A Hidden Place

He stepped forward, and Travis—hardly aware of himself—stepped in front of him. Greg stood still. The knife was motionless in his hand. Travis looked at the knife and then at Greg. Greg’s eyes twinkled, there was a hint of glee there, and his smile was the rictus of a man strapped into a roller coaster, coming to the top of the first big hump and enjoying it somehow, somehow thriving on it. Travis realized then that Greg would use the knife, would use it gladly; that if Travis were hurt, if he died, it wouldn’t matter,- Travis was a hobo now; found dead, he would be quietly buried.

“Do it,” he said aloud, and a part of him wondered where the words came from. His voice was guttural, very nearly a growl. “Do it, Greg. I’ll take the knife away from you. I vow I will. And I’ll cut your balls off with it.”

Travis waited. The knife was only inches from his belly. But he looked at Greg and saw that some of the giddy hysteria had faded from his eyes. The knife wavered; an uncertainty had crept into the equation.

Then, swiftly, Greg smiled again.

He let the knife drop. “Well, I guess I know what’s in there already. I guess you just told me.” He took a step backward. “Have fun while you can, farmboy.”

Travis watched him walk almost lazily back toward the trees, listened for the sound of the car cranking up. His own heart was beating wildly; he felt dizzy.

He thought of Nancy in the shack, of what she had so narrowly avoided. Of what she could not much longer avoid, now that Greg Morrow had come back here. Christ God, he thought, shivering, she’s consorting with demons—they’ll crucify her—

He turned back and there was the sound of her scream.

He pulled her away from A

“Nance, what is it? What’s wrong?”

The gun, she thought. The fear, the agony… She touched her ribs, her belly, wanting the reassurance that those wounds she had felt were not really her wounds. “I can’t explain,” she said faintly. “I don’t understand it myself—”

But A

A

She looked at Nancy. “You felt it?”

“Yes! God, yes!” She pressed against Travis. “That was him, wasn’t it? That was Bone. He’s close—”

A

Interlude: Bone Loses Faith

In a little railtown called Buckton their luck went bad.

The wad of money in the right-hand pocket of Bone’s navy pea coat had grown much larger. Twice in the course of this hot summer, in towns whose names they did not know, they had committed successful robberies. “Nothing big,” Deacon said. “Nothing ambitious. Just a little money out of the till. Just a kind of income tax. A little Relief Program for Archie and Deacon and Bone.” They would locate a gas station or a general store not too far from the railway or too close to town, would approach it at dusk; Deacon, brandishing a handgun he had taken from the Darcy farmhouse, would empty the till. The proprietor or the store clerk might weep, might curse, might silently watch; but it was never Deacon or Archie he looked at, it was Bone; Bone huge and blankly pale, his pallid wrists projecting from the cuffs of his pea coat, his eyes, white and unblinking in their cavernous orbits.

This should have been the same. They had hiked away from a hobo jungle to this place, a whitewashed building with a torn screen door and the word Sundries written above it. They stood outside in the gathering dusk, calculating the isolation of the place, the chance that somebody might come by. “It’s wide open here,” Archie said nervously. “Anybody could see us.” But Deacon only favored him with a contemptuous sneer. “Cowardly talk,” he said, and reached under his coat for the big handgun. “For Christ’s sake,” Archie began—but Deacon had already pushed through the rust-hinged door. Bone hurried after.

The room inside was narrow, plank-floored, tidy. Sacks of flour squatted on pineboard shelves. Bone was engulfed in the heady smell of wood polish and grain, in the merciless yellow light of an overhead bulb. The proprietor was a barrel-shaped man who had not yet noticed Deacon’s gun, his eyes were fixed on Bone. Bone sensed the man’s distrust, not yet coalesced into fear. The proprietor said, frog-throated, “Can I help you gents?”—then paled as Deacon stepped forward, gri

Archie watched the door. That was his job, and he performed it flawlessly. Bone stood beside Deacon at the counter, claustrophobic in this enclosed place; Deacon held the pistol. “All we want is what’s in the till,” Deacon said coolly. “Hand it over slow.”

“Car coming,” Archie said from the door.

Deacon did not turn. “Let me know if it stops.” He was relaxed, methodical. Deacon was not afraid of the man behind the counter, not afraid of jail or of committing violence. He had changed, Bone thought, since the Darcy house. Maybe he didn’t want to kill the storekeeper, but he would not hesitate to do so should the occasion arise; some part of him might even welcome the violence, the brief wild pleasure of pulling the trigger and proclaiming his potency. Bone perceived all this without words. The immanence of death boiled around Deacon like a thundercloud. He stank of it.

The storekeeper had frozen. He stared at Deacon, at Bone, at Deacon again. Beads of sweat started out on his broad forehead.

“The till,” Deacon said. “Empty the goddamn till!”

“Car gone by,” Archie said.

Bone watched the storekeeper’s fat hands delve into the cash drawer. He wadded the cash as he tugged it out, pushed the soiled green bills across the counter. “It’s not much,” he said, his voice cracking, “but it’s all—see—look—”

“All right, all right.” Deacon used his pistol to sweep the cash toward Bone. Bone took it without counting it and stuffed it into the pea coat.

“Archie?”

“All clear… no, wait, Christ, there’s another car!”

Deacon held the pistol steady. On the wall, a Pepsi-Cola clock ticked out seconds. The breathing of the storekeeper was stertorous and aggrieved.

“Gone by?” Deacon asked tightly.

“It’s—” Archie’s voice lost a beat. “Deacon, it’s slowing down.”

“Be damned,” Deacon said. He turned fractionally.

Bone watched as the storekeeper dived behind the counter. When he came up an instant later he had a shotgun in his hands. Deacon turned back but his comprehension lagged. Bone felt the seismic shift—Deacon’s confusion and fear, the storekeeper’s blossoming triumph.

The shotgun was inches from Deacon’s chest. The storekeeper tightened his finger on the thick steel trigger.

Bone reached out and took the gun in one huge hand. He jerked the barrel upward. The storekeeper’s finger closed convulsively and both barrels discharged into the ceiling.

“Oh my Lord, “the storekeeper said. Bone snatched the weapon away from him and threw it into a corner with the stitched cotton sacks of animal feed. “Oh, my sweet Lord.” And Deacon thrust forward his pistol.

“Deacon,” Bone said gently. “Deacon, don’t.” But it was too late. Feverish with hatred, Deacon fired.

The storekeeper lurched back gap-chested and bloody into a wall of patent medicines. Brown bottles of iron tonic fell about him like hail.

He was dead. It was that simple.

Death again, Bone thought sadly.

“Fucker tried to kill me,” Deacon said, trembling. “You saw him! Can’t deny it! Tried to kill me!”

And Bone looked at Deacon, a small man now, frightened in the aftermath of his own violence, and thought: I don’t owe him anything.