couldn't
count on that. Then there was Steve Logan, the mailman -- would he keep
his mouth shut?
He took a deep breath and stood up. He leaned over and got his revolver
from the ground where he had dropped it, put it away in the holster. He
knelt beside Jerry's body again, buttoned up his shirt. He reached into
Jerry's jacket, found the Police Special, flicked the safety off, and
stood up. Supporting his wrist with his other hand, he aimed straight
down at Jerry's chest and pulled the trigger. The body jumped once
more. Cooley turned away, hiccuping. When he could see straight again,
he went to the boy's body and dipped up some blood on his finger. He
smeared the blood carefully on the ragged little hole in Jerry's shirt
and on the chest underneath. He wiped his finger on the dirt and leaves
at the base of the tree, then put the safety back on the revolver and
wiped it all over with the tail of his shirt. Holding the gun by the
barrel, he put it carefully into the boy's left hand, then his right,
closing the index finger over the trigger, thumb on the frame. He wiped
the barrel again, nudged the safety off, and dropped the gun beside the
boy. Blood was still welling from the kid's chest, but more slowly.
Cooley walked out of the woods, got into his car and drove to the nearest
farmhouse to telephone. The Memorial Hospital sent an ambulance and four
men with stretchers. When they got to the tree house a little after two,
Jerry's body was still there but the kid's wasn't: there was nothing under
the tree but a roll of magazines tied up with string, and a splatter of
blood in the brush. One of the men knelt over Jerry's body. "He's dead."
"Well, leave him there for the sheriff. Help me find the other one,
would you?"
The four of them and Cooley hunted up and down the slope, but they didn't
find a thing, not even a drop of blood on a leaf to show which way the kid
had gone.
Cooley went back to the farmhouse again to telephone. Old Mrs. Gambrell,
who owned the place, was quite excited; Cooley had to put one hand over
his ear because she kept saying in a loud voice, "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" He
called the sheriff's office and was told that they had already been
notified by the hospital and the sheriff was on his way out. Cooley hung
up and called the state police. He described the missing boy and said,
"I need some road blocks, west and east of Dog River and south on route
thirty-five." The duty officer said he would see what he could do.
Cooley, fretting, went back to the county road and waited until Sheriff
Beach turned up. Beach was a tall, pale-eyed man in his early fifties,
running a little to fat. He nodded to Cooley when he got out of his
car. "Is it Jerry?" he asked. "How'd it happen?"
"Kid was living in a tree house in the woods. We staked it out -- he
shot Jerry. Jerry shot him, too, but he got away."
"Uh-huh. How'd you know the kid was there?"
"Got a tip from Steve Logan."
"Uh-huh," said Beach. When they got to the tree house, Beach gave it one
curious glance and then hunkered down beside Jerry's body. He looked at
the bullet wound. "Shot in the heart."
"That's right."
"And where were you?"
"Up in the tree house, waiting for the kid."
"'Bout what time was that?"
"Little after one."
"Uh-huh. So you heard the shot, come down and the kid was gone?"
"No, he was laying there too, shot, and I thought he was dead. But when
I come back from phoning, he was gone."
Beach took several photographs of the body, then turned. The revolver
lay beside the splatter of blood in the bushes: a short-barreled Smith &
Wesson, blued steel, with a brown grip. It was an old gun; the bluing
was partly worn off around the cylinder. "And that's where the kid
was?" said Beach. "Jerry shoots him, he falls right there, drops his
gun. Now, where's Jerry's gun?"
Cooley looked around. "I never thought," he said. "Jesus, this is an
awful thing."
They found the rifle suspended muzzle down in a
count on that. Then there was Steve Logan, the mailman -- would he keep
his mouth shut?
He took a deep breath and stood up. He leaned over and got his revolver
from the ground where he had dropped it, put it away in the holster. He
knelt beside Jerry's body again, buttoned up his shirt. He reached into
Jerry's jacket, found the Police Special, flicked the safety off, and
stood up. Supporting his wrist with his other hand, he aimed straight
down at Jerry's chest and pulled the trigger. The body jumped once
more. Cooley turned away, hiccuping. When he could see straight again,
he went to the boy's body and dipped up some blood on his finger. He
smeared the blood carefully on the ragged little hole in Jerry's shirt
and on the chest underneath. He wiped his finger on the dirt and leaves
at the base of the tree, then put the safety back on the revolver and
wiped it all over with the tail of his shirt. Holding the gun by the
barrel, he put it carefully into the boy's left hand, then his right,
closing the index finger over the trigger, thumb on the frame. He wiped
the barrel again, nudged the safety off, and dropped the gun beside the
boy. Blood was still welling from the kid's chest, but more slowly.
Cooley walked out of the woods, got into his car and drove to the nearest
farmhouse to telephone. The Memorial Hospital sent an ambulance and four
men with stretchers. When they got to the tree house a little after two,
Jerry's body was still there but the kid's wasn't: there was nothing under
the tree but a roll of magazines tied up with string, and a splatter of
blood in the brush. One of the men knelt over Jerry's body. "He's dead."
"Well, leave him there for the sheriff. Help me find the other one,
would you?"
The four of them and Cooley hunted up and down the slope, but they didn't
find a thing, not even a drop of blood on a leaf to show which way the kid
had gone.
Cooley went back to the farmhouse again to telephone. Old Mrs. Gambrell,
who owned the place, was quite excited; Cooley had to put one hand over
his ear because she kept saying in a loud voice, "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" He
called the sheriff's office and was told that they had already been
notified by the hospital and the sheriff was on his way out. Cooley hung
up and called the state police. He described the missing boy and said,
"I need some road blocks, west and east of Dog River and south on route
thirty-five." The duty officer said he would see what he could do.
Cooley, fretting, went back to the county road and waited until Sheriff
Beach turned up. Beach was a tall, pale-eyed man in his early fifties,
running a little to fat. He nodded to Cooley when he got out of his
car. "Is it Jerry?" he asked. "How'd it happen?"
"Kid was living in a tree house in the woods. We staked it out -- he
shot Jerry. Jerry shot him, too, but he got away."
"Uh-huh. How'd you know the kid was there?"
"Got a tip from Steve Logan."
"Uh-huh," said Beach. When they got to the tree house, Beach gave it one
curious glance and then hunkered down beside Jerry's body. He looked at
the bullet wound. "Shot in the heart."
"That's right."
"And where were you?"
"Up in the tree house, waiting for the kid."
"'Bout what time was that?"
"Little after one."
"Uh-huh. So you heard the shot, come down and the kid was gone?"
"No, he was laying there too, shot, and I thought he was dead. But when
I come back from phoning, he was gone."
Beach took several photographs of the body, then turned. The revolver
lay beside the splatter of blood in the bushes: a short-barreled Smith &
Wesson, blued steel, with a brown grip. It was an old gun; the bluing
was partly worn off around the cylinder. "And that's where the kid
was?" said Beach. "Jerry shoots him, he falls right there, drops his
gun. Now, where's Jerry's gun?"
Cooley looked around. "I never thought," he said. "Jesus, this is an
awful thing."
They found the rifle suspended muzzle down in a
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