Horns

“Ah, shit,” Lee said. “It just got worse. Sorry, Eric. I was trying to kill Ig, I swear.” And then he laughed, hysterical, unfu

Lee took a step back, sliding the barrel free from between the tines of the pitchfork. He lowered the gun, and Ig jabbed at it with the fork again, and the shotgun slammed for a fourth time. The shot went high, caught the shaft of the pitchfork itself, and shattered it. The trident head of the fork spun away into the darkness and clanged off the concrete, leaving Ig holding a splintered and useless wooden spoke.

“You want to please hold still?” Lee asked, working the slide on the shotgun again.

He took a step back and, from a safe distance of four feet away, pointed the gun once more into Ig’s face and pulled the trigger. The hammer fell with a dry clack. Lee scowled, lifted the.410, and looked at it with disappointment.

“What, these things only carry four bullets?” Lee said. “It’s not mine. It’s Eric’s. I would’ve used a gun on you the other night, but, you know, forensics. In this case, though, there’s nothing to worry about. You killed Eric, and he killed you, and I’m out of it, and everything makes sense. I’m just sorry Eric ran out of shells and had to club you to death with his gun.”

He turned the.410 around, took the barrel in both hands, and lifted it back over his shoulder. Ig had an instant to note that it looked as if Lee had been spending some time on the golf course-he had an easy, clean stroke, bringing the shotgun around-and then he smashed it into Ig’s head. It struck one of the horns with a splintering crack, and Ig was flung away from Eric, rolled across smooth floor.

He came to rest faceup, panting, a hot stitch in one lung, and waited for the sky to stop spi

Lee stalked toward him and lifted the shotgun and brought it down on Ig’s right knee. Ig screamed and sat straight up, grabbing his leg with one hand. It felt as if the kneecap had split into three large pieces, as if there were broken shards of plate shifting around under the skin. He had hardly sat up, though, when Lee came around again. He caught Ig a glancing blow across the top of the head and knocked him onto his back once more. The spoke of wood Ig had been holding, the sharp spear that had been the shaft of the pitchfork, flew from his hand. The sky continued its nauseating snow-globe whirl.

Lee swung the butt of the shotgun, with as much force as he could muster, between Ig’s legs, struck him in the balls. Ig could not scream, could not find the air to scream. He twisted, jerking onto his side and doubling over. A hard white knot of pain rose from his crotch and into his bowels and intestines, expanding, like poisonous air filling a balloon, into a withering sensation of nausea. Ig’s whole body tightened as he fought the urge to vomit, his body clenching like a fist.

Lee tossed the shotgun, and Ig heard it clatter on the floor next to Eric. Then he began to pace around, looking for something. Ig couldn’t speak, could hardly get air down into his lungs.

“Now, what did Eric do with that pistol of his?” Lee said in a musing voice. “You know, you had me fooled, Ig. It’s amazing the things you can do to people’s heads. How you can make them forget things. Blank out their memory. Make them hear voices. I really thought it was Gle

Ig heard the door to the blast furnace open with a squeal of iron hinges and felt a brief, almost painful surge of hope. The timber rattler would get Lee. He would reach into the chimney, and the viper would bite him. But then he heard Lee moving away, heels scuffing on concrete. He had only opened the door, perhaps for more light to see by, still searching for the gun.

“I called Eric, told him I thought you were out here, playing some kind of game, and that we had to step on you and I wasn’t sure how hard. I said because you used to be a friend, I thought we should deal with you off the books. Course, you know Eric. I didn’t have to work too hard to talk him into it. I didn’t need to tell him to bring his guns either. He did that all on his own. You know I’ve never shot a gun in my life? Never so much as loaded one. My mother used to say they’re the devil’s right hand and wouldn’t keep them in the house. Ah. Well. Better than nothing.” Ig heard a metallic scrape, Lee picking something off the floor. The waves of nausea were coming slower now, and Ig could breathe, in tiny little swallows. He thought that with another minute to rest he might have the strength to sit up. To make one final effort. He also thought that in another minute there would be five.38-caliber slugs in his head.

“You are just full of tricks, Iggy,” Lee said, walking back. “Truth is, just a couple minutes ago? When you were shouting to us in your Gle

“Merrin,” Ig said.

“What about her?”

Ig’s voice was weak, shaking, hardly louder than an exhaled breath. “Without Merrin in my life…I was this.”

Lee lowered himself to one knee and stared at Ig with what seemed real sympathy. “I loved her too, you know,” Lee said. “Love made devils of us both, I guess.”

Ig opened his mouth to speak, and Lee put his hand on Ig’s neck, and every evil thing Lee had ever done poured down Ig’s throat like some icy, corrosive chemical.

“No, I think it would be a mistake to let you say any more,” Lee said, and he raised the pitchfork overhead, the prongs aimed at Ig’s chest. “And at this point I don’t really think there’s anything left for us to talk about.”

The blast of the trumpet was a shrill, deafening squall, the sound of a car accident about to happen. Lee jerked his head to look back at the doorway, where Terry balanced on one knee, his horn lifted to his lips.

In the instant he was looking away, Ig shoved himself up, pushing aside Lee’s hand. He took hold of the lapels of Lee’s sport coat and drove his head into his torso: slammed the horns into Lee’s stomach. The impact reverberated down Ig’s spine. Lee grunted, the soft, simple sound of all the breath being forced out of him.

A feeling of wet suction grabbed at the horns and held them, so it was hard to pull free. Ig twisted his head from side to side, tearing the holes wider. Lee wrapped his arms around Ig’s head, trying to force him back, and Ig gored him again, thrusting deep into an elastic resistance. He smelled blood, mingled with another odor, a foul old garbage stink-a perforated bowel, perhaps.

Lee put his hands on Ig’s shoulders and shoved, trying to extricate himself from the horns. They made a wet, sucking sound as they came loose, the sound a boot makes as it is pulled out of deep mud.