would not break his neck.
Quiet settled once more over the marina. I went below and dug out the survival kit that was designed to be attached to the inflatable life raft. What I wanted was in the kit, well greased and wrapped in plastic. I had thought it might be useful against sharks. I unwrapped it and hefted the cold dead feel of the .38. I spun the cylinder and took out the cartridges and tried the trigger. It was working smoothly enough, but I oiled it again and reloaded.
NINE
He picked me up next morning, and we bombed out along the Trail. He was hitting ninety or better, hoping to draw some reaction. I hung on grimly but said nothing. At the Shell station below Forty Mile Bend he turned off onto the dirt road. He was still doing seventy, and we raised a plume of dust half a mile long. In five minutes we were at the place where it had happened.
I reached inside my jacket and took out the Colt and shoved it into his back. He turned his head for a moment and glanced down. I felt him go rigid under the gun.
"Pull over!" I yelled into his ear.
He did as he was told. There was a sandy trail down through the scrub into the trees, and I told him to follow that. When we were well-hidden from the road, I told him to cut the engine. Keeping him covered, I slid off.
"Get down," I said. "Set the kickstand."
"What the hell is this?"
"Just do as you're told."
"What are you, a nark? Some kind of fuzz?"
"You'll see."
"Put the piece away, man."
That was when I shot him. I blew his left knee off. I had always been good with the .38, and although I had not used it in many years, I was still good. He went down. I watched the blood drain out of his face as the shock hit him. I was counting on his being tough enough not to black out; I didn't want to waste time bringing him around again.
He made it through the first wave, and although his face was cheesy he was with it. A puddle of blood had formed under his leg and was being sucked into the sandy soil. The real pain had not yet begun. He could still hardly believe it. His muscles and nerves knew he had been shot, but his brain was having difficulty processing the information.
"You shot me, man! You crazy or somethin'?"
He was beginning to feel it now. He clutched his leg and moaned.
"Help me! Help me!"
"The way you helped her?"
"Who?"
"The girl on the Honda?"
"What's it to you?" he gasped. "What the mollyfock business is it of yours?"
"She was my wife."
His face had gone the color of soiled bedsheets. I raised the pistol and pointed it at his head.
"Wait a minute, man! Lemme say somethin'! We can talk this over…"
"Go ahead and talk then. Who were the others? What were their names and where are they?"
"Wait! Wait! Jeez, man, wait a minute! They split a long time ago. They…"
I sighted along the barrel.
"Wait! Listen!"
"I'm listening."
He began to talk. When I was satisfied that he had told me all he knew, and that it was the truth, I killed him. I dragged the body down to the canal and dumped him in. The heavy chain he wore around his waist took him down. The black water closed over him. The gators would finish the rest.
I went back and scuffed sand over the bloody patch on the ground. Then I kicked the bike into life and headed south away from the main road. When I was a couple of miles from Chockoloskee, approximately thirty miles from where it had happened, I ran the bike into the canal, tossed the helmet in after it, and walked the rest of the way to town.
The town was shuttered against the heat. Nothing moved. I found a bus schedule tacked to a tree and sat down to wait. When the bus came, I climbed gratefully into its refrigerated interior. By four o'clock I was back at the boat. I packed
Quiet settled once more over the marina. I went below and dug out the survival kit that was designed to be attached to the inflatable life raft. What I wanted was in the kit, well greased and wrapped in plastic. I had thought it might be useful against sharks. I unwrapped it and hefted the cold dead feel of the .38. I spun the cylinder and took out the cartridges and tried the trigger. It was working smoothly enough, but I oiled it again and reloaded.
NINE
He picked me up next morning, and we bombed out along the Trail. He was hitting ninety or better, hoping to draw some reaction. I hung on grimly but said nothing. At the Shell station below Forty Mile Bend he turned off onto the dirt road. He was still doing seventy, and we raised a plume of dust half a mile long. In five minutes we were at the place where it had happened.
I reached inside my jacket and took out the Colt and shoved it into his back. He turned his head for a moment and glanced down. I felt him go rigid under the gun.
"Pull over!" I yelled into his ear.
He did as he was told. There was a sandy trail down through the scrub into the trees, and I told him to follow that. When we were well-hidden from the road, I told him to cut the engine. Keeping him covered, I slid off.
"Get down," I said. "Set the kickstand."
"What the hell is this?"
"Just do as you're told."
"What are you, a nark? Some kind of fuzz?"
"You'll see."
"Put the piece away, man."
That was when I shot him. I blew his left knee off. I had always been good with the .38, and although I had not used it in many years, I was still good. He went down. I watched the blood drain out of his face as the shock hit him. I was counting on his being tough enough not to black out; I didn't want to waste time bringing him around again.
He made it through the first wave, and although his face was cheesy he was with it. A puddle of blood had formed under his leg and was being sucked into the sandy soil. The real pain had not yet begun. He could still hardly believe it. His muscles and nerves knew he had been shot, but his brain was having difficulty processing the information.
"You shot me, man! You crazy or somethin'?"
He was beginning to feel it now. He clutched his leg and moaned.
"Help me! Help me!"
"The way you helped her?"
"Who?"
"The girl on the Honda?"
"What's it to you?" he gasped. "What the mollyfock business is it of yours?"
"She was my wife."
His face had gone the color of soiled bedsheets. I raised the pistol and pointed it at his head.
"Wait a minute, man! Lemme say somethin'! We can talk this over…"
"Go ahead and talk then. Who were the others? What were their names and where are they?"
"Wait! Wait! Jeez, man, wait a minute! They split a long time ago. They…"
I sighted along the barrel.
"Wait! Listen!"
"I'm listening."
He began to talk. When I was satisfied that he had told me all he knew, and that it was the truth, I killed him. I dragged the body down to the canal and dumped him in. The heavy chain he wore around his waist took him down. The black water closed over him. The gators would finish the rest.
I went back and scuffed sand over the bloody patch on the ground. Then I kicked the bike into life and headed south away from the main road. When I was a couple of miles from Chockoloskee, approximately thirty miles from where it had happened, I ran the bike into the canal, tossed the helmet in after it, and walked the rest of the way to town.
The town was shuttered against the heat. Nothing moved. I found a bus schedule tacked to a tree and sat down to wait. When the bus came, I climbed gratefully into its refrigerated interior. By four o'clock I was back at the boat. I packed
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