Desperation

“Sony, ma’am,” he said, “but it’s better for both of us this way, believe me.”

The guns were held in place by a length of cable threaded through the trigger-guards. The cable was pad-locked to an eyebolt on the side of the case. Joh

The third key he tried popped the padlock. He stripped the cable back through the trigger—guards with a jerk so hard that one of them-a Remington.30-.06-came tum-bling out. He caught it, turned… and the woman, Mary, was standing right there. Joh

“Don’t ever do that,” he told Mary, trying not to wheeze. “What’s wrong with you.”

“I thought you heard me.” She didn’t look terribly sym-pathetic. There was a golfbag, of all things, slung over her shoulder. A tartan golfbag. She looked at the corpse in the closet. “There’s a body in the Fire Chiefs closet, too. A man.”

“What was his handicap, any idea.” His heart was still galloping, but maybe not so fast now.

“You never quit, do you.”

“Fuck you, Mary, I’m trying to kid myself out of dying, here. Every martini I ever drank just jumped on my heart. Christ, you scared me.”

“I’m sorry, but we’ve got to hurry up. He could come back any time.”

“A concept that never crossed my poor excuse for a mind. Here, take this. And be careful.” He handed her the.30-.06, thinking of an old Tom Waits song. Black crow shells from a.30-. 06, Waits sang in his stripped and somehow ghoulish voice. Whittle you into kindlin.

“How careful. Is it loaded.”

“I don’t even remember how to check. I did a tour of Vietnam, but as a journalist. That was a long time ago, in any case. The only guns I’ve seen fired since then have been on movie screens. We’ll figure the guns out later, okay.”

She put it gingerly into the golfbag. “I found two flash-lights. They both work. One’s a long-barrel job. Very bright.”

“Good.” He handed her the flashlight he had found.

“The bag was hung on the back of the door,” Mary said, dropping the flashlight in. “The Fire Chief… if it was him… well, one of the clubs was stuck down through the top of his head. Way down. He was sort of… skewered on it.”

Joh

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said, helping Mary ease the guns into the golfbag.

She shook her head impatiently, as if that wasn’t the point. “How much strength would it take to do something like that. To push the handle of a golf-club down through a man’s head and neck and right into his chest. To push it down until there was nothing but the head sticking up like a… a little hat, or something.”

“I don’t know. A lot, I guess. But Entragian’s a moose. A moose indeed, but now that she’d put it in this light, it did seem strange.

“It’s the level of violence that scares me the most,” she said. “The ferocity. That woman in the closet… her eyes are gone, aren’t they.”

“Yes.”

“The Carvers’ little girl… what he did to Peter, shooting him point-blank in the stomach over and over the people out there hung up like deer in hunting season… do you see what I mean.”

“Of course.” And you’re not even touching the rest of it, Mary, he thought. He’s not just a serial killer; he’s the—Brain Stoker version of Dr.

Dolittle.

She looked around nervously as a particularly strong gust of wind hit the building. “It doesn’t matter where we go next, as long as we’re out of here. Come on. For God’s—sake!”

“Right, just thirty seconds, okay.”

He knelt by the woman’s legs, smelling blood and per-fume. He went through the keys again, and this time had almost reached the end of his choices before one popped the lock on what did indeed turn out to be a small but exceedingly well stocked ammo chest. He took eight or nine boxes of shells, ones he hoped would fit the weapons he had already taken, and dumped them into the golfbag.

“I’ll never in this life be able to carry all that, Mary said.

“That’s okay, I will.”

Except he couldn’t. He was ashamed to find he couldn’t even get the golfbag off the floor, let alone sling it over his shoulder. If the bitch hadn’t scared me so bad-he thought, and then had to laugh at himself. He really did.

“What are you gri

Together they dragged the bag across the floor, Mary keeping her head down and her eyes fixed firmly on the steel bouquet of protruding gunbarrels as they came around the counter and backed toward the door. Joh

“That’s it, don’t look,” he panted.

“I’m not, don’t worry,” she replied. Joh

Out in the hall, the wind was louder than ever. Ralph was standing at tl—ie doors with his arm curled around his son’s shoulders, looking out. The old guy was behind them. They all turned to Joh

“We heard a motor,” David said at once.

“We think we did,” Ralph amended.

“Was it the cruiser.” Mary asked. She pulled one of the rifles out of the golfbag, and when the barrel drifted toward Billingsley, he pushed it away again with the flat of his hand, grimacing.

“I’m not even sure it was a motor,” Ralph said. “The wind-”

“It wasn’t the wind,” David said.

“See any headlights.” Joh

David shook his head. “No, but the sand is flying so thick.”

Joh

Billingsley caught the look and sighed. “Go on, dump em out,” he said. “Let’s see what you got.”

“Can’t this wait.” Mary asked. “If that psycho comes back-”

“My boy says he saw more coyotes out there,” Ralph Carver said. “We shouldn’t take a chance on getting say-aged, ma am.

“For the last time, it’s Mary, not ma’am,” she said crossly. “Okay, all right. But hurry!”

Joh

Ralph picked the bag up and tipped it. Joh