the voice, and seemed to walk into the Colt as the barrel tip emerged from the darkness of the shed. Stolle fired. The range was point-blank and Wyatt heard it as a muffled exhalation in the little shed. Finn jerked back as if hed been punched, momentum slamming him flat to the opposite wall. Then he folded and the life went out of him.
