Part 26 (1/2)

”Cute.”

The pie-faced football player said, ”Cute ain't the word for it, a.s.shole. The Sequel is your worst f.u.c.king nightmare.”

”My worst nightmare is about getting lost in a department store.”

Pie Face looked puzzled.

Willie said, ”Let's go,” and stepped up to take the gun out of my hand.

I walked out into the yard ahead of Willie. ”Where are we going?”

Willie just said, ”Stop.” So I stopped.

”Down on your stomach. Hands behind your head.”

This was not going well. I said, ”You going to shoot me in the back of the head, Willie?” And he hit me in the stomach with the b.u.t.t of his new shotgun.

I lay on my stomach and laced my fingers behind my neck.

Willie stepped a few feet away and blew three sharp blasts on his whistle. Seconds later, three more mena”college age but not exactly college materiala”came running.

Willie said, ”Simon and Rooter?”

One of the boys, a thin kid with acne scars on his cheeks, said, ”Got 'em set up north and south.”

”Okay. Good. Looks like the only people here are in that house over there with the Mercedes parked in front. The two big buildings are like warehouses. One's got whiskey and cigars and other stuff Purcell smuggled in. The other one may be a meth factory.”

Pie Face spoke up. ”They're ours now.”

The others guffawed and said things like, ”Bet your a.s.s,” and ”f.u.c.king A.”

Then I heard Willie blow his whistle again. One long blast.

Nothing happened.

Willie cussed and blew again. Still nothing. He said, ”Don't those morons know the signal?”

Pie Face said, ”Maybe they see something. They ain't gonna come if they're watching somebody.”

Willie said, ”Go see,” and Pie Face trotted off in search of Simon and Rooter.

Minutes pa.s.sed during which the grumbling from Willie's posse grew louder. Finally, he blew his whistle again. And, once again, nothing happened.

I had seen Willie and Pie Face and two others. Two more, Simon and Rooter, had been standing watch on the north and south ends of the compound. Now, the lookouts were unaccounted for, as was Pie Face. There were three left, including Willie, and they were all standing over me.

I said, ”Something's wrong, boys.”

Willie said, ”Shut up.”

Two rifle shots split the air, and I heard the soft thuds of bodies. .h.i.tting dirt. I eased my hands to the ground and looked up. Willie's two buddies squirmed in the gra.s.s. One cussed. The other sobbed like a child. Each boy gripped his thigh and tried to keep blood from pumping out.

A voice came from the trees. ”Put your gun down, Willie.”

Willie stood his ground. ”Granddaddy?”

”Put the shotgun on the ground, boy.”

Willie hesitated before answering, and the cussing and sobbing of the two leg-shot boys filled the air.

”Granddaddy, what're you doing? Mr. McInnes is fine. We didn't hurt him. We just stopped him. They're working with Purcell. Come on out here where we can talk about it.”

I yelled out. ”Don't do it, Billy.”

Willie lowered his voice. ”You wanna get shot in the back of the head? Shut your mouth.”

”You going to shoot your own grandfather, Willie?”

”Shut up.”

”You can still walk away from this. Put the gun down. Let your grandfather come up here and take care of you.”

Willie said, ”I can take care of my...”

An engine roared. Willie spun around, and I sprang to my feet as the Mercedes that had been parked outside the only occupied house in the compound threw a cloud of dust into the air as it rounded the small warehouse and headed for the road.

I ran for cover behind the empty shack and felt the first shotgun blast in my chest, but it was the percussion I felt and not the load. I glanced back and saw Willie firing at the speeding car, leading the driver's window the way you lead a dove flying over a field of Egyptian wheat. Three more explosions shattered the morning air, and the car swerved and burst into flame and crashed into the porch. I dove to the left to avoid the car and any shots that might be coming my way.

I landed and rolled in the sand and sat up facing Willie. He was reloading. Without thinking, I jumped up and ran hard at him. Willie saw me when I was ten yards away.

The swamp was silent except for the wind gus.h.i.+ng in my lungs and the blood pulsing inside my chest. The barrel arced slowly upward from the ground to point at my stomach, and what Willie's hands were doing became very important to me. The blunt, gnawed fingertips of his left hand gripped the front stock. His right fingers flipped out and away from his body like someone slinging water off his hands, and Willie tossed three red spinning sh.e.l.ls into the air. His right fingers moved back to the checkered lever on the side of the housing, and he pumped the first round into the chamber. I dove under the barrel at his ankles and found nothing.

Willie still moved like the high school jock he had been. And I skidded across clipped saw gra.s.s as he skipped out of reach. I rolled onto my back and looked up. Willie smiled. He had seated the stock against his shoulder and just taken aim at my face when a rifle shot from the brush snapped Willie's head forward and dropped him face first into the dirt.

For a time, I could see only the boy's face pressed into soft earth; I could hear only my own breathing. Then conscious thought floated back and brought with it the soft whimpering of leg-shot teenagers, the m.u.f.fled pump of running feet in sand, and the hiss of fire.

Peety Boy reached me first. He held a carbine in his left hand. He used his right to pull me to my feet. ”You all right, son?”

I didn't answer, and he repeated the question while shaking me by the arm.

”Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay. Who shot him?”

”I did. Didn't figure his own granddaddy ought to have to do it. Somebody had to.” Peety Boy looked over at the flaming car. ”Who's that?”

I looked over at a curly black, lifeless head hanging from the side window. I said, ”It's L. Carpintero. The Hammer.”

Peety Boy seemed to think about that for a few seconds. His leathery forehead wrinkled, and he worked his nearly toothless jaw. Then he said, ”Who's that?”