and peeked out in time to see them walking away from the motel, arm and arm, like lovers out for a morning stroll.
He jammed the room key into his pocket, strapped on his shoulder holster, pulled on his sweatshirt and hustled out the door and down the stairs, following. He saw them down the street, turning the corner at Kennedy, heading toward the beach. What’s wrong with you, he thought, they’re going to the beach, not eloping. Mind your own business. But he couldn’t help himself, he continued to follow, allowing them a generous lead.
Kennedy ended at Mountain Sea Road which paralleled the beach beyond. The pair stopped for traffic, then crossed the street. They weren’t arm in arm now, not even holding hands. Just two people out for a walk on the sand. Why couldn’t he leave it alone? Obviously he’d read the signs wrong.
They started up the dunes beyond the road. Soon they would be going down the other side and be out of sight. He should go back. It’s wrong to chase after her like this. He turned and took a few steps away from the beach, but he changed his mind. He couldn’t continue to follow, because once he crested on the top of the dunes they would see him. But what if he got ahead of them. He could run along the road for a couple hundred yards and climb up a sand dune and wait. If they did happen to see him, he could say he’d been out walking for some time and fancy meeting them here.
But which way? Left or right, north or south? He picked south and took off at a slow trot. Two hundred yards and he crawled to the top of the dunes to see if he could see them coming. He saw them going. They had left their shoes behind and were jogging on the wet sand. He had come up behind them.
He slid down the dune and started running south, the dunes between him and the couple he was following. He poured it on for another quarter mile then climbed to the top of the dunes again, only to find them even with him and still jogging. Damn, Monday couldn’t be in that good of shape. He’d have to quit sooner or later, preferably sooner, Washington hoped, huffing like a locomotive.
Now it was a matter of pride, he was determined to get ahead of them. He started jogging along the street for another quarter mile, till Mountain Sea Road turned and wound up into the hills. He kicked off his shoes. He could pick them up on the way back. Now he was jogging barefoot on the sand, still keeping the dunes between himself and them. Dismissing any thought of climbing back up the dunes to check their progress, he kept on, heart racing. He knew Glenna. She would want to prove she could stay with Monday, and Monday’s male pride wouldn’t let him quit till she did. Washington was afraid that he was in for quite a workout.
He continued running for another quarter mile, till he didn’t think he had anything left, then he put on a burst of speed that reminded him of his track days in college. He was running toward an imaginary tape and when he passed it he raised his arms in an imaginary victory. But like his college victories, this one had taken its toll. His heart was thumping. He was sweating up a storm. He bent over, hands on his knees, sucking air and looked up at the sand dune.
Then he started up it, hands pushing on his knees, feet slipping in the sand, sand oozing between his toes. He huffed his way to the top and vowed he’d never smoke again. The beach was farther away than he’d remembered. The bay curved away from the road and the straight track he’d been running along. There was no sign of them, just another sand dune, and after that, another.
He should go back, he told himself, but to have come this far and to have to admit he hadn’t been able to keep up, that he was out of shape, that he was too old, no, he couldn’t do it. So he slid down the dune, then climbed the next and slid down it, and climbed the next. He was rewarded with a cool ocean breeze coming off the sea when he reached the top of the fourth dune. He lay down on top of it and smiled. Jim and Glenna were coming toward him, walking and talking, two friends, not lovers, Washington thought. He’d been such an old fool.
Frank Markham stumbled and jerked along the beach, holding the gun in a charred claw that used to be a hand. Shards of suffering shot to his brain from all points on his body, interrupted only by blasting bolts of pain.
The fire had scorched off his scraggly hair. His left ear had been removed in the slide down the cliff. He had third degree burns on most of his body. His clothes had either been burned or ripped off. It was impossible for him to walk upright. He had no sense of direction. He had been wandering back and forth, fighting to stay alive for over three hours. It had taken a super human effort, supported only by steaming hate and sizzling stabs of agony.
He was reaching the outer limits of his malice-fueled strength. It was time for the raging animal in him to admit defeat. To lie down and die. To let the worms reclaim him for the earth. The thought of worms eating at his eyes sent him the determination to lumber along for a few more agonizing minutes, but even hate can’t carry a body forever. He straightened up in one huge electric shock of shooting pain and tried to rage at the sky, but his vocal chords had been burnt out and no sound came.
Struggling to see, forcing his eyes open, he saw the ocean and remembered how, instead of helping him ease the pain, it had hurt him. He wasn’t going to let the ocean claim him, better the worms. He turned toward the dunes, higher ground, away from the grasping sea. Still standing straight, he forced his blistered feet to carry him to the base of a sand dune, where he collapsed.
Sand worked into his bleeding blisters, causing a new, much worse, sensation of pain-filled torment, but despite the torture, he crawled upward on hands and knees, still clutching the gun, till he was halfway up the dune. He rolled onto his burnt back, no longer suffering. Nature had finally removed the pain. His brain was shutting down. He felt good, like after bedding a fine whore. He was king of all he could see. He opened his eyes to take a last look at his domain. And he saw them.
The bitch who’d shot his brother and the bastard who he’d tried to kill just before he’d run into the fire.
An animal thing in him raged. He could not be king, could not enjoy this absence of hurt, could not, would not even deserve to die and face hell while they lived. The pain came back and racked his body with convulsions. Everything hurt. He was burnt, cut and bleeding. He had suffered like no one had ever suffered, felt what no man had ever felt. And he would be denied admission to the gates of hell as long as those two lived.
He stood erect and pointed the gun.
Hugh Washington lay atop the sand dune and watched the pair approach. Glenna walked happy. She bounced along, smiling at Monday, her hands weaving and punctuating her words. Laughing, she bent down and picked up a shell and handed it to him. He inspected it, smiled, and dropped it into his pocket. She picked up another, held it up against the sun, bent down again and held the shell under the approaching surf, to clean it. Her jeans were wet to the knees, but she didn’t seem to care. She handed the wet shell to Monday, who laughed and put it in his pocket with the others.
Hugh heard her squeal with delight and saw her jump into Monday’s arms. She planted a long kiss firmly on his lips. So they were lovers after all. They broke the kiss and continued their walk, again arm in arm, like when they left the diner. She looked so happy. Could anything that made her look like that be wrong?
He felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristle, a chill rippled down his spine. Somebody was behind him. He turned and saw Frank Markham, burnt, blistering, bleeding and holding a gun. Washington acted without thinking, screaming as he came sliding down the dune, clawing at his shoulder holster for the thirty-eight.
The thing that used to be a man, held its fire and spun its head around. With only one working ear it couldn’t tell what direction the sound came from, but it didn’t have to depend on its ear because the huge black cop was moving like a freight train, trying to get between him and his targets, and he was raising a pistol as he ran.
Hugh Washington screamed again, trying to distract the thing with the gun. He raised his thirty-eight and started shooting. The first shot missed.
Frank Markham fixed his eyes on the big cop, moved his gun to follow his line of sight and pulled the trigger only a fraction of a second after Hugh Washington’s second shot blew half his head away, ending his pain forever.
Markham’s shot ripped past Washington’s left ear, whizzing like an angry bee.
“ Dad!” Glenna screamed, running toward him.
Washington grunted a smile and sank to his knees in the sand, out of ammunition and exhausted.
