He had one thought only: I'm dead.
Glacial fear covered everything within him, freezing memories of family, of friends, into a winter death tableau. He thought the world suddenly stopped. He wanted to dive for cover, throw himself backward, hide somehow, but he was moving in slow motion and all he could do was fling a hand up across his face, as if that might deflect the bullet he was certain was about to fly his way.
It was as if his hearing was suddenly sharpened; his sight piercing. He could see the hammer on the pistol creeping backward, then slamming forward.
He opened his mouth in a silent scream.
But all he heard were two empty clicks as the hammer of the killer's pistol twice hit empty chambers. The noise seemed to echo in the small space.
A wild look of surprise crossed Ferguson's face. He looked down at the pistol as if it were a priest caught in a lie.
Tanny Brown realized he had fallen to the ground. Damp dirt clung to him. He shifted to his knees, his own revolver pointing straight ahead.
Ferguson grimaced. Then he seemed to shrug. He held his hands wide in surrender.
Tanny Brown took a deep breath, heard a hundred voices within his head screaming contradictory commands: voices of duty or responsibility shouting disagreement with voices of revenge. He looked up at the killer and remembered what Ferguson had said: I'll walk away clean again. The words joined the tumult and turbulence within him, reverberating like distant thunder. The sudden cacophony deafened him so that he hardly heard the report from his own weapon, was aware only that he'd fired by the pulse in his fist as the gun seized life.
The shots crushed into Robert Earl Ferguson, forcing him back into the embrace of the thorny branches. For an instant his body contorted with confusion and pain. Disbelief rode his eyes. He seemed to shake his head, but the movement was lost as surprise turned to death in his face.
Minutes stretched around him.
He remained on his knees, facing the killer's body, trying to collect himself. He fought a dizzying surge of vertigo, followed by a wave of nausea. This passed, and he waited for his racing heart to slow. After a moment, he sucked in the first gasp of air he was aware of breathing since the pursuit had begun.
He looked at Ferguson's sightless eyes.
'There, he said bitterly. 'You were wrong.'
Thoughts crowded his imagination and he stared over at the killer's body. He spotted the short-barreled revolver lying in the dirt where Ferguson had flung it in death. The gun was as familiar to him as his partner's voice and laugh. He knew there was only one way Ferguson could have obtained the weapon, and a sheet of pain and sadness curved through him. He looked back at Ferguson and said out loud, 'You wanted to kill me with my partner's gun, you sonuvabitch, but it wouldn't do it for you, would it?' His eyes slid to the streaks of blood marking the spot where Cowart's wild shot had ripped into the flesh of Ferguson's leg. He couldn't have made it much farther with a wound like that. Certainly not to freedom. A single, lucky shot that had killed him as much as the twin blasts from Brown's own weapon.
Brown put his hand to his forehead, feeling the cool metal of his pistol like holding an ice cube to a headache. His imagination worked hard, and he looked over at Ferguson and asked, 'Who were you?' as if the killed man could answer. Then he turned and started moving back down the trail toward where he'd left Cowart and Shaeffer. He looked back once, over his shoulder, just to make certain that Ferguson hadn't moved, that he'd remained pinioned by death in the briars. It was as if he didn't trust death to be final.
He walked slowly, aware for the first time that the day had taken over the forest. Shafts of light burned through the ceiling of branches, illuminating his path. It made him feel slightly uncomfortable. He had a sudden, odd preference for shadows.
It took him a few minutes to reach the small clearing where Cowart remained with Shaeffer.
The reporter looked up. He had taken off his jacket and wrapped it around the detective, who had paled and was shivering despite the growing heat. Blood from her mangled elbow had seeped through the makeshift bandage. She was conscious but fighting shock.
1 heard shots,' Cowart said. 'What happened?'
Brown sucked in harshly. 'He got away, he replied.
'He what!' blurted Cowart.
'Get him,' moaned Shaeffer. She twisted about in pain and anger, on the verge of unconsciousness.
'He was heading across the water,' Brown replied. I tried from a distance, but…'
'He got away?' Cowart asked, disbelievingly.
'Disappeared. Headed deep into the swamp. I told you what'd happen if he got in there. Never find him.'
'But I hit him,' Cowart complained. 'I'm sure I did.'
The policeman didn't reply.
'I hit him,' the reporter insisted.
'Yes. You hit him, Brown answered softly.
'Why, what, what're…' Cowart started to blurt. Then he stopped and stared at the policeman.
Tanny Brown shifted uncomfortably beneath the reporter's gaze, as if he was being slapped with difficult questions. He took hold of himself and insisted, 'You've got to take her back. Get her help. She's not hurt too bad, but she needs help now.'
'What about you?'
'I'm going to go back. Take one more look. Then I'll follow you.'
'But…'
'When we get back to Pachoula, we'll put out an APB. File formal charges. Put him on the national computer Wire. Get the FBI involved. You go write your story.'
Cowart continued to stare at Brown, trying to see past the policeman's words.
'He got away,' Brown repeated coldly.
And then Cowart did see. Shock and fury fought for space within him. He glared at the policeman. 'You killed him, Cowart said. 'I heard the shots.'
Tanny Brown said nothing.
'You killed him,' he said again.
Brown shook his head, but said, 'You understand something, Cowart. If he dies out there, then no one ever knows. Not about Bruce Wilcox. Not about any of the others. It just stops, right there. And no one will give a damn about Ferguson. They'll just care about you and me. A policeman with a personal vendetta and a reporter trying to save his career. No one will want to hear about suspicions and theories and tainted evidence. They'll just want to know why we came out here and killed a man. An innocent man. Remember? An innocent man. But if he gets away…'