Текст книги "Night Freight"
Автор книги: Bill Pronzini
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A nonplace. A cat place?
Something made a noise nearby. A cat sound unlike any he had ever heard or could have imagined—a shrill mewling roar.
Decker jerked his head around. And the tom was there, the tom filled the nonplace as if it had grown to human size while he had been shrunk to feline dimensions. It loomed over him, its tail switching, its whiskers quivering. When he saw it like that he tried to stand and run . . . and it reached out one massive paw, almost lazily, and brought it down on his chest, pinned him to the floor. Its jaws opened wide, and he was looking up then into the wet cavern of its mouth, at the rows of sharp white spikes that gleamed there.
Cats are predators with a streak of cruelly: they like to toy with their prey before devouring it.
"No!"
Big old tom like you, you need plenty of fuel.
Decker opened his mouth to scream again, but all that came out was a mouselike squeak.
And then it was feeding time. . . .
Don't be fooled by the touristy background descriptions in the following. What we have here is dark and deadly things lurking beneath an innocuous surface, like piranha in the seemingly placid waters of a lake. They're the sneaky sort, too, in that they may just continue to nibble for a while after you've had your taste of paradise. The tale's basic premise was given to me by a bookseller friend, who swears he met the real-life counterparts of the Archersons on a trip to England a few years ago. Art (if my fictional interpretation can be called that) imitates the seamier side of life, for a change.
A Taste of Paradise
Jan and I met the Archersons at the Hotel Kolekole in Kailua Kona, on the first evening of our Hawaiian vacation. We'd booked four days on the Big Island, five on Maui, four on Kauai, and three and a half at Waikiki Beach on Oahu. It would mean a lot of shunting around, packing and unpacking, but it was our first and probably last visit to Hawaii and we had decided to see as many of the islands as we could. We'd saved three years for this trip—a second honeymoon we'd been promising ourselves for a long time—and we were determined to get the absolute most out of it.
Our room was small and faced inland; it was all we could afford at a luxury hotel like the Kolekole. So in order to sit and look at the ocean, we had to go down to the rocky, black-sand beach or to a roofed but open-sided lanai bar that overlooked the beach. The lanai bar was where we met Larry and Brenda Archerson. They were at the next table when we sat down for drinks before dinner, and Brenda was sipping a pale green drink in a tall glass. Jan is naturally friendly and curious and she asked Brenda what the drink was—something called an Emerald Bay, a specialty of the hotel that contained rum and crème de menthe and half a dozen other ingredients—and before long the four of us were chatting back and forth. They were about our age, and easy to talk to, and when they invited us to join them we agreed without hesitation.
It was their first trip to Hawaii too, and the same sort of dream vacation as ours: "I've wanted to come here for thirty years," Brenda said, "ever since I first saw Elvis in Blue Hawaii." So we had that in common. But unlike us, they were traveling first-class. They'd spent a week in one of the most exclusive hotels on Maui, and had a suite here at the Kolekole, and would be staying in the islands for a total of five weeks. They were even going to spend a few days on Molokai, where Father Damien had founded his lepers' colony over a hundred years ago.
Larry told us all of this in an offhand, joking way—not at all flaunting the fact that they were obviously well-off. He was a tall, beefy fellow, losing his hair as I was and compensating for it with a thick brush moustache. Brenda was a big-boned blonde with pretty gray eyes. They both wore loud Hawaiian shirts and flower leis, and Brenda had a pale pink flower—a hibiscus blossom, she told Jan—in her hair. It was plain that they doted on each other and plain that they were having the time of their lives. They kept exchanging grins and winks, touching hands, kissing every now and then like newlyweds. It was infectious. We weren't with them ten minutes before Jan and I found ourselves holding hands too.
They were from Milwaukee, where they were about to open a luxury catering service. "Another lifelong dream," Brenda said. Which gave us something else in common, in an indirect way. Jan and I own a small restaurant in Coeur d'Alene, Carpenter's Steakhouse, which we'd built into a fairly successful business over the past twenty years. Our daughter Lynn was managing it for us while we were in Hawaii.
We talked with the Archersons about the pros and cons of the food business and had another round of drinks which Larry insisted on paying for. When the drinks arrived, he lifted his mai tai and said, "Aloha nui kakou, folks."
"That's an old Hawaiian toast" Brenda explained. "It means to your good health, or something like that. Larry is a magnet for Hawaiian words and phrases. I swear he'll be able to write a tourist phrasebook by the time we leave the islands."
"Maybe I will too, kuu ipo."
She wrinkled her nose at him, then leaned over and nipped his ear. "Kuu ipo means sweetheart," she said to us.
When we finished our second round of drinks, Larry asked, "You folks haven't had dinner yet, have you?"
We said we hadn't.
"Well then, why don't you join us in the Garden Court? Their mahi-mahi is out of this world. Our treat—what do you say?"
Jan seemed willing, so I said, "Fine with us. But let's make it Dutch treat."
"Nonsense. I invited you, that makes you our guests. No arguments, now—I never argue on an empty stomach."
The food was outstanding. So was the wine Larry selected to go with it, a rich French chardonnay. The Garden Court was open-sided like the lanai bar, and the night breeze had a warm, velvety feel, heavy with the scents of hibiscus and plumeria. The moon, huge and near full, made the ocean look as though it were overlaid with a sheet of gold.
"Is this living or is this living?" Larry said over coffee and Kahlua.
"It's a taste of paradise," Jan said.
"It is paradise. Great place, great food, great drinks, great company. What more could anybody want?"
"Well, I can think of one thing," Brenda said with a leer.
Larry winked at me. "That's another great thing about the tropics, Dick. It puts a new spark in your love life."
"I can use a spark," I said. "I think a couple of my plugs are shot."
Jan cracked me on the arm and we all laughed.
"So what are you folks doing tomorrow?" Larry asked. "Any plans?"
"Well, we thought we'd either drive down to the Volcanoes National Park or explore the northern part of the island."
"We're day-tripping up north ourselves—Waimea, Waipio Valley, the Kohala Cost. How about coming along with us?"
"Well . . ."
"Come on, it'll be fun. We rented a Caddy and there's plenty of room. You can both just sit back and relax and soak up the sights."
"Jan? Okay with you?"
She nodded, and Larry said, "Terrific. Let's get an early start—breakfast at seven, on the road by eight. That isn't too early for you folks? No? Good, then it's settled."
When the check came I offered again to pay half. He wouldn't hear of it. As we left the restaurant, Brenda said she felt like going dancing and Larry said that was a fine idea, how about making it a foursome? Jan and I begged off. It had been a long day, as travel days always are, and we were both ready for bed.
In our room, Jan asked, "What do you think of them?"
"Likable and fun to be with," I said. "But exhausting. Where do they get all their energy?"
"I wish I knew."
"Larry's a little pushy. We'll have to make sure he doesn't talk us into anything we don't want to do." I paused. "You know, there's something odd about the way they act together. It's more than just being on a dream vacation, having a good time, but I can't quite put my finger on it . . ."
"They're like a couple of kids with a big secret," Jan said. "They're so excited they're ready to burst."
We've been married for nearly thirty years and we often have similar impressions and perceptions. Sometimes it amazes me just how closely our minds work.
"That's it," I said. "That's it exactly."
The trip to the northern part of the island was enjoyable, if wearying. Larry and Brenda did most of the talking, Larry playing tour guide and unraveling an endless string of facts about Hawaii's history, geography, flora, and fauna. We spent a good part of the morning in the rustic little town of Waimea, in the saddle between Kohala Mountain and the towering Mauna Kea—the seat of the Parker Ranch, the largest individually owned cattle ranch in the United States. It was lunchtime when we finished rubbing elbows with Hawaiian cowboys and shopping for native crafts, and Brenda suggested we buy sandwich fixings and a bottle of wine and find someplace to have a picnic.
Larry wanted to hike out to the rim of the Waipio Valley and picnic there, but the rest of us weren't up to a long walk. So we drove up into the mountains on the Kawaihae road. When the road leveled out across a long plateau, we might have been in California or the Pacific Northwest: rolling fields, cattle, thick stands of pine. In the middle of one of the wooded sections, Larry slowed and then pulled off onto the verge.
"Down there by that stream," he said. "Now that's a perfect spot for a picnic."
Brenda wasn't so sure. "You think it's safe? Looks like a lot of brush and grass to wade through . . ."
He laughed. "Don't worry, there aren't any wild animals up here to bother us."
"What about creepy-crawlies?"
"Nope. No poisonous snakes or spiders on any of the Hawaiian Islands."
"You sure about that?"
"I'm sure, kuu ipo. The guidebooks never lie."
We had our picnic, and all through it Larry and Brenda nuzzled and necked and cast little knowing glances at each other. Once he whispered something in her ear that made her laugh raucously and say, "Oh, you're wicked!" Their behavior had seemed charming last night, but today it was making both Jan and me uncomfortable. Fifty-year-old adults who act like conspiratorial teenagers seem ludicrous after you've spent enough time in their company.
Kawaihae Bay was beautiful, and the clifftop view from Upolu Point was breathtaking. On the way back down the coast we stopped at a two-hundred-year-old temple built by King Kamehameha, and at the white-sand Hapuna Beach, where Jan fed the remains of our picnic to the dozens of stray cats that lived there. It was after five when we got back to Kailua Kona.
The Archersons insisted again that we have dinner with them and wouldn't take no for an answer. So we stayed at the Kolekole long enough to change clothes and then went out to a restaurant that specialized in luau-style roast pork. And when we were finished eating, back we went to the hotel and up to their suite. They had a private terrace and it was the perfect place, Brenda said, to watch one of the glorious Hawaiian sunsets.
Larry brought out a bottle of Kahlua, and when he finished pouring drinks he raised his glass in another toast. "To our new aikane, Jan and Dick."
"Aikane means good friends," Brenda said.
Jan and I drank, but my heart wasn't in it and I could tell that hers wasn't either. The Archersons were wearing thin on both of us.
The evening was a reprise of yesterday's: not too hot, with a soft breeze carrying the scent of exotic flowers. Surfers played on the waves offshore. The sunset was spectacular, with fiery reds and oranges, but it didn't last long enough to suit me.
Brenda sighed elaborately as darkness closed down. "Almost the end of another perfect day. Time goes by so quickly out here, doesn't it, Jan?"
"Yes it does."
Larry said, "That's why you have to get the most out of each day in paradise. So what'll we do tomorrow? Head down to see the volcanoes, check out the lava flows?"
"There's a road called Chain of Craters that's wonderful," Brenda said. "It goes right out over the flows and at the end there's a place where you can actually walk on the lava. Parts of it are still hot!"
I said, "Yes, we've been looking forward to seeing the volcano area. But since you've already been there, I think we'll just drive down by ourselves in the morning—"
"No, no, we'll drive you down. We don't mind seeing it all again, do we, Brenda?"
"I sure don't. I'd love to see it again."
"Larry, I don't mean this to sound ungrateful, but Jan and I would really like some time to ourselves—"
"Look at that moon coming up, will you? It's as big as a Halloween pumpkin."
It was, but I couldn't enjoy it now. I tried again to say my piece, and again he interrupted me.
"Nothing like the moons we get back home in Wisconsin," he said. He put his arm around Brenda's shoulders and nuzzled her neck. "Is it, pet? Nothing at all like a Wisconsin moon."
She didn't answer. Surprisingly, her face scrunched up and her eyes glistened and I thought for a moment she would burst into tears.
Jan said, "Why, Brenda, what's the matter?"
"It's my fault," Larry said ruefully. "I used to call her that all the time, but since the accident . . . well, I try to remember not to, but sometimes it just slips out."
"Call her what? Pet?"
He nodded. "Makes her think of her babies."
"Babies? But I thought you didn't have children."
"We don't. Brenda, honey, I'm sorry. We'll talk about something else . . ."
"No, it's all right." She dried her eyes on a Kleenex and then said to Jan and me, "My babies were Lhasa apsos. Brother and sister—Hansel and Gretel."
"Oh," Jan said, "dogs."
"Not just dogs—the sweetest, most gentle . . ." Brenda snuffled again. "I miss them terribly, even after six months."
"What happened to them?"
"They died in the fire, the poor babies. We buried them at Shady Acres. That's a nice name for a pet cemetery, don't you think? Shady Acres?"
"What kind of fire was it?"
"That's right, we didn't tell you, did we? Our house burned down six months ago. Right to the ground while we were at a party at a friend's place."
"Oh, that's awful. A total loss?"
"Everything we owned," Larry said. "It's a good thing we had insurance."
"How did it happen?"
"Well, the official verdict was that Mrs. Cooley fell asleep with a lighted cigarette in her hand."
I said, "Oh, so there was someone in the house besides the dogs. She woke up in time and managed to get out safely, this Mrs. Cooley?"
"No, she died too."
Jan and I looked at each other.
"Smoke inhalation, they said. The way it looked, she woke up all right and tried to get out, but the smoke got her before she could. They found her by the front door."
"Hansel and Gretel were trapped in the kitchen," Brenda said. "She was so selfish—she just tried to save herself."
Jan made a throat-clearing sound. "You sound as though you didn't like this woman very much."
"We didn't. She was an old witch."
"Then why did you let her stay in your house?"
"She paid us rent. Not much, just a pittance."
"But if you didn't like her—"
"She was my mother," Brenda said.
Far below, on the lanai bar, the hotel musicians began to play ukuleles and sing a lilting Hawaiian song. Brenda leaned forward, listening, smiling dreamily. "That's 'Maui No Ka Oi,'" she said. "One of my all-time favorites."
Larry was watching Jan and me. He said, "Mrs. Cooley really was an awful woman, no kidding. Mean, carping—and stingy as hell. She knew how much we wanted to start our catering business but she just wouldn't let us have the money. If she hadn't died in the fire . . . well, we wouldn't be here with you nice folks. Funny the way things happen sometimes, isn't it?"
Neither Jan nor I said anything. Instead we got to our feet, almost as one.
"Hey," Larry said, "you're not leaving?"
I said yes, we were leaving.
"But the night's young. I thought maybe we'd go dancing, take in one of the Polynesian revues—"
"It's been a long day."
"Sure, I understand. You folks still have some jet lag too, I'll bet. Get plenty of sleep and call us when you wake up, then we'll all go have breakfast before we head for the volcanoes."
They walked us to the door. Brenda said, "Sleep tight, you lovely people," and then we were alone in the hallway.
We didn't go to our room; instead we went to the small, quiet lobby bar for drinks we both badly needed. When the drinks came, Jan spoke for the first time since we'd left the Archersons. "My God," she said, "I had no idea they were like that—so cold and insensitive under all that bubbly charm. Crying over a pair of dogs and not even a kind word for her mother. They're actually glad the poor woman is dead."
"More than glad. And much worse than insensitive."
"What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean."
"You don't think they—"
"That's just what I think. What we both think."
"Her own mother?"
"Yes. They arranged that fire somehow so Mrs. Cooley would be caught in it, and sacrificed their dogs so it would look even more like an accident."
"For her money," Jan said slowly. "So they could start their catering business?"
"Yes."
"Dick . . . we can't just ignore this. We've got to do something."
"What would you suggest?"
"I don't know, contact the police in Milwaukee . . ."
"And tell them what that can be proven? The Archersons didn't admit anything incriminating to us. Besides, there must have been an investigation at the time. If there'd been any evidence against them, they wouldn't have gotten Mrs. Cooley's money and they wouldn't be here celebrating."
"But that means they'll get away with it, with cold-blooded murder!"
"Jan, they already have. And they're proud of it, proud of their own cleverness. I think they contrived to tell us the story on purpose, with just enough hints so we'd figure out the truth."
"Why would they do that?"
"The same reason they latched onto us, convinced themselves we're kindred spirits. The same reason they're so damned eager. They're looking for somebody to share their secret with."
"Dear God."
We were silent after that. The tropical night was no longer soft; the air had a close, sticky feel. The smell of hibiscus and plumeria had turned cloyingly sweet. I swallowed some of my drink, and it tasted bitter. Paradise tasted bitter now, the way it must have to Adam after Eve bit into the forbidden fruit.
The guidebooks do lie, I thought. There are serpents in this Eden, too.
Early the next morning, very early, we checked out of the Kolekole and took the first interisland flight to Honolulu and then the first plane home.
Trains, like werewolves and a few dozen other wide-ranging subjects, are a source of endless fascination for me. A couple of my novels have railroading elements; and I've edited two anthologies of train stories, one mystery/suspense (Midnight Specials) and one traditional Western (The Railroaders). "Sweet Fever," the second of two short stories built around this theme ("Night Freight" being the other), is a mood piece steeped in railroad and hoboing atmosphere, one reason why it is among the most anthologized of all my short fiction. Parenthetically I'll add that, as was the case with "The Monster," it came to me whole—title, plot, setting, everything—and is essentially a first draft written at white heat.
Sweet Fever
Quarter before midnight, like on every evening except the Sabbath or when it's storming or when my rheumatism gets to paining too bad, me and Billy Bob went down to the Chigger Mountain railroad tunnel to wait for the night freight from St. Louis. This here was a fine summer evening, with a big old fat yellow moon hung above the pines on Hankers Ridge and mockingbirds and cicadas and toads making a soft ruckus. Nights like this, I have me a good feeling, hopeful, and I know Billy Bob does too.
They's a bog hollow on the near side of the tunnel opening, and beside it a woody slope, not too steep. Halfway down the slope is a big catalpa tree, and that was where we always set, side by side with our backs up against the trunk.
So we come on down to there, me hobbling some with my cane and Billy Bob holding onto my arm. That moon was so bright you could see the melons lying in Ferdie Johnson's patch over on the left, and the rail tracks had a sleek oiled look coming out of the tunnel mouth and leading off toward the Sabreville yards a mile up the line. On the far side of the tracks, the woods and the rundown shacks that used to be a hobo jungle before the county sheriff closed it off thirty years back had them a silvery cast, like they was all coated in winter frost.
We set down under the catalpa tree and I leaned my head back to catch my wind. Billy Bob said, "Granpa, you feeling right?"
"Fine, boy."
"Rheumatism ain't started paining you?"
"Not a bit."
He give me a grin. "Got a little surprise for you."
"The hell you do."
"Fresh plug of blackstrap," he said. He come out of his pocket with it. "Mr. Cotter got him in a shipment just today down at his store."
I was some pleased. But I said, "Now you hadn't ought to go spending your money on me, Billy Bob."
"Got nobody else I'd rather spend it on."
I took the plug and unwrapped it and had me a chew.
Old man like me ain't got many pleasures left, but fresh blackstrap's one; good corn's another. Billy Bob gets us all the corn we need from Ben Logan's boys. They got a pretty good sized still up on Hankers Ridge, and their corn is the best in this part of the hills. Not that either of us is a drinking man, now. A little touch after supper and on special days is all. I never did hold with drinking too much, or doing anything too much, and I taught Billy Bob the same.
He's a good boy. Man couldn't ask for a better grandson. But I raised him that way—in my own image, you might say—after both my own son Rufus and Billy Bob's ma got taken from us in 1947.I reckon I done a right job of it, and I couldn't be less proud of him than I was of his pa, or love him no less, either.
Well, we set there and I worked on the chew of blackstrap and had a spit every now and then, and neither of us said much. Pretty soon the first whistle come, way off on the other side of Chigger Mountain. Billy Bob cocked his head and said, "She's right on schedule."
"Mostly is," I said, "this time of year."
That sad lonesome hungry ache started up in me again—what my daddy used to call the "sweet fever." He was a railroad man, and I grew up around trains and spent a goodly part of my early years at the roundhouse in the Sabreville yards. Once, when I was ten, he let me take the throttle of the big 2-8-0 Mogul steam locomotive on his highballing run to Eulalia, and I can't recollect no more finer experience in my whole life. Later on I worked as a callboy, and then as a fireman on a 2-10-4, and put in some time as a yard tender engineer, and I expect I'd have gone on in railroading if it hadn't been for the Depression and getting myself married and having Rufus. My daddy's short-line company folded up in 1931, and half a dozen others too, and wasn't no work for either of us in Sabreville or Eulalia or anywheres else on the iron. That squeezed the will right out of him, and he took to ailing, and I had to accept a job on Mr. John Barnett's truck farm to support him and the rest of my family. Was my intention to go back into railroading, but the Depression dragged on, and my daddy died, and a year later my wife Amanda took sick and passed on, and by the time the war come it was just too late.
But Rufus got him the sweet fever too, and took a switchman's job in the Sabrevile yards, and worked there right up until the night he died. Billy Bob was only three then; his own sweet fever comes most purely from me and what I taught him. Ain't no doubt trains been a major part of all our lives, good and bad, and ain't no doubt neither they get into a man's blood and maybe change him, too, in one way and another. I reckon they do.
The whistle come again, closer now, and I judged the St. Louis freight was just about to enter the tunnel on the other side of the mountain. You could hear the big wheels singing on the track, and if you listened close you could just about hear the banging of couplings and the hiss of air brakes as the engineer throttled down for the curve. The tunnel don't run straight through Chigger Mountain; she comes in from the north and angles to the east, so that a big freight like the St. Louis got to cut back to quarter speed coming through.
When she entered the tunnel, the tracks down below seemed to shimmy, and you could feel the vibration clear up where we was sitting under the catalpa tree. Billy Bob stood himself up and peered down toward the black tunnel mouth like a bird dog on a point. The whistle come again, and once more, from inside the tunnel, sounding hollow and miseried now. Every time I heard it like that, I thought of a body trapped and hurting and crying out for help that wouldn't come in the empty hours of the night. I swallowed and shifted the cud of blackstrap and worked up a spit to keep my mouth from drying. The sweet fever feeling was strong in my stomach.
The blackness around the tunnel opening commenced to lighten, and got brighter and brighter until the long white glow from the locomotive's headlamp spilled out onto the tracks beyond. Then she come through into my sight, her light shining like a giant's eye, and the engineer give another tug on the whistle, and the sound of her was a clattering rumble as loud to my ears as a mountain rockslide. But she wasn't moving fast, just kind of easing along, pulling herself out of that tunnel like a night crawler out of a mound of earth.
The locomotive clacked on past, and me and Billy Bob watched her string slide along in front of us. Flats, boxcars, three tankers in a row, more flats loaded down with pine logs big around as a privy, a refrigerator car, five coal gondolas, another link of box cars. Fifty in the string already, I thought. She won't be dragging more than sixty, sixty-five. . . .
Billy Bob said suddenly, "Granpa, look yonder!"
He had his arm up, pointing. My eyes ain't so good no more, and it took me a couple of seconds to follow his point, over on our left and down at the door of the third boxcar in the last link. It was sliding open, and clear in the moonlight I saw a man's head come out, then his shoulders.
"It's a floater, Granpa," Billy Bob said, excited. "He's gonna jump. Look at him holding there—he's gonna jump."
I spit into the grass. "Help me up, boy."
He got a hand under my arm and lifted me up and held me until I was steady on my cane. Down there at the door of the boxcar, the floater was looking both ways along the string of cars and down at the ground beside the tracks. That ground was soft loam, and the train was going slow enough that there wasn't much chance he would hurt himself jumping off. He come to that same idea, and as soon as he did he flung himself off the car with his arms spread out and his hair and coattails flying in the slipstream. I saw him land solid and go down and roll over once. Then he knelt there, shaking his head a little, looking around.
Well, he was the first floater we'd seen in seven months. The yard crews seal up the cars nowadays, and they ain't many ride the rails anyhow, even down in our part of the country. But every now and then a floater wants to ride bad enough to break a seal, or hides himself in a gondola or on a loaded flat. Kids, old-time hoboes, wanted men. They's still a few.
And some of 'em get off right down where this one had, because they know the St. Louis freight stops in Sabreville and they's yardmen there that check the string, or because they see the rundown shacks of the old hobo jungle or Ferdie Johnson's melon patch. Man rides a freight long enough, no provisions, he gets mighty hungry; the sight of a melon patch like Ferdie's is plenty enough to make him jump off.
"Billy Bob," I said.
"Yes, Granpa. You wait easy now."
He went off along the slope, running. I watched the floater, and he come up on his feet and got himself into a clump of bushes alongside the tracks to wait for the caboose to pass so's he wouldn't be seen. Pretty soon the last of the cars left the tunnel, and then the caboose with a signalman holding a red-eye lantern out on the platform. When she was down the tracks and just about beyond my sight, the floater showed himself again and had him another look around. Then, sure enough, he made straight for the melon patch.
Once he got into it I couldn't see him, because he was in close to the woods at the edge of the slope. I couldn't see Billy Bob neither. The whistle sounded one final time, mournful, as the lights of the caboose disappeared, and a chill come to my neck and set there like a cold, dead hand. I closed my eyes and listened to the last singing of the wheels fade away.
It weren't long before I heard footfalls on the slope coming near, then the angry sound of a stranger's voice, but I kept my eyes shut until they walked up close and Billy Bob said, "Granpa." When I opened 'em the floater was standing three feet in front of me, white face shining in the moonlight—scared face, angry face, evil face.
"What the hell is this?" he said. "What you want with me?"
"Give me your gun, Billy Bob," I said.
He did it, and I held her tight and lifted the barrel. The ache in my stomach was so strong my knees felt weak and I could scarcely breathe. But my hand was steady.
The floater's eyes come wide open and he backed off a step. "Hey," he said, "hey, you can't—"
I shot him twice.
He fell over and rolled some and come up on his back. They wasn't no doubt he was dead, so I give the gun back to Billy Bob and he put it away in his belt. "All right, boy," I said.
Billy Bob nodded and went over and hoisted the dead floater onto his shoulder. I watched him trudge off toward the bog hollow, and in my mind I could hear the train whistle as she'd sounded from inside the tunnel. I thought again, as I had so many times, that it was the way my boy Rufus and Billy Bob's ma must have sounded that night in 1947, when the two floaters from the hobo jungle broke into their home and raped her and shot Rufus to death. She lived just long enough to tell us about the floaters, but they was never caught. So it was up to me, and then up to me and Billy Bob when he come of age.
