Message one: “Hi, honey, this is Dad.” Bert Torrance was speaking fast and sounded scared. “Sonny Racine’s escaped. Hector beat him up-but it’s a complete scam: Sonny actually paid him, just so he could get past the walls. Don’t go anywhere near him-and warn Wyatt, too.”
Message two, the one that had just come in: “Greer? Van here. I’m terminating your lease at the end of the week. Better get back here and clean out your things if you don’t want to lose them.”
Wyatt started shaking, so bad he could hardly hold on to the phone. He took a deep breath, and another, then jammed the car into gear, spun it around in a shrieking one-eighty, and tore off in the direction Doc’s pickup had gone.
A half mile or so later, he came to a highway, a right turn leading east, toward East Canton, a left heading west, out of state. He saw nothing to the east; a single set of far-off taillights was just visible in the west. Wyatt swung left and put the pedal to the floor. Somewhere behind him a siren started up.
The rain had stopped now and so had the wind. The road was almost dry, a straight highway, no traffic: Wyatt hit 105 and kept it there, reeling in those red taillights. Soon he was just a few hundred yards behind; black Dodge Ram pickup, no doubt about it. He flashed his high beams. The pickup didn’t slow down; sped up, if anything. Wyatt flashed his lights again, then crossed the yellow line and roared up alongside the pickup. He looked over, saw Sonny looking over at him. Wyatt held up his hand in the stop sign.
Sonny didn’t stop. Instead he swerved slightly, just enough to bump the side of the Mustang. Wyatt felt the Mustang’s rear end sliding out from under him, threatening to fishtail. He backed off the gas, went with the slide, let it take him farther to the left, almost to the edge of the shoulder-the night flashing by-before traction returned, the Mustang again grabbing hold of the road. And when it did, he steered back across the road and clipped the pickup behind the left rear wheel, just hard enough.
Sonny lost control immediately. The pickup shot sideways off the highway, spun round and round, flipped, and skidded to a stop in a bare field, lying on its roof, one headlight shining up at a forty-five-degree angle. Wyatt came to a stop a few hundred feet down the road, turned, and drove back. He parked on the shoulder, got out of the Mustang, pocketing the keys, and walked into the field. The howl of many sirens was in the air, and the clouds glowed with a pulsing blue reflection.
Sonny crawled out of the pickup’s cab and rose, one hand pressed to his shoulder.
“What have you done to Greer?” Wyatt said.
“Nothing.”
“Don’t come any closer.”
“I’ll come as close as I like,” Sonny said. He reached into his pocket and took out the. 22, held it by his side. “She shouldn’t have slapped me is all. It was just a proposal-a simple ‘no’ would have done.”
Wyatt didn’t stop to think, just charged. The gun came up, but Wyatt crashed into Sonny before he could fire. They wrestled in the muddy field, first, for a brief moment, Wyatt on top, then Sonny. His strength was tremendous, even with one arm practically useless. It was over very fast, no contest at all. Sonny straddled Wyatt’s chest and raked the barrel of the gun across Wyatt’s face. The sirens grew louder.
“Stupid fucking kid,” Sonny said. He raised the gun to do it again. “I’m taking your car.”
Wyatt gazed into Sonny’s eyes and felt nothing, no kinship at all. Fear, which had been threatening to take over completely, now shrank inside him; still there, but not in power. “Then you’ll need the keys,” Wyatt said. “They’re in my pocket.”
Sonny smiled that messed-up smile. “That’s better,” he said, getting off Wyatt.
Wyatt rose, reached into his pocket. Then, in one quick motion, he took out the keys and threw them across the field with all his strength.
“God damn you.” The murderous look was back on Sonny’s face. He raised the gun. But at that moment, a cruiser skidded to a stop behind the Mustang and two cops with rifles jumped out. A searchlight shone down, capturing Wyatt and Sonny in its blinding beam: frozen in place, Sonny pointing the. 22 at Wyatt’s head.
“Drop it,” one of the cops shouted.
Sonny didn’t drop it. Instead he grabbed Wyatt, spun him around, and darted behind him, the. 22 still pointed at Wyatt’s head, his arm around Wyatt’s chest.
But: the wounded arm, the one with no strength in it. “Shoot!” Wyatt called out, and he bolted free.
Actually not free-a slight separation was all he managed: somehow Sonny held on. But the cops fired anyway, one bullet making an insect sound close to Wyatt’s ear, the other making a red hole in Sonny’s forehead. His eyes went dead as he fell.
More cruisers arrived. An amplified voice spoke from one of them, but the sound seemed to come from way above. “Hands up high.”
Wyatt raised his hands.
Doc’s body was found in the tiny bathroom at the back of the silver trailer. And then came something too awful to think about, although for a long time after, Wyatt could think of nothing else: Greer’s body was in Bert Torrance’s secret bedroom closet hidey-hole in the foreclosed house in Silver City. Wyatt came away with only one sure thing, a sure thing that didn’t help, actually hollowed him out all the more: He’d been right to love her.
Wyatt faced a number of felony charges, including aiding and abetting the escape of an inmate from a state prison and harboring a fugitive, but after a month’s deliberation and consultation with a prominent attorney hired by the Mannions, the DA decided not to bring the case. They made a deal that Wyatt would join the Army as soon as he turned seventeen. He probably would have done that anyway: he had no other ideas; and inside he felt he deserved much worse.
One funny thing-this was in the period before Wyatt went away to boot camp-he now got a lot more respect from Rusty. Rusty took him fishing on the river whenever he was home. Wyatt had never been particularly interested in fishing, but Rusty really knew what he was doing and Wyatt began to enjoy it. Sometimes they all went, Linda and Cammy, too. Cammy liked fishing, as long as the fish got thrown back. Linda just liked sitting beside Wyatt, not talking much, but making sure of things, like he wasn’t hungry or thirsty, and was wearing sunblock.
“This family excels at fishing,” Cammy said.
“Excels?” said Wyatt. How would she ever have friends, talking like that?
“It means doing real, real good,” Cammy said.
