Conceivably, dying, O’Dell had enough strength left to crush the life out of him. Goddamn, that little gun sure was worth the money he'd laid out for it!
The next morning, a new doctor came in and gave him a once over and confirmed that he probably wasn't going to die, at least not in the next thirty years. And then, one by one, the boys in suits came in.
Colonel Supenski was there, representing the state police, as well as two highway patrol investigators and an investigator from the Jackson County sheriffs department. But Lt. Henderson, of the OSBI, was missing.
The chief questioner was a tough, young state's attorney.
How did he feel?
He felt fine.
Was he up to it?
He was up to it.
Did he want his own attorney present?
“Now hold on,” started the colonel-"Strictly a routine question in a case involving death by force,” said the state's attorney.
That settled, it began.
Slowly Bud told the story, trying to leave nothing out of the lead-up, except the detail of Jack Antelope Runs. Then the gunfight, in excruciating detail.
“Did you warn them before shooting?”
“Warn them? I was trying to kill them.”
“Strike that from the record, goddammit,” said Colonel Supenski.
“He didn't mean that.”
“Did you mean that. Sergeant Pewtie?”
“No sir. I was merely trying to survive. There wasn't no time for a warning. I saw a weapon in' the perpetrator's hands and I established that he meant to harm me, and so I opened fire.”
It went on for several hours: where he'd been, what he remembered, where Lamar and O’Dell had been, and so forth and so on.
Bud had a curious moment here, as a realization reached him.
-"You know, for three weeks I been packing three guns and spare magazines for each. I had fifty-eight rounds of ammunition, which I been bitching about like a old lady.
Goddamn, if I'd had fifty-nine, Lamar would be dead meat today.”
The lawyers left about six. The boss, after conferring with the investigators, gave him the good news.
“I think you did a great job, Sergeant. Mr. Uckley agrees with me. No state indictments. You're in the clear.”
“Thank you.”
That left Bud alone with the colonel.
“Okay, Bud,” said the boss, who’d been holding his piece for a long time.
“I have to say this. You got guts to burn and what you brought off is a masterpiece of police work. We're so very proud of you. But Bud, I told you, and it's beginning to grate on me—this ain't a goddamned private war. You ain't a cowboy. You understand me? It's modern times, we work in teams now. Bud, I cannot have a lone wolf operator working on some personal revenge agenda. I catch you on Lamar's tail again, by God, I'll prosecute you. I could even git you on carrying a concealed weapon, since by all lawful interpretation, you were not duly authorized to carry under those circumstances as you were formally on medical leave.”
“Yes sir. But I can only repeat: It ain't personal. I never want to see that sonofabitch again, except when I testify against him.”
“You understand then that you're on official administrative leave? You ain't to be hanging around or going places where you might run into Lamar? You are formally relieved of police duties. It's routine, it don't mean a thing, but I do mean to see that you hew to that line.”
“Yes sir, that's fine. I just want to go home, is all.”
“All right. I'll believe you on that. Another thing, I got the prelim on O’Dell. Want to hear it?”
“Yes.”
“You hit him thirty-three times. Bud. Four .45s, thirteen380s and sixteen 9s. And most of ’em were good, solid torso hits. You even hit him three times in the head. The doc says the hollow tips opened up like they should. There wasn't much of him left.”
“He took a basket of killing, that's for sure.”
Bud shivered a bit.
“Now what you don't know isn't going to make you happy. I've had a report from our press officer who’s been watching the TV and seen the evening paper from Oklahoma City. The press people are all excited about you shooting Lamar's fingers off. Like it's a joke or something.
Like you're Annie Oakley.”
“Anyboy tell ’em how common hand hits are in gunfights?”
“You can tell ’em anything you want, but they only listen to what they already know from movies. That's how it is.
But this stuff could make Lamar mad. We want to move you and your family to a safehouse.”
“Oh, Lord.”
“It's best. Bud.”
“I have a boy hitting four hundred and another about to graduate with honors. I can't take them out of their high school. It's the time of their lives. They can't never get it back.”
The colonel looked at him.
“Well,” he finally said, "maybe I'll just assign a fulltime shift on your home. That be all right?”
“Most 'preciated.”
“I guess a tough old coot like yourself can look after himself.”
“Colonel, can I ask you something?”
-"Sure, Bud, what is it?”
“The pid man. C. D. Henderson? Where's he?”
“Well, they done retired him. He spent a lot of the state's money and came up with nothing. You got more from a drawing of a lion than he did from half a million dollars worth of overtime. He had a bad drinking problem, you know? It was time. I hope I go out better, though, than he did. Bitter old coot. Sad, actually, how ugly it became.”
They kept Bud three more nights, and he got through them with his old pal the bottle of Percodan. At ten on the fourth morning, he was released to Jen's care. The two of them drove home in her station wagon. His leg still throbbed, and though he no longer wore the eyepatch, the vision in the one eye was blurry. Moreover, it felt like every square inch of his body had a bruise or a cut on it.
“Now, you're supposed to take it easy.”
“Ain't any other way for me to take it. Plenty of naps, going to Jeff's games, that sort of thing.”
“Bud, the season's almost over. He's only got tomorrow night.”
“Oh. Well, that's another thing I didn't do very well, is it? I didn't pay attention to Jeff. Is that why he's so grumpy lately?”
“Bud, what's going on?”
“What you mean?”
“Something's going on. You aren't hardly there anymore.
There in the house. Even when you're there. You're off somewheres else. You never talk to any of us. Like you're saving your best stuff for somebody else.”
A flower of rage blossomed in Bud. He was at his worst when Jen was picking at his secrets. But he just clamped up.
“It's just this Lamar thing. Hell, I've been in two gunfights, had a partner killed, been on the road, into and out of hospitals, and killed a man myself. That's were I been.”
“No, Bud, it's something else. I've been watching you for twenty-five years. I know something's going on. You have to tell me.”
Bud was acutely uncomfortable. Here was the perfect chance, he thought. Tell her. Work it out now, civilized, friendly-like. It didn't have to be a mess, with screams and accusations of betrayal and tears. Begin to discuss it with her. Tell her: You met somebody, you care about her, it's time to make the change. It'll be all right. It's a new chance for everybody.
But Bud couldn't even begin to form the words. It was inconceivable to him.
“No,” he insisted, "things are fine. Just want to get rested up and read in the papers that they got Lamar. I swear to you.”
Her silence expanded to fill the air in the car and drive any other possibility out.
They got home and Bud saw a state car parked out front.
“Been there long?” he asked.
“Yes. Two men from the OSBI. There's another car out back. I asked them in, but they said they'd stay in the car and keep a watch out. Do you think he'd try anything against us?”