Nightrunners (22 page)

The slugs struck Monty in the hip, knocked him against the wall. He slid to the floor.

Becky leaped on Brian's back, her fingers clawing at his face.

He spun, trying to throw her off, but she clung tight, bent close and buried her teeth in his neck, tasting his blood. And it was sweet—sweet as revenge.

And around and around they whirled, Brian trying to shake Becky, and she clinging to him with teeth and nails, legs locked around his waist.

Brian ran backward, slammed her into the edge of the bar. But she still clung.

He rammed backward again, and this time Becky felt a shock that ran the length of her spine. Her teeth came loose from his neck, her legs weakened, and when he bounced her against the bar a third time, she tumbled over it and onto the floor.

Brian leaned over the bar, bringing his feet off the floor. He smiled, pointed the revolver at her and pulled the trigger. It clicked on an empty cylinder.

Becky rolled to her feet, dashed for the stove and the pans of boiling water.

Brian tossed the revolver aside, came after her, drawing the knife from its scabbard.

Grabbing one of the pots, Becky whipped it around and splashed the boiling water into his face. The pot handle burned her hand so fiercely it tore flesh from her palm when she let it go.

Brian howled, dropped the knife and grabbed his face.

Becky ran at him, hit him in the chest with both palms, rushed past him.

Brian stumbled, went down on one knee.

Becky grabbed the gig from the floor, cocked it and turned.

Brian was up now, holding the knife. There were golf-ball-sized patches of puss on the right side of his face, and his right eye looked as white as a marshmallow; she had scalded it to blindness.

For a moment they stood frozen, then Brian gave it up, bolted for the window, put one foot outside and was pulling the other over when Becky jammed the gig beneath his buttocks, into his scrotum and pulled the trigger.

The sound of his scream echoed across the lake, and he fell violently out of the window, pulling the gig from her grasp.

Cautiously, Becky inched forward, looked over the sill. Brian lay on his stomach.

He had twisted around so that his side was against the wall beneath the window. A pool of blood was fanning out from beneath him. His knife lay a yard away, shining in the moonlight.

I did it, she thought. I did it!

Exhaustion overcame her, and she leaned forward, weakly resting her hands on the windowsill.

And in one quick motion, Brian twisted and grabbed her, clenched her hand so hard a bone snapped in it.

Becky yelled and tried to pull free, but couldn't. Brian clung to her with one hand, and with the other he held the sill. He began to pull himself up, the mined face coming into view.

Becky saw a long fragment of broken glass sticking out of what remained of the frame. She used her free hand to grab it, pull it out. Blood squirted from her palm, but she clenched her teeth against the pain and drove the glass into the back of Brian's clutching hand.

Brian let go with a jerk, taking the glass with him.

Becky stepped back from the window just as Brian made it to his feet. He held his hand in front of him, looking at the glass sticking out of it. He didn't pull it out. He dropped his hands by his side and looked at her.

But he did not come for her. He staggered back, turned, started walking away, the gig dragging between his legs.

He fell to his knees suddenly and stayed propped there for a moment. Then he fell to his stomach and began to crawl.

Brian said, "I hurt . . . Hurt something awful." He began to crawl in a tight circle, like a dog that had been fed broken glass.

Clyde's voice: "You dumbfuckingasshole . . . you stupidsonofabitch."

". . . for you, Clyde . . . tried for you . . ."

"You did one peachy job . . . the cunt gets away. Hear me! Gets away."

". . . sorry ... so sor—God, it hurts, hurts something awful ... so bad . . ."

"You're going to ride the blade . . . ride it, you sonofabitch . . ."

"... I know ... I know . . . but you'll be there . . . where I can see you. Clyde, answer me . . .answer . . . me."

". . . Yeah . . ."

". . . you'll be there ... to see me?"

"I'll be there ... we both get the blade now, you . . . sonofabitch ..."

"I ... I was never a Superman . . . like you, Clyde."

". . . tell me what I don't know . . ."

"... I ... I love you . . . Clyde."

", . . you too . . . you dumbfuckingsonofa . . ,"

Brian lay still now, curled in a fetal ball, the gig poking out from between his legs obscenely.

Becky rested her injured hands on the window-sill, leaned way out, yelled, hoping he would live just long enough to hear: "Trick or treat, you motherfucker?"

TWENTY-TWO

Becky went over to Monty, crying. She knelt by him. He did not turn his head to took at her.

"Monty?" she asked softly.

He did not answer, just looked straight ahead. She pushed the hair off his forehead.

"Monty?"

"I'm here," he said softly.

She bent, touched her lips to his. "Bad? Are you real bad?"

"Right arm is broken. Think I did it when I got slammed against the wall. Think one of the bullets kind of bounced around inside me, went down into my leg. I don't feel so good from the waist down. Can't feel much."

"Oh, Monty."

"Don't worry, baby. I'm not going to die. I hurt so good, so goddamned good. Like maybe I've seen heaven on the other side . . . and you know what, Beck?"

"No, Monty, what?"

"God carries the biggest damn club you've ever seen."

It made no sense to her, and she didn't try to fathom it. "Monty, I'm going to make you comfortable and go for help . . . Hear me, baby?"

But her voice was lost on Monty. He had made himself a dream. And in this dream was Billy Sylvester, and he had Billy Sylvester down, and he had his knee on the little shit's chest, and he had a candy wrapper with the biggest, greasiest, nastiest, stinkingest dog turd this side of a garbage-eating Saint Bernard's ass, and he was forcing it down Sylvester's throat, and he and his little brother, Jack, were laughing like lunatics, laughing so hard their voice? bounced off the face of the moon . . .

........

After she made him comfortable, she walked out of there in search of help. But a patrol car met her before she had gone too far. They put her in back with a man who smelled of shitty pants, and he said he had been around when the shooting started, and he had run to a cabin five miles away and called some law.

Becky leaned back in the seat and wondered how it would be now for Monty and her. She felt oddly certain there would be no more images and black dreams living in her head.

But how would they see the world now? They had been over on the dark side and tasted a moment without rules and logic; and once those rules had been broken, shattered like wine crystal, she wondered if those pieces could ever be gathered and properly glued again.

She could only hope, and the ability to do that, to hope, meant everything to her.