The Nightrunners Part 23

"He says he saw it."

"It's a possibility. I believe him. You don't?"

Larry hesitated. "Not sure. But he's got his days mixed up."

"Maybe not. Probably not. He knows when his wife died and he saw the car that night- that morning. We just like to think that they're so scared of us that they've been driving like h.e.l.l all the way to Louisiana."

"So they took a back road, could still be going to Louisiana."

"No doubt, but it was the morning of the thirtieth. That means they hid out a day somewhere. And if he spotted them along here, means they didn't get too far on the twenty-ninth after they killed Trawler. They're not idiots. They're playing it casual."

"The evils," Larry said, trying to adopt what he thought was a comic black voice.

"Well, Larry, they may not be demons from h.e.l.l, but I'd say they're pretty evil.

They blew Trawler's brains all over the highway."

"Trawler was a dumb f.u.c.k. He'd gotten in the habit of working with a partner.

Things were so dull along here they had to team some of them up to keep from wasting so much gas. The partner was out, and he got careless on account of he was used to backup."

"We're teamed, Larry."

"Only because they think they got some bad boys out here. Bet it wasn't nothing but a bunch of drunk n.i.g.g.e.rs."

"Doesn't matter. We're dealing with some coldblooded killers, and if that old man wants to call them evils, that suits me fine. Christ, imagine, having to go to work the day you're burying your wife, just so you can pay to have her put down."

"If the stupid f.u.c.k had burial insurance he wouldn't have that problem."

Ted shook his head, they drove out of there, toward the cutoff for Minnanette.

NINE.

5:20 P.M.

Monty's casting was good, but his catching was bad. So far, nothing. Unless floating weeds counted. He'd nabbed enough of those to weave a basket.

He cast once more, but didn't reel it in. He decided to sit down on the dock and reel. He felt certain he was still good enough to make a good cast sitting down.

When he sat, he threw his left hand behind him and pain jumped into it. Jerking it to him, he felt worse pain. He held the hand in front of him. An old hook, half-s.h.i.+ny, half-rusty, had been lodged in the dock, and now it was lodged in his hand. It hurt like h.e.l.l.

And Becky's dream came to him-the last one. The one with the b.l.o.o.d.y hand and the bright, sharp object sticking out of it. For the hook, though rusted, had areas of brightness, and as he held the hand before him, it flashed in the sun.

"Now wait a minute here, now wait just a minute here," he said aloud. Then to himself: My G.o.d, this isn't an episode of The Twilight Zone, for goodness' sake, get a grip. You'll be talking crazy as Becky.

("I could see this hand, Monty, and it was b.l.o.o.d.y, and something bright and sharp was sticking out of it, and the dream hurt me so bad, and it felt so close to home.") We're talking coincidence. That's it. That's all. He looked at his hand, at the bright object, at the blood.

He dropped the rod and reel, didn't notice that it had slipped off into the water.

Standing, looking at his hand as though mesmerized, he began to walk back to the cabin.

He went inside, and though he tried to remain calm, his voice squeaked when he called, "Becky?"

No answer. Only the sound of the TV; a car on TV.

"Becky?" He could see her sitting in the kitchen, the top of her head showing just above the bar.

"Becky?"

No answer.

He went over there.

And Becky looked frozen. She sat stiffly in the chair and there were huge plops of sweat on her face and her eyes were wide and there was a moaning noise coming from her throat.

"Becky, Beck, Beck-?" The TV caught his eye. He turned, looked at it. A fuzzy black and white picture was showing, but ... it didn't look right. The dark car on the tube looked hazy, unreal. Its motor sounded distorted, like an animal growling, and its headlights looked like bright, round eyes.

The d.a.m.n car gave him the creeps', had the feel of a horror movie. Yes, that was it, they were showing an old black and white horror movie.

He turned away from the tube, said "Becky?" He reached out and shook her.

"Baby?"

Her eyes jerked open.

"Beck . , ." he started, but behind him he heard Lucille Ball yell, "Waaahhh, Ricky."

He jerked to look at the set. The car was gone. It was the old I Love Lucy show and it was in midscene, and in better focus . . . But how?

"Monty," Becky said, "your hand!"

TEN.

5:49 P.M., and counting . . .

Minnanette was a nice little town; didn't have trouble; didn't know pain. Oh, it had wild kids now and then and maybe they'd get in a fight or drink a little too much beer, but nothing that could really run the rest of the world a good race-far as violence went.

In all its years of existence, the spiciest thing known to happen was that Hiram Ryan, ten years back, had put a pistol to his head and tried to blow his brains out over his wife who'd run off with Tully Grishom, an insurance salesman from Tulsa, Oklahoma.

But Hiram's aim had been a little off and it hadn't killed him. Hadn't helped him, though.

Lived in the Rusk State Hospital. Pop used to say, "It's a shame. Old Hiram, he ain't nothing but a turnip green now."

But after this night, Minnanette would have tales to tell. None of them particularly pleasant.

Pop was sitting in Pop's, at the counter, looking out the window at the fast-falling dusk, thinking: Hope the wife brings me something good for supper tonight. That G.o.dd.a.m.ned Mexican TV dinner from last night is still burning my a.s.shole.

He'd been burping and farting around the store all day. And once he'd gotten embarra.s.sed when Mrs. Banks had asked, "Do you smell that, Pop? Smells like something has gone sour somewhere."

Something had, all right. His guts. But he blamed it on the peanut pattie.

He looked at the clock. His dinner should arrive any minute. After that, just a couple hours until closing time.

Five minutes later Pop got his dinner and a kiss from his wife. Then she left and he pulled back the napkin and found a fabulous meal of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, brown gravy, green onions and iced tea. And for dessert, the clincher. Chocolate pudding with whipped cream. Everything a favorite of his, and he enjoyed every mouthful.

Except dessert. He ended up missing that.

About the time Pop was sitting in Pop's contemplating his dinner, Moses Franklin was busy cussing his dogs and loading them in his pickup. After he loaded them, he tossed his gun, a bologna sandwich and a couple of beers into the cab, then he looked at the sky and saw that the moon was starting to poke out. He thought: Look out, possums, here I come.

And while Pop was contemplating his dinner and Moses was threatening possums, Minnanette's crew of h.e.l.l-raisers-least that's how they liked to think of themselves- were getting ready for a few Halloween pranks and lots of beer. There were four of them, all fifteen, and all pretty smashed. They'd been over in Old Man Reed's pasture knocking them back, and now they were ready to soap a few windows, s.h.i.+t on a few doorsteps and throw a few eggs, by G.o.d.

They tossed off one more beer apiece, in that manful manner they'd been practicing, climbed into the little white Dodge Dart, said a few healthy "Whoopies" and a couple of good "G.o.dd.a.m.ns," and were off.

Larry and Ted had made three trips to Minnanette already, each time by different back-road routes, and each time they had turned around in Pop's drive, and each time the old man had waved at them, and they had returned the wave. It looked as if all roads led to Pop's.

It was getting to be a pretty unexciting habit.

Finally, they decided to start back to the highway, go on up the road a bit, stop at a truckstop they knew and grab a bite to eat. After that, maybe they'd cruise another back-road route to Minnanette. Maybe. Ted was pretty anxious to just call it a day. He was tired of riding and Larry was starting in on the n.i.g.g.e.rs, the Catholics and the G.o.dd.a.m.ned commies again. Another hour of that and Ted feared he was going to start alongside Larry's head with the barrel of his service revolver. So, it was with more than a little bit of relief that Ted pulled into the truckstop thinking of chicken fried steak and catsup-covered french fries.

And Brian and his cohorts, at the first hint of dusk, started out of the pasture, down the back roads, flying high and fast, blowing up country toward Minnanette.

Things were about to get ugly.

ELEVEN.

The lights at Pop's came on just ahead of their arrival. They cruised into the drive and Brian and Loony got out.

Pop left his dinner, went outside, looked at them, didn't like what he saw, but said, "Help you boys?"

"Boys?" Loony said. "Boys? Hey, old man, you call an alligator a lizard?"

Pop grimaced. "I call a fart a fart, and what I see is a little fart, that's what I see.

Now you little farts turn that piece of s.h.i.+t around and get the h.e.l.l out of my drive. Right now."

With that, Pop started back to the store and his dessert.

Brian stepped quickly to Pop's side. "Say, old man, that isn't polite."

"Get your G.o.dd.a.m.ned hand off me, sonny, unless you want to take to wearing it in a sling."

"You're tough for an old dried-up t.u.r.d," Brian said.

The old dried-up t.u.r.d turned and hit him with an uppercut in the gut. Brian went to one knee wheezing.

Loony came out of nowhere, hit Pop in the head with his fist, knocked him down.

Brian stood up, one hand on his stomach. "You're going to wish you hadn't done that, old man."

"Am I?" Pop said, trying to get up. Loony kicked Pop in the head, made him bleed over the right eye.

"Oh yeah," Brian said, "you're going to regret that."

Pop shook blood out of his eye. "Pull him to the pumps," Brian said. Loony grabbed Pop by the collar and began dragging him toward the gas pumps. Pop kicked and wiggled, but couldn't shake free.

Stone, Jimmy and Angela were out of the car now.

Stone went to help Loony, and the two of them slammed the old man's back against one of the pumps. Pop sat there, puffing, dizzy. "Fill up the car," Brian said to Loony. Loony unhitched a nozzle, went over to the '66 and started filling up.

Brian walked around to Pop's right side and kicked him. Pop tried to roll over on his hands and knees and get up, but Brian kicked him again, knocking him flat.

Then Brian began walking around him, kicking him from time to time, A couple of kicks made the old man fart.

"How about that?" Brian said. "Kick it and it farts."

Loony put the nozzle back into the pump, said, "Filled up."

"Give me the gas thing," Brian said.