Misery

He stowed the can of Fast-Lite in the space and pushed the board back into place. He had an anxious moment when he was afraid it would no longer fit flush against its mates (and God! her eyes were so f**king sharp!), and then it slipped neatly home.

Paul regarded this a moment, then opened his pad, picked up a pencil, and found the hole in the paper.

He wrote undisturbed for the next four hours – until the points on all three of the pencils she had sharpened for him were written flat – and then he rolled himself back to the bed, got in, and went easily off to sleep.

CHAPTER 37

Geoffrey’s arms were beginning to feel like white iron. He had been standing in the deep shadows outside the hut which belonged to M’Chibi "Beautiful One" for the last five minutes, looking rather like a too-slim version of the circus strong-man with the Baronesses" trunk poised over his head.

Just as he came to believe that nothing Hezekiah could say would convince M’Chibi to leave his hut, he heard sounds of movement. Geoffrey turned even further, the muscles in his arms now twitching wildly. Chief M’Chibi "Beautiful One" was the Keeper of the Fire, and inside his hut were better than a hundred torches, the head of each coated with a thick, gummy resin. This resin oozed from the low trees of the area, and the Bourka called it Fire-Oil or Fire-Blood-Oil. Like most essentially simple languages, that of the Bourkas could at times be oddly elusive. Whatever you called the stuff, however, there were enough torches in there to get the whole village afire – it would burn like a Guy Fawkes dummy, Geoffrey thought… if, that was, M’Chibi could be gotten out of the way.

Fear not to strike, Boss Ge’ff’y Hezekiah had said. M’Chibi, he come out firs" one, "cause he the fire-man. Hezekiah, he be comin" out secon" one. So you don’t be waitin" to see my gold toot" flash! You break that brat’s head, damn quick!

But when he actually did hear them coming, Geoffrey felt a moment’s doubt in spite of the agony in his arms. Suppose that, just this once, the one

His pencil paused in mid-word at the sound of an approaching engine. He was surprised at how calm he felt – the strongest emotion in him right now was mild annoyance at being interrupted just when it was starting to float like a butterfly and sting like a bee. Annie’s boot-heels rattled staccato down the hallwav.

"Get out of sight." Her face was tight and grim. The khaki bag, unzipped, was over her shoulder. "Get out of s – " She paused and saw that he had already rolled the wheelchair back from the window. She looked to make sure that none of his things were on the sill, then nodded.

"It’s the State Police," she said. She looked tense but in control. The shoulder-bag was within easy reach of her right hand. "Are you going to be good, Paul?"

"Yes," he said.

Her eyes searched his face.

"I’m going to trust you," she said finally and turned away, closing the door but not bothering to lock it.

The car turned into the driveway, the smooth, sleepy beat of that big 442 Plymouth engine almost like a trademark. He heard the kitchen screen door bang shut and eased the wheelchair close enough to the window so he could remain in an angle of shadow and still peek out. The cruiser pulled up to where Annie stood, and the engine died. The driver got out and stood almost exactly where the young trooper had been standing when he spoke his last four words… but there all resemblance ended. That trooper had been a weedy young man hardly out of his teens, a rookie cop pulling a shit detail, chasing the cold trail of some numbnuts writer who had wrecked up his car and then either staggered deeper into the woods to die or walked blithely away from the whole mess with his thumb cocked.

The cop currently unfolding himself from behind the cruiser’s wheel was about forty, with shoulders seemingly as wide as a barnbeam. His face was a square of granite with a few narrow lines carved into it at the eyes and the corners of the mouth. Annie was a big woman, but this fellow made her look almost small.

There was another difference as well. The trooper Annie killed had been alone. Getting out of the shotgun seat of this cruiser was a small, slope-shouldered plainsclothesman with lank blonde hair. David and Goliath, Paul thought. Mutt and Jeff. Jesus.

The plainclothesman did not so much walk around the cruiser as mince around it. His face looked old and tired, the face of a man who is half-asleep… except for his faded blue eyes. The eyes were wide-awake, everywhere at once. Paul thought he would be quick.

They bookended Annie and she was saying something to them, first looking up to speak to Goliath, then half-turning and looking down to reply to David. Paul wondered what would happen if he broke the window again and screamed for help again. He thought the odds were maybe eight in ten that they would take her. Oh, she was quick, but the big cop looked as if he might be quicker in spite of his size, and strong enough to uproot middling-sized trees with his bare hands. The plainclothesman’s self-conscious walk might be as deliberately deceptive as his sleepy look. He thought they would take her… except what surprised them wouldn’t surprise her, and that gave her an outside chance, anyway.

The plainclothesman’s coat. It was buttoned in spite of the glaring heat. If she shot Goliath first, she might very well be able to put a slug in David’s face before he could get that oogy goddam coat unbuttoned and his gun out. More than anything else, that buttoned coat suggested that Annie had been right: so far, this was just a routine check-back.

So far.

I didn’t kill him, you know. You killed him. If you had kept your mouth shut, I would have sent him on his way. He’d be alive now…

Did he believe that? No, of course not. But there was still that strong, hurtful moment of guilt – like a quick deep stab-wound. Was he going to keep his mouth shut because there were two chances in ten that she would off these two as well if he opened it?