Wilcox nodded. His voice curled up softly in despair. 'You're right. Dammit. D'you think…
His thought was interrupted by a sudden, shrill cry from behind them.
'Get away from there!'
The three men turned and saw the old woman standing on a back stoop, holding an old double-barreled shotgun at her hip.
I will blow you straight to hell if'n you don't move away from there! Now!'
Cowart froze in position, but the two detectives instantly started to move slowly apart, one right, one left, spreading the distance between the three men.
'Mrs. Ferguson,' Brown started.
'You shut up!' she said, swinging the gun toward him.
'Come on, Mrs. Ferguson…' Wilcox pleaded quietly, lifting both his hands up in a gesture more of supplication than surrender.
'You, too!' the old woman cried, swinging the barrels toward him. 'And both you men stop moving.'
Cowart saw a quick glance go between the partners. He didn't know what it meant.
The old woman turned back toward him. I tole you to get away from there.'
He lifted his arms but shook his head. 'No.'
'What you mean, no? Boy, don't you see this shotgun? I'll use it, too.'
Cowart felt a sudden rush of blood to his head. He saw all the fury masking the fear in the old woman's eyes and knew then she knew what she was hiding. It's I there, he thought. Whatever it is, it's there. It was as if all the frustration and exhaustion he'd felt for the past days coalesced in that second, and outrage overcame whatever reason he had left. He shook his head.
'No,' he said again, louder. 'No, ma'am. I'm going to Hook in there, even if you have to kill me. I'm just too damn tired of being lied to. I'm too damn tired of being used. I'm too damn tired of feeling like some goddamn fool all the time. You got it, old woman? I'm too damn tired!'
With each repetition of the phrase, he'd stepped toward her, covering half the distance between them.
'You stay away!' the old woman shouted.
'You gonna kill me?' he shouted back. 'That'll do a helluva lot of good. You just shoot me right in front of these two detectives. Go ahead. Goddammit, come on!'
He began to stride toward her. He saw the shotgun waver in her arms.
I means to!' she screamed.
'Then go ahead!' he screamed back.
His rage was complete. It overcame the delusion he'd clung to of Ferguson's innocence, so that it all poured out of him. 'Go ahead! Go ahead! Just like your grandson killed that little girl in cold blood! Go ahead! You gonna give me the same chance he gave her? You a killer too, old woman? This where he learned how to do it? Did you teach him how to slice up a little defenseless girl?'
'He didn't do nothing!'
'The hell he didn't!'
'Stand back!'
'Or what? You maybe just taught him how to lie? Is that it?'
'Stay away from me!'
'Did you, goddammit? Did you?'
'He didn't do no such thing. Now get back or I'll blow your head off!'
'He did it. You know it, goddammit, he did it, he did it, he did it!'
And the shotgun exploded.
The blast shredded the air above Cowart's head, singeing him and knocking him, stunned, to the ground. There was a rattle of bird shot against the walls of the outhouse behind him; shouts from the two detectives, who simultaneously went for their own weapons, screaming, 'Freeze!' Drop the gun!'
The sky spun above him and his nose filled with the smell of cordite. He could hear a thumping sound deep beyond the ringing from the shotgun's explosion, which confused him, until he realized it was the echo of his own heart in his ears.
Cowart sat up and felt his head, then stared at his hand, which came away damp from sweat, not blood. He stared up at the old woman. The detectives both continued to shout commands, which seemed lost in the heat and sun.
The old woman looked down at him. Her voice was shrill. 'I told you, Mr. Reporter Man, I told you once before, I'd spit in the eye of the devil hisself if'n it'd help my grandson.'
Cowart continued to stare at her.
'You dead?' she asked.
'No,' he replied quietly.
'I couldn't do it,' she said bitterly. 'Like to blow your head clean off. Damn.'
Her skin had turned an ashen gray. She dropped the weapon to her side.
'Only got one shell,' she said.
She looked over toward the two detectives, who were approaching her, weapons drawn, crouched and ready to fire. She fixed her eyes on Brown.
'Should have saved it for you,' she said.
'Drop the weapon.'
'You gonna kill me now, Tanny Brown?'
'Drop the weapon!'
The old woman humphed at him. Slowly, she took the shotgun and carefully set it against the door behind her. Then she stood and faced him, folding her arms.
'You gonna kill me now?' she asked again.
Wilcox bent toward Cowart. 'You okay, Cowart?'
'I'm okay,' the reporter replied.
He helped pull Cowart back to his feet. 'Christ, Cowart, that was something. You really lost it.'
Cowart felt suddenly elated. 'No shit,' he laughed.
Wilcox turned toward Brown. 'You want me to cuff her and read her her rights?'
The detective shook his head, reached over, and grasped the shotgun, cracking it open to check the double chambers. He pulled out the spent shell and flipped it to Cowart. 'Here. A souvenir.'
Then he turned back to Ferguson's grandmother. You got any other weapons lying around?'
She shook her head at him.
'You gonna talk to me now, old woman?'
She shook her head again and spat on the ground, still defiant.
'Okay, then, you can watch. Bruce?'
'Boss?'
'Find a shovel in the storeroom.',
The police lieutenant holstered his revolver and handed the emptied shotgun back to the old woman, who scowled at him. He walked back to the outhouse and gestured to Cowart. 'Here,' he said, handing the reporter the crowbar. 'Seems like you earned first swipe at this thing.'